That could be it; not something he'd done, but something he was. The lost heir to some title or other? No, not likely; that sort of thing only happened in apprentice-ballads. But there were other things that might cause the Circle to have to demote him, at least temporarily. If his family ran to inheritable insanity, for instance; they'd want to make sure he wasn't going to run mad with a cleaver before they restored his rank. Or if he'd been pledged to wed in infancy -
Now there was a horrid thought. In that case the only thing that would save him would be Apprentice-rank; apprentices were not permitted marriage. And galling as it would be to be demoted, it would be a lot worse to find himself shackled to some pudgy baker's daughter with a face like her father's unbaked loaves. But being demoted would give the Bardic Collegium all the time they needed to get him free of the pledge or simply outwait the would-be spouse, delaying and delaying until the parents gave up and fobbed her off on someone else.
Or until they found out about his sexual preferences. Even in Valdemar most fathers would sooner see their daughters married to a gaffer, a drunkard, or a goat than to someone who was shaych.
For one thing, they'd never get any grandchildren out of me, Stef thought grimly. And as long as I'm an anonymous apprentice, there's no status or money to be gained by forcing a marriage through anyway.
That seemed the likeliest - far likelier than that the Circle would convene to elevate an eighteen-year-old barely three months a Journeyman to Master rank.
Well, there was only one way to find out; get himself down to the Council Hall and wait there for the answer.
But first he'd better make himself presentable. He flung himself into the chest holding his clothing in a search for one set of Bardic Scarlets that wasn't much the worse for hard wearing.
Waiting was the hardest thing in the world for Stefen. And he found himself waiting for candlemarks outside the Council chamber.
He did not wait graciously. The single, hard wooden chair was a torture to sit in, so he opted for one of the benches (meant for hopeful tradesmen) instead. He managed to stay put rather than pacing the length and breadth of the anteroom, but he didn't sit quietly. He fidgeted, rubbing at the bandages on his fingers, tapping one foot - fortunately there was no one else in the room, or they might have been driven to desperate measures by his fretting.
Finally, with scarcely half a candlemark left until the bell signaling supper, the door opened, and Bard Breda beckoned him inside.
He jumped to his feet and obeyed, his stomach in knots, his right hand clenched tightly on his bandaged left.
The Council Chamber, the heart of Bardic Collegium, was not particularly large. In fact, there was just barely room for him to stand facing the members of the Bardic Council once the door was closed.
The Council consisted of seven members, including his escort, Breda. She took her place at the end of the square marble-topped table around which they were gathered. There was an untidy scattering of papers in front of the Chief Councillor, Bard Dellar.
The Councillor looked nothing like a Bard, which sometimes led to some awkward moments; set slightly askew in a face much like a lumpy potato were a nose that resembled a knot on that potato, separating a mouth so wide Dellar could eat an entire loaf of bread in one bite, and a pair of bright, black eyes that would have well suited a raven.
“Well,” Dellar said, his mouth stretching even wider in a caricature of a grin. “You've certainly been the cause of much excitement this morning. And no end of trouble, I might add.”
Stefen licked his lips, and decided not to say anything. Dellar looked friendly and quite affable, so the trouble couldn't have been that bad. . . .
“Cheer up, Stefen,” Breda chuckled, cocking her head to one side. “You're not at fault. What caused all the problems was that we were trying to satisfy everyone without hurting anyone's feelings. Making you a Master and assigning you directly to Randale was bound to put someone out unless we did it carefully.”
“Making me - what?” Stefen gulped. Dellar laughed at the look on his face.
“We're making you a full Bard, lad. Shavri was most insistent on that.” The chief Councillor smiled again, and Stef managed to smile back. Dellar picked up the papers in front of him, and shuffled them into a ragged pile. “She doesn't want a valuable young man like you gallivanting about the countryside, getting yourself in scrapes -”
“Nonsense, Dell,” Breda cut him off with an imperious wave of her hand, and pointed an emphatic finger at Stefen. “What Shavri did or didn't want wouldn't have mattered a pin if you weren't also one of the brightest and best apprentices we've had in Bardic in - I don't know - ages, at any rate. We don't make exceptions because someone with rank pressures us, Stefen. We do make them when someone is worthy of them. You are. You have no need to prove yourself out in the world, and your unique Gift makes you double valuable, to us, and to the Crown.”
She gave Dellar a challenging look; he just shrugged and chuckled. “She's put it in a nutshell, lad. We need to keep you here for the King's sake, and the only way to do that is to assign you to King Randale permanently. The only way to give you the rank to rate that kind of assignment is for you to be a Master Bard. But there's a problem -”
“I can see that, sir,” Stef replied, regaining his composure. “It's not the way things are supposed to be done. There's likely to be some bad feelings.”
“That is an understatement,” one of the others said dryly, examining her chording hand with care. “Bards are only human. There's more than a few that will want your privates for pulling this plum. About half of that lot will be sure you slept your way to it. And unless we can do something to head that jealousy off, gossip will dog your footsteps, and make both your job and your life infinitely harder. Need I remind you that we're dealing with Bards here, and experts with words? Before they're through, that risque reputation of yours will be the stuff of tavern-songs and stories from here to Hardorn.”
Stefen felt his face getting hot.
“That's been the problem, lad,” Dellar shrugged. “And this is where we had to make some compromises. So now I'll have to give you the bad news. You'll be assigned as the King's personal Bard, but it will be on the basic stipend. Bare expenses, just like now. No privileges, and your quarters will be your old room right here, rather than something plusher at the Palace. We'll have Medren move out so it's private, but that's the best we can do for you.”
Stef nodded, and hid his disappointment. He was still going to be the youngest Master Bard in the history of the Collegium. He still had royal favor, and he would be in the Court, in everyone's eye, where he had the chance to earn rewards on the side. “I can understand that, sir,” he said, trying to sound as if he was taking all this in stride. “If it looks like I'm not getting special treatment - if, in fact, it's pretty obvious that the only reason I've been made Master is so I can serve the King directly - well, nobody who's that ambitious is going to envy me a position with no special considerations attached.”
“Exactly.” Dellar nodded with satisfaction and folded his hands on top of his papers. “I'd hoped you would see it that way. You'll also be working with the Healers, of course. They're mad to know how it is you do what you do, and to see if it's possible for them to duplicate it.”
Stefen sighed. That would mean more time taken out of his day, and less that he could spend getting some attention where it could do him some long-term good. He'd seen Randale now, and just how ill the King really was; he wouldn't last more than a few years, at best, and then where would Stefen be?
Out, probably. If nobody needs that pain-killing Gift of mine. And having nowhere else to go, unless I make myself into a desirable possession.
“Yes, sir,” he replied with resignation he did his best to conceal.
Still, the Healers can't take up all my time. What I really need to find out is where the ladies of the Court congregate, since there isn't any Queen. The married ones, that is. The young ones won't have any influen
ce - no, what I need is a gaggle of bored, middle-aged women, young enough to be flattered, old enough not to take it seriously. Ones I can be a diversion for. . . .
He realized suddenly that Bard Dellar was still talking, and he'd lost the last couple of sentences. And what had caught his attention was a name.
“- Herald Vanyel,” Dellar concluded, and Stef cursed himself for his inattention. Now he had no idea at all what it was Vanyel had said or done or was supposed to do, nor what it could possibly have to do with himself. “Well, I think that about covers everything, lad. Think you're up to this?”
“I hope so, sir,” Stefen said fervently.
“Very well, then; report to Court about midmorning, just as you did yesterday. Herald Vanyel will instruct you when you get there.”
So, Vanyel's to be my keeper, hmm? Stefen bowed to the members of the Bardic Council, and smiled to himself as he left the room. Well. Things are beginning to look promising.
Despite the precautions, there was still jealousy. Stef found himself being ignored, and even snubbed, by several of the full Bards - mostly those who were passing through Haven on the way to somewhere else, but it still happened.
It wasn't the first time he'd been snubbed, though, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The Bards that stayed any length of time soon noticed that he wasn't getting better treatment than an ordinary Journeyman, and the ice thawed a little.
But only a little. They were still remote, and didn't encourage him to socialize. Stef was not at all happy about the way they were acting, and it didn't help that he had something of a guilty conscience over his rapid advancement. Making the jump from Journeyman to Master was much more than a matter of talent, no rnatter what the Council said; it was also a matter of experience.
Experience Stef didn't have. He wasn't that much different from Medren on that score. Nevertheless, here he was, jumped over the heads of his year-mates, and even those older than he was, getting shoved into the midst of the High Court -
The side of him that calculated everything rubbed its hands in glee, but the rest of him was having second and third thoughts, and serious misgivings. The way some of the other full Bards were treating him just seemed to be a confirmation of those misgivings.
And the Healers were beginning to get on his nerves. They wanted to monopolize every free moment of his time, studying him, and he had no chance during that first week to make any of the Court contacts he had intended to.
In fact, for the first time he was using that Gift of his every time he sang, and by the end of the day he was exhausted. If he wasn't singing for Randale's benefit, he was demonstrating for the Healers. If he'd had any time to think, he might well have told them, one and all, to chuck their Master Bardship and quit the place. But he was so tired at day's end that he just fell into bed and slept like a dead thing, and telling the Council to go take a long hike never occurred to him.
Maddeningly, he seldom saw much of Vanyel either, and every attempt to get the Herald's amatory attention fell absolutely flat.
Every time he pressed his attentions, the Herald seemed to become - nervous. He could not figure out what the problem was. Vanyel would start to respond, but then would pull back inside himself, and a mask would drop down over his face.
If he'd had the energy left, he'd have strangled something in frustration.
That was the way matters stood when Medren returned from his little expedition.
Stefen stared at himself in the mirror, then made a face at himself. “You,” he said accusingly, pointing a finger at his thin, disheveled other self, “are an idiot.”
“I'll second that,” said Medren, popping up behind him, startling Stef so much that he yelped and threw himself sideways into the wall.
While he gasped for breath and tried to get his heart to stop pounding, Medren thumped his back. “Good gods, Stef,” his friend said apologetically, “What in the seventh hell's made you so jumpy?”
“No - nothing,” Stef managed.
“Huh,” Medren replied skeptically. “Probably the same 'nothing' that made you call yourself an idiot. So how's it feel to be a Master Bard?” When Stef didn't immediately answer, Medren held him at arm's length and scrutinized him carefully. “If it feels like you look, I think I'll stay a Journeyman. Don't you ever sleep?” A sly smile crept over Medren's face. “Or is somebody keeping you up all night?”
Stefen groaned and covered his eyes. “Kernos' codpiece, don't remind me. My bed is as you see it. Virtuously empty.”
“Since when have you and virtue been nodding acquaintances?” Medren gibed.
“Since just before you left,” Stef replied, deciding on impulse to tell his friend the exact truth.
“That's odd.” Medren let go of his shoulders and moved back a step. “I would have thought that you and Uncle Van would have hit it off -”
Stef bit off a curse. “Since when - you've been - what do you -”
“I set you up,” Medren said casually. “The opportunity was there, and I grabbed it - I knew Van would try anything to help the King, and I know you think he hung the moon. I figured neither one of you would be able to resist the other. Gods know I'd been trying to get you two in the same place at the same time for over a year. So -” Now he paused, and frowned. “So what went wrong?”
“I don't know,” Stef groaned, and turned away, flinging himself down in a chair. “I can't think anymore. I've tried every ploy that's ever worked before, and I just can't imagine why they aren't succeeding now. The Healers are working me to death, and Herald Vanyel keeps sidestepping me like a skittish horse. I'd scream, if I could find the energy.”
“Tell the Healers to go chase their shadows,” Medren ordered gruffly. “Horseturds, Stef, you're exercising a Gift; that takes power, physical energy, and you're using yours up faster than you can replace it! No wonder you're tired!”
“I am?” This was news to Stefen. He'd always just assumed using his Gift was a lot like breathing. You just did it. And he said as much.
Medren snorted. “Good gods, doesn't anybody in this place think? I guess not, or the Healers wouldn't be stretching you to your limits. Or else nobody's ever figured the Bardic Gift was like any other. I promise you, it is; using your Gift does take energy and you've been burning yours up too fast. If the blasted Healers want to study you any more, tell them that. Then tell them that from now on they can just wedge themselves into a corner behind the throne and study you from there. Idiots. Honestly, Stef, Healers can be so damned focused; give them half a chance and they'll kill you trying to figure out how you're put together.”
Stefen laughed, his sense of humor rapidly being restored. “That's why I was telling myself I was an idiot. I was letting them run me into the ground, but I couldn't think of a way to get them to stop. They can be damned persuasive, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Medren took the other chair and sprawled in it gracelessly. “I know. Heralds are the same way; they don't seem to think ordinary folks need something besides work, work, and more work. I've watched Uncle Van drive himself into the ground a score of times. Once or twice, it's been me that had to go pound on him and make him rest. And speaking of Uncle Van, that brings me right back to the question I started with: what went wrong? You still haven't really told me anything. Take it from the beginning.”
Stefen gave in, and related the whole tale, his frustration increasing with every word. Medren listened carefully, his eyes darkening with thought. “Hmm. I guess -”
His voice trailed off, and Stef snapped his fingers to get his attention. “You guess what?”
“I guess he's gotten really shy,” Medren replied with a shrug. “It's the only thing I can think of to explain the way he's acting. That and this obsession he has about not letting anyone get close to him because they'll become a target.”
Stefen felt a cold finger of fear run suddenly down his back. “He's not wrong,” he told his friend solemnly, trying not to think of some of the things he'd seen as a street begga
r. How during “wars” between street gangs or thief cadres, it was the lovers and the offspring who became the targets - and the victims - more often than not. And it was pretty evident from the Border news that a war between the nations and a war between gangs had that much in common. “It's a lot more effective to strike at an emotional target than a physical one.”
Medren shook his head. “Oh, come on, Stef! You're in the heart of Valdemar! Who's going to be able to touch you here? That's even assuming Van is right, which I'm not willing to grant.”
“I don't know,” Stefen replied, still shivering from that odd touch of fear. “I just don't know.”
“Then snap out of this mood of yours,” Medren demanded. “Give over, and let's see if we can't think of a way to bring Uncle Van to bay.”
Stefen had to laugh. “You talk about him as if he was some kind of wild animal.”
Medren grinned. “Well, this is a hunt, isn't it? You're either going to have to coax him, or ambush him. Take your pick.”
At that moment, one of the legion of Healers that had been plaguing Stefen appeared like a green bird of ill-omen in the doorway. “Excuse me, Bard Stefen,” the bearded, swarthy man began, “but -”
“No,” Stef interrupted.
“The Healer blinked. “What?”
“I said, 'no.' I won't excuse you.” Stefen stood, and faced the Healer with his hands spread. “Look at me - I look like a shadow. You people have been wearing me to death. I'm tired of it, and I'm not going to do anything more today.”
The Healer looked incensed. “What do you mean by that?” he snapped, bristling. “What do you mean, we've been 'wearing you to death'? We haven't been -”
“I meant just what I said,” Stef said coolly. “I've been using a Gift, Healer. That takes energy. And I don't have any left.”
Now the Healer did look closely at him, focusing first on the dark rings under his eyes, then looking oddly through him, and the man's weathered face reflected alarm. “Great good gods,” he said softly. “We never intended -”
“Probably not, but you've been wearing me to a thread.” Stefen sat down again, feigning more weariness than he actually felt. The guilt on the Healer's face gave him no end of pleasure. “In fact,” he continued, drooping a little, “if you don't let me alone, I fear I will have nothing for the King....”
Magic's price Page 9
