Dallen tossed his head in the way that told Mags he was pleased. :Exactly so. So?:
:So I reckon I’d better find a reason t’ lurk around ’im and get t’ know ’im.:
They headed up the road to the Palace and Collegia. :How convenient that you’ll get your chance today,: Dallen told him, with a hint of amusement. :There is a Council meeting going on right now, and it is going to go long, according to Rolan, Chamjey is showing no signs of wanting to slip away. And I expect if you were to put on a page’s uniform and go serve wine for a candlemark or so, no one would object.:
Mags groaned. As if he didn’t already have enough to do. Oh well. Best get it over with.
Evidently there had been a great deal of silent communication among Nikolas, Rolan, and Dallen, because when he arrived back at the Collegium, there was a page waiting with an impudent grin and a spare set of pages’ livery in approximately his size.
He then spent the most boring pair of candlemarks in his life, standing with the other two pages while the circle of old men droned on and on about—well, it involved a lot of maths. Trade things, it seemed. Fortunately he was not there to understand what was going on, he was there to get himself familiar with the feel of Chamjey’s mind.
Chamjey himself would have been utterly ordinary if it hadn’t been for the flamboyance of his dress. And that was the oddest thing. Because judging by that “feel,” Chamjey was using that very flamboyance as a kind of . . . mask? No, a distraction. He was using it to make the other Councilors underestimate him. Not that he was brilliant by any means, but he was shrewd. He knew exactly what he was doing.
The outside was a plainish man, average in height, weight, and facial features, with thinning hair and a bit of a belly, who appeared to be desperately trying to make himself look more important, attractive and wealthy with his rather too elaborate clothing.
The inside was a shrewd calculator, who never did anything without studying it from as many angles as possible. If Chamjey had been an animal, he would have been a crow. Not highly intelligent, but clever. Very clever.
And very much on the lookout for himself and no one else. When the set of pages that Mags was with was relieved of duty by another trio, he wandered off to his room to try and make up for missing two candlemarks worth of study time, wondering if he had somehow stumbled onto something not even the King’s Own was aware of.
Strange.
:What’s strange?: Dallen asked.
Mags leaned idly against the side of a building and waited while his quarry, all unaware, approached him. This was a relatively busy corner, where young men with nothing better to do—or who hoped to pick up an odd, easy job or two—loitered in the shadow of an inn. He was wearing the same set of mismatched cast-offs from various Guardsmen that he had arrived at the Collegium wearing—although, now that he had a bit more weight and height, they fit him a great deal better.
:Clothes. Funny how they make ye feel. Yon fancy stuff I have, tha’ I wore t’ Midwinter . . . feel like there’s allus someone watchin’ me, an’ I gotta be extra careful and quiet like so’s I don’t make mistakes. Like if I open m’mouth I’ll get found out an’ kicked out, even when it was just Master Soren what invited me in the first place.:
:I can see that,: Dallen replied.
:Reg’lar Trainee uniform, I feel like I gotta just try hard all the time, not waste a drip of a candlemark, better measure up, no slackin’, no slouchin’. Like . . . like I gotta live up t’ the Grays, belike. This . . . : He chuckled to himself. :This, y’know, I dun feel like there’s all that pressure.:
:An amusing observation. Is that why your posture is so poor?:
Dallen was—somewhere. Somewhere that Chamjey wouldn’t see him from the street at any rate, and somewhere that a Companion alone would not excite much interest. Nowhere near Mags. Probably waiting in an inn-yard somewhere nearby, one where Heralds or Trainees might leave a Companion while they went on an errand. Companions were not exactly unobtrusive after all—horse-sized, horse-shaped, brilliantly white with silver hooves and blue eyes—you couldn’t mistake them for anything else, and their white coats literally would not “take” dyes. So having a Companion visible on this street, when he was already nervous, would immediately put Chamjey on alert.
But one more lounging youth leaning against a wall and watching several other wastrels at a game of dice wouldn’t alert him to anything. Except, perhaps, an irritated observation about wastrel youth and wasting time.
:Nay. Just blendin’ in.: Mags had picked this spot very deliberately. It was the first place where Chamjey would be able to choose a direction once he came down off the street that led to his manor. So Mags was going to wait here, see what direction it was that Chanjey chose, then ride forward on Dallen, getting ahead of him, to the next spot where the same choice was likely to happen. Chamjey would never see anyone following him because no one would be following him. It was all about staying within range of that faint “feel” of the man. As long as he did that, he would know exactly where Chamjey went.
And in this case, as he leaned over the game intently, Chamjey reached the intersection and went west without even a glance at Mags and the gamers.
After he was gone, Mags sauntered off, looking as if he was going nowhere in particular. But he met Dallen in the alley behind the building; making sure no one had seen either of them, he hopped up into the saddle, and off they went.
It was a very good thing that Companions were a common sight here in Haven, and an even better thing that he had brought the cloak that went with his Grays to conceal the very non-uniform clothing he was wearing. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The most that happened was that traffic parted a little to let them pass, with perhaps a smile or a wave.
It became apparent that Chamjey was headed in the direction of the Trade Road—and probably was going to one of several extremely large and busy inns on the outskirts of the city, all situated on either side of the Trade Road, and all devoted to merchant-travelers. These inns catered to everyone from the simple peddler with a donkey to merchants specializing in gems and other small and extremely valuable items. If you were going to have a clandestine meeting with someone, you had a choice, after all—you could slip away in the dead of night, try and find a secluded spot, and hope no one had followed you, or you could “hide” in the sort of place you had every right to frequent and do it at the busiest time of day. Chamjey had picked the latter, which was very shrewd of him.
:Now that we know where he’s going?: Dallen said suggestively.
Mags knew exactly what Dallen was going to suggest. :Aye. Might’s well cut straight there, then you disappear whilst I lurk and figger out how I kin get close ’nough to listen.:
Dallen moved into a canter; at this point the best thing that they could do would be to get far ahead of Chamjey and minimize his chances of spotting them.
When they arrived at the spot, it was the busiest time of the day. It wasn’t going to be hard to hide amid all the noise and bustle of the inn-yards. The inns swarmed with people; travelers arriving, travelers leaving, local merchants turning up for a meeting or merely a meal. And as for the animals, there were horses, donkeys, even a chirra or two—small carts and enormous “show wagons” where the side could be let down to form a stage—there were so many draft animals and vehicles that moving them in and out was a science. The practitioners of that science were grooms and servants and in at least two of the inn-yards, a blacksmith.
Mags had no idea how anyone kept anything straight, but amid the chaos no one was going to notice one slightly undersized, slightly shabby young man. Especially one that walked as if he had somewhere to go and a purpose. You didn’t want to loiter in a place like this, that made you look suspicious, and you might be thought a potential thief.
Mags even had taken the precaution of bringing a “messenger” bag with him, a flat satchel that went over one shoulder and was used by paid runners in the city to convey documents and small objects. Th
at, all by itself, would insure his invisibility.
With Dallen safely tucked away in one of the out-of-the-way stalls reserved for Companions—for, yes, Heralds came here too—Mags walked the inn-yards, looking like a young man with an errand, bag prominently on his hip. The air was thick with the scent of horse and hay, sweat, dust and the occasional whiff of something good from the kitchens. There were boys with shovels and buckets scampering about just to get droppings from the animals before they got stepped on—the last thing you wanted was for your inn patrons to come into your common room with manure from something they’d trodden on in your yard. And the noise—you had to shout to be heard over it. Hooves clattering, wheels rolling, music and laughter from the inns themselves, and people in the yard talking or yelling at one another.
He sensed Chamjey coming closer and closer, and finally positioned himself at the crucial moment right where he could get a good view of the road. As a result, Mags caught sight of the man himself going into one of the inns that catered to the prosperous, but not wealthy.
But that might be a ruse. Chamjey had proven himself quite clever at such things already. So Mags moved around through the crowd at that inn, making sure that Chamjey was, indeed, in there to stay. Then he retired to the back of the stable and the relatively quiet alley to think. How to get close to the man?
:Server?: Dallen suggested.
:Too risky. He mightn’t order nothin’, an’ he’ll spook if somethin’ he didn’t expect turns up.:
:Well you don’t need to get in the same room he’s in, you only need to get near enough to overhear.:
:Server’s still too risky. Some’un might catch me lurkin’. An’ I ain’t had a chance t’ talk t’ the keeper an’ get permission. Reckon I’d be taken fer a thief.:
:And you need to be doing something that will keep you in one place for a good long while as you listen.: Dallen pondered this. :I wonder . . . can you just nip in and look at the fireplace in the common room?:
Mags was baffled by the request, but Dallen obviously had a reason for it, so he did as he was asked.
The common room was full, but not so crowded he couldn’t get next to the fire. He glanced into it. It looked like a fireplace. But Dallen, looking through his eyes, obviously saw something else, something he had been hoping for.
:Aha! The ashes haven’t been collected. Good. Come on out. We’re going to pay a quick visit to a soapmaker.:
Now Mags was even more baffled, but from the “feel” of Chamjey, the person he was waiting for had not yet arrived, so there was no reason to balk at Dallen’s orders.
:Why a soapmaker?: he asked, getting himself up into the saddle again.
:Because soapmakers need ashes, and inns produce a lot of ash they don’t need. Most households save their ashes—they make their own soap, they use the ash on their back gardens, or they use it to polish metal, like silver and brass, with. Inns don’t. So soapmakers go around to collect it. Here we are.: Dallen stopped at the front of a little shop that had a workshop in the back. :Go in and ask which soapmaker has the concession for the ashes at The Splendid Table. Be friendly and casual.:
Mags walked into the shop, which was a little like walking into a wall of scent. There was a counter just inside the door; behind the counter were shelves full of soap cut neatly into wrapped bars, or stacked in great multicolored chunks.
The pretty young blond girl about his age behind the counter, dressed in a light blue gown with an embroidered apron, stared wide-eyed at him. She knew what a Companion was, of course; every child old enough to walk in Haven knew what a Companion was. But it wasn’t often that you saw someone not in Whites or Grays riding one.
“Evenin’ missus,” Mags said, “Wunner if ye kin tell me who has concession fer the ashes from Splendid Table?”
“Oh!” The girl got two very pink spots in her cheeks, and her voice went up in a squeak. “That would be us—is something wrong?” Without waiting for an answer, she darted through a curtain into the back of the shop, and returned with a woman that was an older version of herself in tow.
“I’m Mella Amise, Herald,” the woman said, wiping her hand carefully on her apron before offering it to him. “You wanted to know about the ash concession?”
“Trainee, missus,” said Mags, clasping her hand briefly, but firmly. “And aye—”
:Ask her if she’s due to collect.:
“Are ye due to collect?” he repeated.
“Overdue by a day or two,” the woman said with a sigh. “I’ve been right busy sending our boy out with deliveries.”
:Ask her if you can.:
But before Mags could repeat what Dallen had told him to say, the woman cocked her head at him with a shrewd look in her eye. “Reckon you want an excuse to be in there?” she offered.
He hesitated. She looked out the door, straight at Dallen.
“This isn’t some prank is it?” she asked Dallen directly.
Dallen shook his head vigorously, and gave her a long and penetrating look.
“Something he’s doing—he needs to be in the inn—” She stopped. “Something . . . a Herald knows about this?”
Dallen nodded just as hard.
She seemed satisfied. “I won’t ask Herald business, and I’m more than willing to help.” She eyed Mags a moment. “Aye, those clothes will do; I expect that’s why you’re in them and not proper Grays. Tellie, go get the ash-collector kit.”
The girl went behind the curtain again, and returned with a dusty, heavy canvas apron, a covered bucket, a dustpan and a small hand-broom. The woman helped Mags don the apron. “Now, it’s easy enough. Tellie will have the barrow out front for you. Just sweep the ashes into the pan, dump them into the bucket, when it’s full, take it downstairs to where you’ve left the barrow and dump the bucket in the barrow. No one will look twice at you. When you’ve got what you came for, just come straight back; the boy can do the rest of the job tomorrow.”
Mags nodded, feeling a little astonished that this was going so smoothly.
:She’s a law-abiding citizen of Haven, you silly boy. My presence and my confirmation tells her you have the authority to ask what you want from her for help.: Dallen’s mind-voice was amused. :My presence and the fact that I told her a Herald knows about this also assures her that what you want won’t be anything wrong, because I would kick you into the next city if you did abuse your authority.:
“All right then, off you go. You look like you’re no stranger to hard work, so you should be able to pass as one of my boys.” She made little shooing motions with her hands. “Your Companion can stay here if you like.”
“That’d be good, missus, thankee,” Mags managed to say. Dallen whickered. He carried the implements outside and there, as promised, a hand-barrow was waiting, but not one like he had ever seen before. This one, just like the bucket, had a cover. In fact, it looked less like a barrow and more like a crude chest with barrow handles and a wheel in front. He put his burden down inside, picked up the handles, and returned to the inn.
He was intercepted by one of the grooms, who sent him around to a side door where he could leave the barrow. He made certain of Chamjey’s location and headed inside. He hoped that the meeting hadn’t gone on too long. He hoped he could find a place where he could hear it!
Luck was still with him. He found a vacant room that shared the same chimney with the one Chamjey was in almost immediately; it was one of a long line of what looked to be private parlors. Getting down on his hands and knees, he removed the screen, the fire-dogs, the andirons, and the rest, and slowly began sweeping, listening as hard as he could.
The chimney proved to be an excellent carrier of sound, and Mags spared a moment to be grateful to Dallen for thinking of this.
“. . . and it gets better for us. That last late blizzard did for about half the lambs; it caught the shepherds right in the middle of lambing season,” someone was saying. “We haven’t even gotten into the rains, and those always take a toll as well. Right
now all the herders are thinking about is to wonder how they’re going to survive without lamb to sell for meat until shearing time comes. And then, what with that wet-lung plague this past fall, they’ve all lost about ten percent of the adult flocks and the fleeces are going to be a bit dodgy this year, since a sick sheep makes a weak fleece. So they’ve been jumping at the chance to sell their wool as a future-speculation, while it’s still on the sheep’s back, and to sell lambs still trotting about and bleating.” There was glee in the man’s voice. “Buying up the fleece and lambs before they’re harvested, so to speak, is brilliant, Chamjey. The herders think we are risking our money, paying for lambs that might die and fleece that is going to be poor. They don’t know how widespread the problem is, and that we’ve rounded up the whole market and put it in our pocket. We’ll be the ones setting the prices, no matter what.”
“And you made sure nothing can be traced back to us?” Chamjey asked anxiously.
“Not a chance,” the man assured him. “I’ve used so many intermediaries sometimes it makes my head spin. By the end of the fortnight, we’ll have completely wrapped up this year’s mutton, lamb and wool market, and we’ll be able to demand whatever we want.”
“Brilliant,” said Chamjey with deep satisfaction. “I’ll see about imported wool. I think I can get a high tariff put on it, in the name of protecting our shepherds from cheap outside wool. There’s just not that much imported right now that I think anyone will even blink.”
As he swept up every single mote of ash, Mags was just—astonished. Somehow Chamjey—or perhaps, this unknown person—had discovered the misfortune that had befallen, not just a few flocks, but evidently the flocks across—what? Most of Valdemar? And now he was somehow going to make a lot of profit off it?
:I think we’ve heard enough,: Dallen said. :I’ve already relayed all this to Rolan. Let’s return this stuff to the soapmaker and get back up the hill.:
Chamjey and the other person were deep in a conversation about wool, which Mags didn’t think was going to interest Nikolas. :Right. Sooner I get out, less chance I get caught.:
Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Page 6
