Besides, if anything had shown him lately that just because your parents were something, it didn’t follow that you were the same, it would have been encountering Bard Marchand. There could not possibly be a person less arrogant and self-assured than poor Lena, and there could not be a person more arrogant and self-centered than her father. So if his parents had been bandits—well—
So what.
Maybe he would at least find out why they had become bandits. Lena had spun all sorts of fanciful tales for him. His mother had fallen in love with one of them who was noble at heart, and had followed him to the encampment. His mother had been a captive who had lost her heart to one of the bandits. His mother had been an unwilling captive. His mother had been the bandit, and his father a poor shepherd she had seduced. He thought it was a lot simpler than that. Likely that his parents had been—something—shepherds, farmers, even traders—and had a bad run of luck. Turned to robbing and fell in with the bigger group. It was a common enough story, and he was living proof that you’d do almost anything when you were starving.
He nodded at the archivist at the front desk, who knew him so well by now that the man just waved him inside, and he went up the three stairs into the Archives themselves.
It was a huge barn of a building, not just a room, with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed very closely together. There were ladders at intervals along the shelves, for there was no other way to reach the upper shelves. On the shelves were identical wooden boxes. Shelf upon shelf, row upon row, up and down the entire room. There was nowhere to sit and study, since the Archives were rarely visited by more than one person. Instead, there was a single table with several chairs around it at the door end of the room. The place was heated the same way that Bear’s indoor herbarium was heated, from beneath the floor. The room was a little stuffy, very warm, and very dry, and the air was scented with the smell of old paper, but not of dust. Now he knew this was because one of the duties of the Archivists was to keep everything dust free. The lighting was good too thanks to the narrow windows up near the roof all the way around, windows with real glass in them.
He went to the shelf where the boxes of records he had last gotten into were stored, and took down the one with his ribbon marker on it.
He was three reports further along when he began to feel a sense of excitement and anticipation. This was definitely looking like the right year. There was no doubt in the Guard Captain’s mind—or in his reports—that he had a substantial and well-organized brigand group on his hands. They knew what they were doing; they weren’t raiding randomly. They hit wealthy traders but ignored caravans of items that were bulky and hard to find a market for, they overran entire farms and looted the places, but only at intervals that suggested that these were re-supply raids.
He asked for help; his little Guardpost didn’t have the manpower to take down a group that big.
He got the help he requested, in the form of an entire Guard troop, mounted and foot.
And then, there it was. In the middle of the reports, a fatter packet. Lists, lots of them. The roster of the Guard company that had come to augment his troops. The list of the townsfolk that had volunteered. Loot captured. Casualties. The list of the dead on both sides.
And the all-important after-action report. Mags hands shook a little as he opened the folder and read the first page.
From the beginning, we made our real plans in secret. The Fourteenth did not make a camp; they entered the town singly and in pairs, and were quartered among the townsfolk. Their scouts scoured the hills for a full moon, looking for the signs of the passage of men. They were clever, as I knew they were—the scouts found nothing, which told me that the hiding place was probably deep in the caves. Finally I sent out the sacrificial caravan, one with the rich prize of weapons and wine, and one I knew that the brigands could not resist. Of course, these were flawed; the swords weakened to break at the quillons, axes with handles drilled, bows that would snap at the first draw, arrows with heads that would shatter on armor. I was not minded that we give them that which they could turn against us. Furthermore, the wine was triple strength, but sweetened with honey, so that the taste would not betray the strength.
As I expected, the brigands appeared, and the scouts followed them back to their lair. Now we had them, and after a few candlemarks had passed, the Fourteenth assembled, all men at the ready and with the volunteer townsfolk making a rear-guard of pikemen, we marched on the caves.
The scouts found and silenced their outer guards, but given how cunning they had been, I did not expect to catch all of them surprised and drunk, and as I anticipated, an alarm was raised before we got to the entrance.
There was fierce fighting; first, at the fortified entrance, and then as we made our way through the rats-warren of tunnels, until all the brigands were dead or fled. The chief made his last stand at what we took to be the central cavern. There we found what was left of his loot, the stores he was putting up against the winter, what looked to be a surprisingly orderly camp. There was a handful of camp-followers, some of whom fought the Guard with the same fierceness as the bandits, some of whom cowered in fear and could scarcely be gotten sense of. One of them, however, was a captive from an earlier caravan, and she led us to a hidden chamber that held other captives being held for ransom.
There were but three of these living, and two dead. The woman gave us to know that when the fighting began, one of the brigands was dispatched to the chamber to slay the captives, but the captives rallied and fell upon him. In the scuffle, two were slain before the brigand himself fell beneath a rain of blows and kicks.
The two dead were a woman and a man in foreign garb. The woman told us that no one could understand their speech, and they communicated mostly by signs. Their clothing was rich; presumably because of this, the brigands hoped to puzzle out whence they came and demand a ransom. With them was their child, a small boy of perhaps two or three years of age.
There was nothing else of value that could be pointed to as theirs except their clothing. Lacking any other clue, I placed the child with the townsfolk to be dealt with as an orphan without resources. We buried the captives within the chamber that had been their prison.
I then apportioned the loot as follows . . .
Mags stopped reading, the pages falling from his hands. So, there it was. His parents hadn’t been bandits themselves; they’d been captives!
There was nothing whatsoever wrong with his blood. . . .
The dread he had been feeling fell away, leaving behind a succession of emotions. A flash of rage that the Guard Captain should have so callously disposed of a helpless child. A strange grief for his parents who had come so close to being rescued. Frustration, that he still knew so little.
He quickly looked through the rest of the report, but there were no more details about his parents, not even a crude sketch of their “foreign” clothing. There was nothing to say what land they were from, nothing that had been found in the loot, nothing any of the captured brigands or the captives that had been imprisoned with them had said. Nothing at all.
He banged his fist down on the table and swore silently. So little—so little! Their clothing was “rich”—but what did that actually mean? How “rich” was “rich”—and was it “rich” by their own standards or by the standards of a provincial Guard Captain? If someone lived where sables were abundant and easy to trap, a sable coat could be the possession of almost anyone, but here in Valdemar, it would be an item only the wealthiest of highborn could afford.
So in a sense he was back at the beginning again. He knew only now that he was “foreign,” and not a bandit brat.
:I don’t see that it matters,: Dallen observed. :You are still the same person you were before you learned all this.:
Logically it shouldn’t matter to him. But it did. He wanted to know.
Well, he had come to a dead end at this point. Anyone who might have known anything about him was either dead or had long ago forgotten about the nameless
child. He wasn’t about to try and find the cave and unearth what might have been left of the bodies just to see if there was a shred of a clue in their garments. Even assuming there was anything left but bones, which was not likely.
He put the report back in the box, and the box back on the shelf. On his way out, he turned over to the Archivist all of the little ribbons that he’d been given to mark where he was doing research.
“Hmm,” the man said, one eyebrow raised. “Find what you needed then?”
“Nossir,” Mags replied with resignation. “But I found all I’m goin’ to.”
Both eyebrows rose. “That has all the sound of a tragic ballad in the making. I’m sorry your excavations into the archives were not as fruitful as you would have liked.”
Mags managed a wan smile. “Well, at least I know I ain’t some bandit brat. Trouble is, that’s ’bout all I know.”
“Perhaps you can elaborate on that,” the Archivist prompted, looking interested.
Mags shrugged. “M’parents musta been caught by bandits. They was dressed good, guess they was bein’ held fer ransom. But nobody understood ’em, and they was dressed foreign, and they was killed when the Guard came after the bandits. An’ that’s what I know.”
“Actually, I can tell you a little more than that,” the Archivist responded. “They cannot have been Rethewellan, Hardornen, nor Karsite. Guard Captains have a smattering of all three languages, and the fashions of those places are either distinct, or very like Valdmaran. I would also suspect they were not Hawkbrothers, nor Shin’a’in, since the Clans are not inclined to leave their own in captivity, and they have ways of knowing where their kinfolk are. Vanyel more or less closed the passage to the North. So that leaves you with beyond Rethwellan as the likeliest.”
Mags blinked. “That’s—far.”
“And it begs the question of why your parents, who must have been traveling alone, came this far. What could possibly have driven them to come to a country where they didn’t even know the language and evidently had neither friends nor contacts? Because you may rest assured, if foreigners who did have friends or contacts went missing in Valdemar, the Heralds, the Guard, and ultimately the Crown would know about it and be looking for them.”
Mags felt that dread creeping back over him. The only reason he could think of was that they were running from something. “So mebbe I still am some kinda bad blood . . .” he said slowly.
But the Archivist only snorted. “Actually, I can think of a much better reason for running into a strange land, if one was young and foolish, as I presume both of them were.”
“What’ d that be, sir?” He held his breath, hoping for a sort of reprieve.
The old man shook his head. “One of the oldest stories there is, of course. They were in love, and their parents disapproved. And their parents were wealthy or powerful enough that only by fleeing far past the borders of their own land could they escape the long reach of parental authority.”
Mags blinked. “You think?” he ventured.
The old man shrugged. “I have known many young lovers, and most were fools,” he replied with more than a touch of cynicism. “Make of that what you will. I am sorry that you did not find all that you were looking for, Trainee, and I thank you for your courteous treatment of the Archival records.”
Well, that was a dismissal if ever he had heard one. Mags nodded, and trudged out the door and back to the Collegium buildings and his room at the stables.
Both Bear and Lena were out—at classes for the latter, probably, and off tending someone for the former—so he left them brief notes outlining what he had found.
:Look on the bright side,: said Dallen. :Now you won’t have to spend time going through those boxes anymore.:
“I suppose,” he said aloud.
:Well now that you know, maybe this will unearth some sort of memory for you. Maybe a word or two in your parents’ language, or a memory of what they looked like.:
“That don’t seem likely. I’d’a thought I’d’a remembered somethin’ like that afore this.”
:Maybe not. Memory is a funny thing. You know . . . smell tends to trigger it.:
“But if I cain’t remember what m’parents smelled like, I cain’t exactly trigger one, can I?” he objected.
:Not what they smelled like. The caves.:
Huh. Now that Dallen mentioned it . . . he did seem to get nightmares more back at the mine when the sleeping hole got mucked out and the smell was more of damp, cold earth than it was of rotting straw and filthy children.
“I’ll see if I kin ’member one of m’old nightmares,” he said, finally. “Don’ think I wanta bring ’em on me again. Useta wake up screamin’, an’ I reckon none of the Companion’s’d thank me fer screamin’ m’lungs out in middle of the night.”
:Hmm. You are probably right. So what are you going to do?:
“Right now?” Actually—he kind of wanted to take his mind off all of this, and let it rest for a moment. And he had a good idea what would do that. “Right now—I think I’m’a gonna find out about this Kirball.”
5
:HERALD Setham,: Dallen said, instantly, and with tremendous excitement in his mind-voice. :You want Herald Setham. Wait a moment . . . :
Mags waited patiently, shivering a little in the cold wind. Was the wind never going to stop blowing? There wasn’t even a hint of spring on it yet.
Dallen was probably speaking to Setham’s Companion. That always took time. Of course, it would have been possible for Dallen to allow him to “hear” Dallen’s side of the conversation, but that would have ended up being confusing. It was also possible for him to listen to both sides, but that would have meant taking down shields, and getting permission. Companions were notoriously reluctant to let anyone but their own Chosen listen to them.
:Archer says Setham will meet you at the new Kirball field,: Dallen told him, finally. :It’s where they’ve been putting in all those new obstacles.:
“Aye, I know it,” Mags confirmed. He changed direction to head for the field, which actually had been part of Companion’s Field before it had been partitioned off. “Why ain’t they using the old course?”
:Not big enough.:
By now it was late afternoon, the sun was making long shadows with the Collegium buildings, and his stomach growled. He hoped that either the explanation wouldn’t take long, or that Herald Setham would be just as hungry as he was and willing to continue any discussion over food. It wouldn’t be long now until the dinner bell.
“Why ain’t the old course big enough?”
:Because they will have to fit two dozen or more people on it at the same time. They’ve finalized the rules, so we’re in luck, whatever Setham tells us is exactly how things are going to go now.:
He saw the Herald—and his Companion—waiting for them beside the new rail fence that marked the boundary of this “ball ground.” He had expected Setham to be young; it had seemed to him that anyone who was getting into something like this was going to have to be young. He thought that his expectations were confirmed when, from a distance, the Herald seemed to be shorter than even he was. He was surprised to see, as he got nearer, that while Setham was, indeed, a lot shorter than Mags, he was also well past middle age. He wasn’t a dwarf, but he was certainly not much taller than twelve or fourteen hands. The top of his head barely came up to Dallen’s shoulders!
Setham was wiry, and he kept his brown hair hair cut quite short, so that the gray at the temples was quite evident. He had a thin face, and intelligent brown eyes, and a mouth that looked as if it smiled often.
Mags smiled back at him, tentatively.
“I’ve been hoping you’d be one of the people to join us in Kirball, Mags,” said Setham, without any preamble, sticking out his hand for Mags to shake. “I’ve been hearing a lot about how well you and Dallen work together. I think you’ll be a cornerstone of my team.”
“Your team, sir?” Mags said, surprised. “I thought I heerd this was all Trai
nees. An’ mebbe Guard?”
“So it is, but teams need coaches, and that would be me.” Setham grinned. “I was a jockey before I was a Herald, I rode steeplechases, and now that I am a Herald, I am one of the scouts and cross-country specialists. Archer and I are pretty well known for our ability to scramble over, under, or through just about anything,”
The other Companion nodded and whinnied. On closer inspection yet, Setham was very short indeed, definitely no taller than twelve hands, and his Companion, Archer, was so compact and cobby he was almost pony-sized.
:We call him—Archer, that is—The Cat. He never seems to put a foot wrong,: Dallen confirmed. :I may be faster across the straight, but even I can’t move across bad terrain the way he can. And if you can believe it, Setham has never been thrown or pulled from Archer’s saddle.:
“So, the first thing I want you to do is cast your eye over the playing field,” Setham continued. “Get a good impression of it. We chose the roughest part of Companion’s Field for this.”
Obediently, Mags did as he had been directed, and the first thing he noticed was that this was even more challenging than the obstacle course. Instead of the usual rail jumps, this had—well—terrain, was the only way he could think to describe it. Gullies, a major ravine, little hills with abrupt drop-offs, stone fences as well as rail fences, culverts, bridges, even a stream he hadn’t known existed, that led into the river. There were no big hills, but there were bits of very steep slope, enough to make even the most sure-footed Companion pause. No effort had been spared to create this thing—there were even lines where turf had been laid over what must have been raw earth after hills had been made and gullies created.
But unlike the obstacle course, there was no pattern, no obvious path you were supposed to take around this.
Something that the obstacle course did not have was two identical little stone buildings, with ramps up to the tops of them, one on either end of the field.
Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Page 8
