When he took his place obediently at his sink, he noticed that Cookie’s eyes were bloodshot, and he held his head as if it hurt him. Last night had been some sort of feast, and a lot of bottles had gone up to the dining hall from the locked cellar. It appeared that Cookie had helped himself to at least one. Well perhaps the boy hadn’t been at fault this time.
Better stay extra quiet today, at least ’till Cookie gets his head back.
It was one of those rare moments these days when he actually thought something, a real thought, instead of just letting fatigue keep his mind numb and as empty as possible.
:Mags!:
His hands closed convulsively on the pot and pumice-stone, and powerful emotions he couldn’t name washed over him and drowned him for a while. Meanwhile, as he had schooled it to do, his body kept mechanically on with his task.
No, it wasn’t possible. Dallen wasn’t trying to speak to him.
No—wait. Dallen was going to repudiate him. That was it—he’d finally come to his senses, and in order to repudiate Mags, it had to be that Dallen had to actually say as much to him. And although the deepest part of Mags was screaming “No!” most of him was bracing itself and acknowledging that it had to be done. He cautiously opened himself to Dallen a little. Just enough so that Dallen could say what he had to and get it all over with.
Dallen probably had a lot to say, too, now that he had spent so long in so much pain. That was it—Dallen was only calling him so that the Companion could tell him how worthless he was before casting him aside.
:Mags . . . : the mind-voice started to fade away, with a sense that Dallen was dropping off into a stupor again. But the last words were clear. :Mags . . . come home!:
If he had not long ago trained his body to keep doing whatever task it was he had been set while his mind either dropped into a stupor of its own, or ran in frantic circles, he would have earned a bruised face himself at that moment. His thoughts reeled. This wasn’t possible; Dallen could not possibly want him back. And even if somehow, his Companion was too insane, too stupid, or too softhearted to repudiate him, the rest of the Companions would properly never permit him to return to the Collegium. Not ever. He was a danger to every Companion and Chosen in Valdemar. And Bear was right, he just plain didn’t deserve to be up there.
Well, there was only one thing for it. If Dallen would not do what he should, Mags would continue to force the issue on him. Someone had to do what was smart, what was right. He was on fire with the need to protect Dallen from himself, protect the Collegia, the Heralds, everyone up there on the hill from him.
As he scrubbed and rinsed, he carefully, painstakingly, built up a wall in his mind, layering it over what he already had in place, closing Dallen out completely. Normally he would not have had the energy for this, but with all that welter of emotion behind him, for the moment, he could do just about anything.
Let Dallen wear himself out against that wall, and give the other Companions time to convince him what he must do to save himself. Whatever selfish, poisonous thing was inside Mags, whether it was some parasitic, strange other personality, that had attached himself to him, whether it was his real self and the “Mags” he thought was himself was just a kind of mask, or whether it was just because underneath it all he couldn’t control the evil inside himself, it must never be permitted inside the walls of the Collegia again. One disaster had been enough. There was nothing about him that belonged up there.
That done, he let the fires that all those emotions had ignited burn out, let himself sink into apathetic despair, let weariness of body and spirit take over, and numb his mind into the state of not-thinking again.
This was the right thing to do. This felt right; it was right. This was the only thing that was right, in all of his dreadfully wrong world. He had to stick to it. He couldn’t be saved, but at least he could save Dallen.
The numb state lasted until the luncheon pots were done and he and the boy were feeding at the communal table. As ever, the boy’s hands scrabbled among the crusts and bread for anything good, and he stuffed what he found into his face so fast that Mags wondered why he never choked. The boy seemed to live for food, in a strange way that even the mine-kiddies had never matched. He and the boy never left this table hungry—they might not be well fed, but they were certainly full. So why was it the boy tried to stuff himself as if he thought he would never eat again? The boy’s behavior made no sense to Mags. The boy seemed to live for and obsess over food. It was a mystery.
As ever, Mags methodically ate whatever was nearest, without regard to its condition; it was all so tasteless to him it might as well have been dead grass. He ate to keep his stomach from complaining, to get him through another day. But there was no reason to be as fixated on food as the boy was.
:Mags!:
He started, and checked his mental wall as the boy looked at him curiously for a moment, then fell back to eating. The wall was still there. There was no way that Dallen could have breached it.
:Mags, come home!:
How was Dallen talking to him? Never mind, this needed to be put to a stop.
No! he thought and :No!: he shouted back. :I’m—ye need t’ stop this, Dallen! Ye need t’ cut me off!:
There was no reply, only the sense of stuporous slumber again. Mags shook his head. He must have imagined it. Or else, he’d half fallen asleep, sitting here, and dreamed it.
Or else he was going crazy. This was not at all unlikely, actually. Being insane would actually be something of a relief. If he could blame the way he had hurt Dallen and treated Lena on insanity, well . . . it might ease his guilt a little.
Mad, bad, and dangerous to know, he thought, up to his elbows in soapy hot water. In a way the idea that he might be insane was oddly comforting. Insanity would explain why he had lashed out like that. Well he could be all three here, and it wouldn’t matter. No one would care if he was mad, or evil inside, as long as he cleaned the pots. He had no friends, he had no access to weapons of any kind, he was not in charge of anything dangerous. He couldn’t hurt anybody here, he was never going to make a friend to be hurt again, so the danger of knowing him was not an issue.
The afternoon was always the hardest part of the day. The scents of the cooking and baking were enough to convince even a full belly that it wanted more. The boy always slowed down, knowing that this was the busiest part of Cookie’s day, and that Cookie wouldn’t see him shirking. And today the kitchen got so warm it was hard not to fall asleep where he stood. If he closed his eyes even for a moment he would find himself slowly tipping over toward the water and come to himself with a jerk, and today was no exception.
He couldn’t imagine how the others stayed awake. Maybe it was just that they all had more sleep than he ever did. Certainly the boy was as alert as a hungry rat, watching the roasting meat, hoping for a moment of distraction or inattention when he might be able to dash in with a bit of the bread he’d stuffed into his pockets and sop up some of the juices collecting in the trays under the spits. Those were supposed to be reserved for sauces and gravy, and Cookie guarded them jealously, but the boy never gave up hope of getting some. He’d actually succeeded, probably more than once, or he never would have kept trying, but Mags had seen him manage the trick once. Once, when the rest of the kitchen had been busy and Cookie had gone after something from one of the locked cellars or pantries where the expensive things like wine and meats were kept.
Today the boy got the moment of distraction he’d hoped for, and more. The door was open to let in what breeze there was, and suddenly, without warning, one of the biggest wasps Mags had ever seen soared lazily inside; it was a huge black thing, easily the size of a man’s thumb. Perhaps it had been attracted by the scent of the fruit being made into pies, or the jellies in their bowls. One of the kitchen maids spotted it, pointed, and screamed.
Then she made the mistake of flailing a towel at it without actually hitting it. That made the insect angry, and it dove aggressively down out of the air a
nd attacked her, darting in, landing on her long enough to sting her on the neck. She shrieked with pain, while the other maids screamed and flapped their towels and aprons ineffectually at her, missing the insect altogether and further enraging it; it zig-zagged around the room, looking for more enemies to sting.
The whole kitchen erupted into a bedlam of screaming, flapping towels, people ducking out of the way, while the enraged wasp tried to find itself another target.
Mags abandoned the sink and ducked as low to the floor as he could get, making himself less of a target, as the boy saw his chance and made for the roasts. Cookie waded in at that point, as the wasp landed on the back of one of the cook’s helpers to sting him. Cookie smacked the victim and insect with his huge hand, smashing the wasp, and sending the hapless helper tumbling over into a cupboard. The maids, sure that the insect was still in the air, flailed and screamed with their eyes closed—or like Mags, ducked under the table, unaware the danger of being stung was over.
Mags glanced toward the fire. The boy was stuffing his face, not only with juice-dipped bread, but with strips of crisp skin and meat he tore off the roast with his bare hands. If Cookie turned right now—
“Shut up, you lot! Shut your faces, it’s dead!” Cookie roared for silence, whirled, to glare at the hysterical mob of maids, and caught the boy with both hands and his mouth full.
Cookie’s face, already red, went purple with rage. He strode across the kitchen and seized the boy by the collar, hauling him to his feet and shaking him like a terrier with a rat. “Thief!” he raged. “You little bastard of a thief! Oh, you’re for it now!”
Even the maid who’d been stung stopped crying and watched with open-mouthed fascination as Cookie shook the boy until his eyes rolled up in his head. The boy probably pissed himself with fear too, but he and Mags were so soaked with sweat and dishwater you couldn’t have told.
Mags had to look away, then, as Cookie delivered one of his carefully calculated beatings. The meaty sound of an open hand on flesh filled the kitchen, as the rest of thes staff watched or turned away according to their natures. It didn’t go on for very long; Cookie knew that they were behind on preparations now, and he wasn’t going to waste any more time on the boy right now than he had to in order to maintain discipline. The sounds of the flat of a hand on flesh didn’t last as long as Mags thought it would. Maybe because Cookie was desperate to get things back on schedule. As Mags looked up again, Cookie dragged the boy back to the sink, dropped him there, blubbering.
“Now get back to work!” Cookie roared, whirling round. “I’ll give you another dose of what’s coming to you when the work is done! You’ve wasted enough of my time for now! That goes for all of you!”
Mags got up off the floor and went straight back to work. Sniveling and sniffing, so did the boy. There was some harsher punishment coming for him, probably more beating, possibly something else. Mags was as sure of that as he was that the sun would rise, but right now Cookie wanted his pots clean before he wanted the boy punished.
And into the silence in his own head, came that mind-voice. :Mags.:
Hellfires!
How was he getting into Mags’ head?
:No!: he shouted back. :Dallen, no, ye don’ want me! They’re right, I got this horrible thing i’ me, ye felt it yerself! It’s—I dunno how t’ get rid of it, an’ it wants—:
:It’s not something . . . in you,: Dallen replied with difficulty through his haze of drugs. :We know. Others . . . in Haven have felt it.:
Mags almost stopped washing pots. He actually froze for a moment, and only a blubbering sob from the boy woke him enough to continue the work. He scrubbed feverishly, no longer sleepy.
:Whadya mean?: he demanded.
:Others . . . felt it. Down in Haven, not up here on the hill. A Healer, a Temple Foreseer, and a priest with the Gift. Not so strong as you did. But felt it. It’s—he’s the foreigner. He’s the one. It’s not you. They know that now. Mags, come home!: Dallen pleaded.
He shook his head; as tempting as it was to believe that he had been exonerated, he now had some real crimes on his own doorstep, and those couldn’t be rationalized away. :That doesn’ touch whut I done,: he replied, trying not to cry, himself, as the boy blubbered and whinged next to him. :I hurt you. I said ’orrible things ta Lena an’ Bear.:
:Things with some . . . truth in them,: Dallen replied, fighting against his drugs. :And they said horrible things to you. But you are the one that took them to heart and ran away.:
:’Cause they’re true.: Mags cringed, contemplating that dark place inside himself. :I don’ deserve you, an’ I don’ belong there.:
:That will be quite enough, Trainee Magpie.:
The sonorous mind-voice wiped out every thought, everything he was going to say, and made his head ring. He’d heard it once before. In the stable, when Rolan chose to broadcast his thoughts. He’d never been the sole focus of that mind-voice before, and it felt a little like having lightning strike at his feet.
:Everyone has darkness inside them. Heralds are no exception. The difference between Heralds and villains is that Heralds overcome their darkness. The difference between Heralds and cowards is that Heralds face their darkness and cowards run from it. The difference between Heralds and the cruel is that when Heralds slip and allow their darkness to speak, they are truly remorseful and make amends, thus allowing the wounds they caused to heal instead of fester. So, Trainee. Which are you?:
Mags waited to see if Rolan was going to say anything else. The inside of his skull reverberated like a bell. But Rolan said nothing else. Perhaps he was waiting for Mags’ reply—or perhaps he was on to more important things, leaving Mags to make up his own mind.
:Come home, Mags.: Dallen’s weary mind-voice fell into the silence like a feather. :Amily and Lena are frantic with worry. Bear has told his brother that he will not leave until you are found.:
Mags bowed his head, and tears fell into the dishwater as the grief at what he had done overcame him yet again. :But I hurt ye!:
:But I was an idiot, galloping in the dark,: Dallen countered. :Rolan has spoken, and you heard him; he stands by you as I do. The others have spoken to their Chosen. That evil creature, whoever he is, has been sensed by others. Everyone knows it is not you. We need you. I need you. Come home. Please.:
He was afraid to believe. And yet, Rolan had spoken. If he couldn’t believe in Rolan, what could he believe in?
With a sigh, he gave in. :All right,: he said :But not right now.:
As he let down the walls he had built to keep Dallen out, he sensed Dallen’s surprise and shock. :But—why not?:
:Because there’s a kitchen fulla people waitin’ on clean pots, an’ the on’y other person t’ wash ’em is a beat-up lay-about,: he replied stubbornly. :If I’m gonna act like a Trainee, then I ain’t runnin’ out with a job half done. I’ll leave after it’s all cleaned up. Not afore.:
Cookie had gone to bed early, and the boy’s continued punishment for his theft of meat was to be beaten again, then locked in the root cellar to sleep, among the mice and rats and black beetles that crawled in the place. This left Mags alone in the kitchen, absolutely unguarded, since in the couple of weeks he had been here, he had shown nothing like intelligence enough to get into any mischief.
He felt he had done his duty at this point. He’d done everything he had been asked to do and had been fed on scraps. They had gotten more than they had paid for out of him, and he owed them nothing. The boy and one of the scullery maids would have to wash the pots tomorrow, until someone else turned up at the door looking for work. Someone would. Someone always did.
Once the entire place was asleep, he checked the kitchen door. As he assumed, it was only locked from the inside, and it was easy to slip out.
Of course now, if there had been anyone watching the place, looking for an opportunity to steal, they would have thought that it was their lucky night, for he slipped out without locking the door behind him. That wasn’t very
likely, though, and as he dropped his shields a little just to be sure, he sensed no one within easy reach was awake, much less preparing to steal something.
Somehow, even though he had thought that his mind was in a completely numb state, he realized he had been observing everything about this house the entire time he had been working here. Nikolas’ training had proven too strong to overcome. He knew exactly how to get out of the yard; use the barrel where the chicken manure was deposited every day—it was quite valuable for the garden plants—to get onto the roof of the coop where the chickens slept locked up at night. And from there, make a leap to the top of the wall, and tumble over. That would put him down in the alley.
He had to be careful, of course. The barrel was none too stable, and the roof was not meant to hold the weight of a man, just to keep the weather off the chickens. But being careful was what he had been taught on the personal obstacle courses; moving slowly and testing your balance and the ability of the surface ahead of you to take your weight. Think every move through before you do it.
He eased himself up onto the barrel, using his arms only, as if he was about to try and do a headstand. He noted as he did so that his arms were a lot stronger than they had been—but also that his endurance wasn’t quite as good as it had been. Well, he could certainly recommend pot scrubbing as a way to build up arm strength, but a diet of scraps—and those mostly bread and crust—clearly didn’t do much for the muscles as a whole. Moving at a glacial pace, he got his feet on either side of the barrel rim so that he didn’t go through the top. He stood up, then reached up to the roofline. He felt along the roof edge, found the support beams for the coop roof, and slowly put his weight on them. They held.
He eased himself up onto the roof, spread his weight out over it by lying flat on it, waited for a moment while his arms recovered. After all, it was not as if he had to do this in a hurry. Once his arms stopped aching, he crawled to the side nearest the wall. There was just enough moonlight to see by; he found the beams on the other side of the roof by feeling under the roof edge, and slowly stood up with his weight on the beams and not on the roof between. He took three deep breaths, and jumped, hands outstretched.
Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Page 27
