“. . . no, sir, he’s not there.” Lena made a better impression on Healer Praston than Mags had. The head of Healers’ Collegium, from a very highly placed family, had listened to Mags’ uncultured speech, looked at Mags’ short stature, and concluded immediately that Mags was a hysterical and unlettered boy, probably overstressed by the entire situation they were all in. Lena, on the other hand, had pulled on every bit of dignity she could manage, as well as the most cultured accent she could feign, and had the Healer listening and paying attention to her with the first few words she spoke. “He had no reason to leave his rooms for this long, and the three Bardic Trainees who were squeezed in there have been tending the warming furnace for him since yesterday.” She grimaced. “He wouldn’t tell them where he was going, so they assumed it was to see a girl.”
Praston grimaced. “All right, chances are he is fine; perhaps he was called down into Haven and neglected to tell anyone. But we should be sure—”
“Sir,” Lena said patiently, “We are sure. His medicines are all there, his bag is there. He’s very meticulous about organizing his medicines, too; I can tell you that nothing at all is out of place or missing.”
Now Praston began to look a little alarmed. “There is always the chance he was called into Haven for something other than a medical emergency—” He pursed his lips. “Nevertheless, let me raise the alarm. Better we do this and discover to our chagrin that he was only paying a visit to some old patient of his. Young man, ask your Companion to find us a Mindspeaking Herald that can search that way for us.”
“Don’ have to,” Mags replied immediately. “I am one, an’ I already tried.” When he first realized that there was something wrong, he had done his best to “hunt” for Bear. But his first tentative sweep of the Collegia and grounds had netted nothing; his second, aided by Dallen, had also come up with nothing, and had extended somewhat down into Haven until the press of so many minds had become too much for him to sort through. He was beginning to feel sick with worry. Why would Bear be down in Haven? And if he wasn’t in Haven, where was he? There was no way, short of a god plucking him bodily away, that he could have gotten out of Haven.
Praston no longer looked a little alarmed, he looked startled and frightened. “You two stay here,” he commanded. “Don’t move. This is clearly serious.”
As Mags and Lena exchanged a frantic glance, he summoned half a dozen of his Trainees by the simple expedient of sticking his head into the hallway and shouting at them. Within moments, they were scattering, to get the Guard, then someone from the Palace Guard, someone in charge of the Palace servants, Herald Caelen, and two others Mags didn’t recognize. It took a while for them to arrive, and until they did, Praston quizzed Lena and Mags closely about Bear, especially his state of mind since Midwinter Holidays.
He clearly did not like what they had to tell him.
“Did he seem despondent?” Praston persisted, as the first of those he had summoned arrived. “Did he talk about feeling worthless, or say that no one would miss him if he was gone?”
Mags shook his head, and Lena answered that. “No, sir,” she replied. “Nothing like that. He wasn’t happy, it was because of something that . . . something that happened at home over the holidays. But he wasn’t despondent.”
“You’re absolutely sure about that?” Praston asked. “He didn’t talk about death, wasn’t interested in listening to ballads about death, didn’t write about death?”
“No!” Lena replied with force. “Nothing like that. And what—what happened wouldn’t—he was angry and unhappy but—”
“Perhaps you had better tell us so we can judge for ourselves,” said Praston, as the last person edged into the crowded office.
“I can’t.” Lena lifted her chin stubbornly. “He told me in confidence.”
Praston looked as if he was ready to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. It was the head of her own Collegium who interrupted bluntly. “Lena, you are not experienced enough to tell if something would or would not drive a boy to thinking of suicide. Tell us. Now.”
Mags had read about command voice, but this was the first time he had heard anyone using it. He found himself ready to tell the Bard anything she wanted to hear, and probably plenty of things she didn’t, and he wasn’t the one who had been directly addressed.
Lena looked stubborn for a just a little bit more—after all, she was a Bard herself, and raised in a Bard’s household—but a moment later her shoulders sagged and her face dropped. “His parents wanted him to get married the next time he came home. They’d already betrothed him to a girl. He knew her, her family was from nearby, and he really didn’t care about her, but they weren’t in the least interested in hearing his objections. There was a big row about it. He slept at a neighbor’s house for most of the holiday.”
Whatever the adults had been expecting to hear, this wasn’t it. Praston opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, shut it again. Finally, he managed to say something on the third try. “You can’t be wedded without your consent, you know,” he said weakly.
Lena shrugged. “Have you ever tried to go against what your parents want?” she asked bitterly. “Even when it’s something you hate?”
Praston shook his head, and looked at the others in the room. Caelen shrugged. “I can see where the boy would be embarrassed about it, and I can see that it would upset him, but no, I cannot see him courting death over it. Not unless he had a previous romantic attachment—?”
He looked at Lena, who shook her head, and Mags, who grimaced. “Never seemed t’ care much fer girls,” Mags offered. “Never said nothin’ t’ me.”
“All right, then, that’s one thing we don’t need to worry about. So unless he’s down in Haven, which you, Salenys, will send your men to check on, we have to assume he’s still here, on the grounds, and for some reason he cannot or will not respond to us.” Mags blinked; Caelen had just taken over the search, and Praston was figuratively stepping back and letting him. “Lita, what can your people do?”
“Question witnesses,” she said immediately. “And the Trainees can go put on their cloaks and search. I’ll send out some of the teachers to do the questioning, starting with the three that are in his rooms. The rest, I delegate to you.”
Caelen nodded. “Master Howarth, I leave the Palace to your people. The rest of us can make a real search of the buildings and grounds. I’ll get that organized. Right now it is sounding as if Bear was injured or became suddenly ill and is lying in an out-of-the-way place, unconscious. The sooner we find him, the better.”
Then he turned to Lena and Mags. “And you two,” he said, his expression grim, “You had better come with me.”
Lena was crying, though it was not from anything that Herald Caelen had said to her. It was because she, like Mags, had suddenly realized that the reason Mags had not been able to “find” Bear was—because Bear was dead.
But Mags was not ready to believe that. He had always known when Death touched anyone in or around the mine, even people he knew almost nothing about, like the house-servants. There was an absence when someone died that hit him when it happened, and left a lingering feeling of void for at least several days. The last time anyone had seen Bear was yesterday morning, and Mags was sure he would have known if Bear was dead.
Caelen sat them both down in a corner of his office and gave Lena a big handkerchief to sob into. Mags listened with half an ear as he gave orders for the search, occasionally turning to Mags to ask a question about whether Bear had ever gone to this or that place, and if he had, what had taken him there. Mags answered as best he could, but meanwhile, his mind was racing.
Then he heard it. “—no, don’t bother with the Guard Archives. The Archivist left it locked up the first night of the storm.”
“No!” he shouted, leaping to his feet, startling everyone. “No, don’ you see, tha’s it! Th’ Archives! Bear wanted somethin’ in there, somethin’ he didn’ want the rest of us t’ know ab
out! Now they’re locked up tight, an who’d go there now anyway? ’S perfect time t’ go lookin’!”
Caelen stared at him. “And—if he had an accident in there, if a box fell on him and knocked him out—”
“Even if it didn’, ye cain’t hear in there nor be heard outside, all them papers just muffle everythin’.” Mags’ heart was in his mouth now. “An’ it ain’t heated. Ye lay there, hurt . . . the cold . . .”
“Lena!” Caelen barked, startling her so that she dropped the handkerchief. “Round up whoever you can, but make sure you get me a Healer among them. Mags, let’s go! In this cold—”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
He snatched up his cloak; Mags shrugged his coat back on. Both of them made for the stairs and the outside door at a run.
And this was where things got . . . interesting. Because there was no direct route to the Archives. Instead, they had to run to and through Bardic, then Old Bardic, then Healers’, then the Guard barracks, because that was how the paths had been cut. On the plus side, they managed to scoop up four Guardsmen on their way through the barracks. On the minus side . . . there was no path cut to the Archives.
But there was the clear trail of someone forcing his way through the snow to get there.
“Wait—” One of the Guardsmen suddenly held up a cautionary hand. “Sir, I am a tracker. More than one person came through here.”
Mags froze. Suddenly, he felt that fear from his dreams, from that brush against something horrible the night the blizzard began.
Herald Caelen paled a little. “Are you armed?” he asked quietly. Two of them nodded; the other two went back into the barracks and came out again with four swords, one of which they gave Mags without hesitation. He clutched the hilt in his mittened hand, then tore the mitten away and cast it aside. Better to have a freezing hand than no grip.
“Carefully now,” Caelen said, grimly, and the burliest of the Guards began forcing a way for the rest of them.
:Dallen!:
:We have raised the alarm. Help is right behind you.: Dallen paused. :Keep me tight linked.:
At the door to the Archives, the second Guard in the line carefully tried the door, as the rest of them flattened themselves against the wall on either side of it. The door was unlocked, and he eased it open, a little at a time. In his mind, Mags showered gratitude on the Archivist for being so meticulous. The door was well oiled, and opened without so much as a creak.
“Outer chamber’s empty,” whispered the Guardsman, and one by one, they all slipped inside.
:Open your mind to Caelen,: Dallen ordered. Mags blinked, then obeyed.
He sensed Caelen then, thinking hard. Mags, when you “hear” this, tell me.
:Got ye, sir,: he thought back, hoping that he had properly understood those lessons from Dallen about how to think into the head of someone without Mindspeech so that they could hear him.
Good. I want you to relay my orders to the Guards. You have my permission; theirs is implicit.
Whatever that meant. If Caelen said it was allowed, it must be.
He opened his own mind a little further, to the four in his vicinity, and told them what Caelen told him. :Crouch low, crawl if you must. Stay below eye level. Do nothing until Caelen signals, no matter what you see or hear. Nod if you understand.:
All four Guardsmen nodded, although one looked a little startled. Caelen signaled for all of them to move forward. You, too, Mags. You are going to be my eyes and ears. I am too old to crawl; all I will do is give the game away.
Well, Mags was used to crawling on his belly through narrow tunnels at need; this was nothing to him. He sheathed the sword, turned his belt around so that the scabbard was at his back, and flattened himself on the floor, skittering along noiselessly, like a lizard.
The door into the Archive room was open a crack. The large Guard eased it open as well. They all moved inside.
It was brighter here than in the outer room, but still dim. The worktable was overturned, and one of the chairs smashed, a box lying on its side with the contents strewn on the floor. Mags reported it all to Caelen.
Tell the redheaded Guardsman to work his way around the wall, with the rest of you following. I want you directly behind the redhead.
Once again, Mags relayed the instructions. This time he was the one to give the signal, and the designated Guard, who was almost as good at belly slinking as Mags, eased forward.
:Keep your mind open to me, too, Mags,: Dallen urged.
They all inched their way across the frigid floor, their breaths puffing out and hanging in the still air in tiny white clouds. Halfway down the length of the room, the silence was broken by a low moan.
“Hushabye baby,” said a strange, high voice. “They haven’t come for you yet. Here. Drink your drinkie, there’s a good baby.” The voice giggled. “Oh, and when they come for you, there will be such a surprise! They’ll be so pleased!”
Oh, dear gods . . . that sounds like a trap. Mags was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to have heard that thought. But he had—and so had Dallen.
:Tell Caelen that Nikolas is getting something ready. Mags, we are going to need you; you are the key to this. I want you to ease close until you can see what is going on, get a good look, and then ease back.:
I’ve been told, Mags, came Caelen’s thought, hard on the heels of that. Do what they tell you.
:I need to scout,: Mags thought at the Guardsmen. :Ain’t getting closer than I have to.:
All four nodded, and he slithered past them, trying to breathe as slowly and silently as he could.
When he got to the end of the shelves, he moved over across the aisle so that he was sheltered by their bulk, then peered around the corner.
The Archivist’s desk was here, and a strange, thin, dark man was seated at it. Behind him, tied to another chair, bound hand and foot and with a gash on his forehead, was Bear, unconscious, but still alive. The man was dressed in odd clothing of a very dark gray; his head and hands were wrapped in what appeared to be bandages, and despite the fact that it was freezing in this room, his arms were bare. Laid out on the surface of the desk was a glittering array of knives.
The man seemed to sense Mags looking at him. He glanced sharply at the shelves, but he was looking high, not low, and Mags pulled back out of sight. He waited, listening for footsteps, but none came.
He slithered back to the others.
:Mags, Nikolas says that is a very dangerous man, some sort of highly trained killer. He can easily fight all five of you at once, and if he thinks you are going to win, he’ll kill Bear.:
:But—!:
:Don’t worry, we have a plan. All we need you five to do is to fight him, distract him, get him as far away from Bear as you can. And stay alive! He’ll concentrate on the one he thinks is weakest, that will be you. So your job is to be the lure, drawing him away from Bear. The Guards are to keep coming at him, but never let him close with them. Have you got that?:
Mags motioned to the others to put their heads together with him. Carefully, Mags thought those instructions into the heads of the Guardsmen as hard as he could, staring into their eyes. All four of them nodded slowly. The redhead pointed at Mags, and mouthed the word “bait.” Relieved, Mags nodded.
:Tell them the weapons might be poisoned.:
Gulping, Mags did so. The big man looked angry, the redhead narrowed his eyes, the third shrugged, and the fourth smiled grimly.
Mags looked at the fourth curiously. The man stared back at him, hard. Slowly, Mags sensed a thin mental voice. It won’t be the first time we’ve handled cowards of that sort, boy. You just see to it that you don’t get scratched.
Mags nodded.
:All right. We are getting something in place. Stand up carefully and wait for my signal.:
They got to their feet, one at a time, so slowly and carefully that even their clothing didn’t whisper. And they waited in the semidarkness, Mags feeling ready to scream with the tension, as a tunele
ss humming threaded its way toward them from the back of the room.
Finally—
:Now. But don’t charge him. Walk out until he can just see five of you, but not who you are. And let him hear your footsteps.:
Mags relayed that. And at his signal, they moved forward, soft footfalls muffled by the shelves and boxes all around them. They rounded the last shelf to find the strange man on his feet, waiting for them, a knife balanced on the tip of one finger.
:Now you step into the light, Mags.:
Mags did so, his hand clutched to his sword hilt.
The man stared at him.
“Not YOU!” he screamed. “YOU are not supposed to be here!”
He threw the knife, but Mags was already anticipating the action, and ducked back behind the shelf. The knife thudded into the wall and stuck there, quivering, as the man grabbed a handful more, and sent them flashing after the first. Mags showed himself just long enough for the man to see he was untouched, then jumped back into shelter again.
This time the man was tempted enough to rush them. And he was faster, a lot faster, than anyone Mags had fought before.
For a moment his mind raced in panic. But then, a curious calm came over him.
Don’t attack. Just evade. He didn’t have to fight back—the other four would do that for him. All he had to do was to keep from getting hit. And with his mind open to the others, he could sense what they were going to do, where they were going. All he needed to do was to move with that.
And then, as he ducked and sidestepped, used his sword to deflect an oncoming blow and slid under it, he saw what Dallen had been talking about.
A door in the rear of the building slid stealthily open, and through it came—
Barrett.
Barrett and his gang of pranksters, one of whom without a doubt must have been good enough to pick that lock.
Mags did not allow himself to get distracted, but as he danced his way out of the man’s reach, he got glimpses of the gang slowly hauling Bear, chair and all, toward the door.
Meanwhile it was all he could do to avoid the whirling maelstrom of blades that the man had become. He knew, instinctively, that he had to keep the killer’s attention; that if the man got sight of Bear being taken out, it would be all over. So he danced and capered as he never had in all of his life, allowing his terror to show on his face. He sensed that terror was a better lure than defiance or bravado. Which was just as well, because he was so frightened now that he couldn’t have squeaked out a single challenge or boast.
Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation Page 31
