Redoubt: Book Four of the Collegium Chronicles (A Valdemar Novel)

by Mercedes Lackey

Now he was angry. He’d lost his primary quarry. He’d been deprived of the only thing he had managed to capture. And worst of all, he’d been shown up by the two assassins in front of his underlings.

  He was going to make life pure hell for them from now on, so that they remembered very clearly that while the assassins might be bad, they were elsewhere, and he was right here with their leashes in his hand.

  And if he caught Franse, what he would do to the young priest did not bear thinking about for very long.

  Because he had been shown up in front of his underlings, if they learned from Franse that Mags was a Trainee . . . well, a man like that black-robe would take no chance on the quarry escaping a second time or being protected by the assassin pair. He would come with not twenty men, but two hundred. He would come with much, much better magicians.

  And he would come by night, when their demons were free to move and at their strongest.

  So although the assassins had faced down the Karsite priest and his underlings once, even Mags’ captors knew, arrogance aside, they would have no chance in a face-off a second time.

  Aye. They’ll toss me out like rotten fish. Then claim I controlled ’em, or suchlike.

  Hideous as it was, his captor was right. His best chance of survival—unless he could escape again—lay with them.

  14

  They didn’t stop moving all night. Mags figured they were trying to get plenty of distance between themselves and the Karsite hunting party. They also moved on decent roads, which puzzled him for a moment, until he realized they could make much better time that way and that it would be harder to tell which way they had gone. By the direction of the sun through the canvas, he figured that instead of going south, they were actually going north and a little east. That made sense too, if they assumed the Karsites would think they would be going south.

  The upside of this was that they didn’t drug him. The downside was that they didn’t untie him either. They solved the problem of giving him food and drink by coming back there and feeding him a few bites of some odd food that seemed to be composed of dried meat and berries pounded together, and giving him drinks out of the waterskin.

  Bites? It was more like slivers. The stuff was so hard he had to suck on it. It was good though, better than he would have expected if he’d been given the description.

  He tried to concentrate on trivialities like that and not on his predicament. Before sunset, he had not wanted to try letting down his shields, in case his captors were sensitive to Mindspeech. Considering how cautious they were, Mags would expect—if he were in their place—that their victim would try something of the sort as soon as he could. If he didn’t use Mindspeech right away, he might lull them into thinking he didn’t actually have it, that he had some other Gift, or that his Gift was too weak to be of any consequence.

  He didn’t think they actually knew that much about him. They hadn’t addressed him by name, for one thing. He didn’t think they had personally gotten anywhere near the Collegia, because that had been one of the big mistakes that Ice and Stone had made that eventually led to them being unmasked and found, and these people never repeated their mistakes.

  Without hanging around the Collegia, or having close contact with someone or an actual informant at the Collegia (and that wasn’t going to happen after the last round!), there would be no real way for them to find out exactly what his Gift was. That sort of thing wasn’t bandied about outside the Collegia or the Circles, and it actually wasn’t even bandied about in those venues. You would generally say if you were asked, or if it was relevant to something you were doing (like Kirball), but otherwise the subject didn’t tend to come up outside of training classes.

  Thinking about that just gave him another source of puzzlement. If he wasn’t being hauled away somewhere unknown because of his Gift, what was the reason?

  Well . . . I do seem to look like someone a lot of these people know . . .

  Was that the answer?

  But why?

  An incredibly wild idea occurred to him. Is there a chance they want me to take this person’s place?

  Oh, that would be insane! How could he possibly do that and get away with it? He didn’t even speak their language, there was not a chance in a million he could fool anyone for any length of time!

  And how would they plan to coerce him into doing it, anyway?

  Then he went cold all over, because he knew very well how they could coerce him. All they had to do was threaten Valdemar and the people he loved. Do this, and we drop the Karsite contract. Do this, or we kill the girl, her father, the Healer, the singer, the Horse.

  And he would. He would do it.

  What other possible choice could he make? He was a Herald. In the choice between his own wishes and the welfare of Valdemar, there was no choice.

  With that nightmare scenario galloping through his mind, along with possibility after possibility of who they could want him to impersonate—or rather, what sort of person, since obviously, even if he knew who it was he wouldn’t recognize what he was—somehow sheer emotional and physical exhaustion caught up with him, and the even rocking of the wagon over good, sound roads in the darkness lulled him to sleep.

  * * *

  He woke immediately when shifting weight in the wagon warned him that one of his captors was on the way back to him. When his eyes opened, it was obvious that it was day again, though from the dim light it couldn’t be long past dawn. It was the second man rather than the first, the one who generally didn’t say much. This close, Mags thought the second man might be a bit older than the first one; maybe five years or so. The man held the waterskin to his mouth—it was still plain water, to his relief. Then he shaved off some more slivers from the food brick and fed them to Mags slowly.

  He tried asking a question or two—simple ones like “What’s your name?” and “What is that food?” but the man just shook his head sternly and said nothing. It was very clear that what he wanted from Mags was silence.

  Well, then, that was what the assassin was going to get. Right now, the best thing Mags could do was cooperate.

  When Mags elected not to ask any more questions, the man seemed to approve. He stowed the water and food brick, then unlocked and rummaged in a box.

  What he came up with was not exactly encouraging, however. It was two sets of heavy leather manacles with chains holding them together and a pair of locks.

  He locked the manacles around Mags’ wrists as Mags’ heart sank, and he did the same with his ankles. These things were going to be even harder to get off than the rope. He had thought he might be able to untie his wrists if he contorted himself enough to pick away at the knot with his teeth, and once his wrists were free, he figured he could wiggle out of the torso ropes.

  But then the man unbound his arms and untied his wrists, leaving him in relative freedom.

  Of course, his arms immediately began to protest having been bound for so long, but he didn’t care. At least now he could change his position in here.

  The man thriftily coiled up the rope and stowed it away. Then he went back up to the front of the wagon. Taking the key to the lock with him, of course.

  The chain between the manacles on his wrists was quite long, and at first Mags thought that was a mistake—but he soon realized that not only did so much chain give him decent freedom of movement, it also rattled loudly every time he moved. No good trying to rummage through the stuff back here in the wagon, then—not when the sound of the chain rattling too much was sure to bring a head poking through the canvas flaps at the front.

  Well . . . at least he could move.

  He used his relative freedom to make an area more comfortable for himself, in no small part because he wanted something to think about besides all the nightmare scenarios his imagination could conjure up. As soon as the chain started rattling, sure enough, a head poked in through the canvas. But when his captor realized what he was doing, the head retreated again, although the kidnapper continued to check on h
im from time to time to make sure he wasn’t up to any mischief. Mags had, of course, already found out that any box that might have something in it he could use to escape with, had been locked.

  By the time he had finished, a couple of candlemarks later, he felt the wagon leaving the main road, and almost immediately it lurched to one side, throwing him right into the padded hollow he’d created for himself, using the rolled up net as a kind of coiled, wreath-shaped base. Grimly he set himself to hanging on. This road had to be at least as dubious as the one that had led to his escape. He might even have taken the chance on going out the back again, manacles and all, except that this was broad daylight, it was not raining, and the chain between his ankles was pretty short.

  After about another candlemark of lurching and bumping that made him grateful he wasn’t still tied up like a bundle of wood to be tossed all over the interior of the wagon, he felt the wagon stop.

  He sat up. Were they stopped, stopped? Or had they encountered a blockage? And if they had encountered a blockage, or even a hazard, could he possibly use the chance to escape again?

  He felt the wagon move as first one, then the other man left the driving box.

  But his hopes were dashed when he saw their shadows cast on the canvas by the sun coming around to the rear.

  The canvas at the rear was untied, and the first assassin stood at the back, beckoning to him. In one hand was a small crossbow.

  “Come out, and take care of your needs,” the man said brusquely. “Then we will eat and drink.”

  With clanking and clattering, he clambered awkwardly out of the back of the wagon and followed the man’s directions. It appeared that they were on a steep mountain path just wide enough for the wagon. There was a much wider spot here, and they’d pulled the wagon off to the side into it. The horses looked exhausted, as well they might, since they had been traveling all night. The second man was unharnessing them, so it appeared they were going to be here for a little while, anyway.

  Taking care of his business over the edge of the cliff wasn’t the easiest thing under the watchful eye and crossbow of his captor . . .

  It appeared that the wide spot in the road wasn’t the only reason for making a pause here. When he came around between the wagon and the cliff face, he discovered the second man filling up a pan from a threadlike spring, and at the first man’s nod, he made use of the trickle of water himself, cleaning hands first, and then face and neck, then getting a drink. The water was icy cold and made his teeth chatter, but it felt better to be a little cleaner.

  The second man had already started a fire and was making . . .

  Mags saw with a sinking feeling, that he was making some sort of herbal concoction.

  “Sit,” the first man ordered.

  Obediently, he sat down next to the fire.

  “It is time for you to learn who you truly are,” the first man said solemnly, taking him entirely by surprise, because this was certainly not what he had expected the man to say. “You were born in the North, but your blood is of the South. Your home, your people, are in a land the Northerners do not even have on their maps.” The man peered at him intently. “You know this to be true. You have felt it. You have felt your blood calling to you from your homeland!”

  Mags stared at him, unable to think of anything coherent to say.

  “Look at me!” the man continued, and gestured at his partner. “Look at Levor! Then look in the mirror! Our eyes are your eyes! Our hair is your hair! The very shape of nose, chin, brow—yours!”

  Mags had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping.

  “This is why we took you from those pallid Northerners,” the man continued, as Levor nodded solemnly. “The Shadao has been searching for you—or for your parents—since before you were born. Never would we have thought they would have traveled so far, but when our people came here, following the old trail through the signs and shadows, and the sun-dogs offered us a contract, it was thought, why not? So we sent the disposable, the expendable, for gold is gold, and it is difficult and costly to search so far from home. And lo! The expendable died, but in the dying, they found you!”

  The man paused, evidently expecting some sort of response out of Mags.

  “Uh . . . the ambassadors?” he hazarded.

  The man laughed. “Not those fools! They could not even see what was beneath their very noses! No, it was the hunter-killer that came with them. He saw you, and though he was half mad, he knew you for what you were!”

  The memory hit him like a club.

  Mags motioned to the others to put their heads together with him. Carefully, Mags thought his directions 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,: Dallen said.

  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 tuneless 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!”

  The memory was burned into his memory. He couldn’t have forgotten it if he’d wanted to.

  So was another.

  He read the posting in the Guard reports with a dry mouth. “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.”

  Anticipation turned to disappointment. Was that all there was?

  Another memory, this time from the Kirball game where Amily had nearly been snatched.

  Mags started for Amily, as Dallen laid back his ears and backed away from the man who was trying to seize his bridle. But wait—there was Ice! Ice on one side of him, Stone on the other! But why were they here, instead of focusing on Amily? Weren’t they—wasn’t it Amily they wanted?

  But he felt it now, felt their concentration on him, felt a chill of real fear lance through him . . .

  Instinctively, Mags ducked under Ice so that the man rolled over his back and landed on the ground. Mags got a startled glimpse of something in his hand that glittered, reflexively kicked it away, spun, and ran toward Amily.

  :They’re ’ere!: he mind-shouted. :They’re ’ere and they’re after both of us!:

  Mags sensed Ice coming at him from the side. This time, instead of dropping and rolling, he abruptly changed directions,
heading for the piled supplies for the stables. He vaulted over a stack of hay bales and switched directions again. Ice followed him—out of the corner of his eye he saw that Ice was wearing a Guard uniform. Stone probably was, too.

  They had known him. And their reaction had been to abruptly change their plans from one target to two. That was, ultimately, the only reason why they had failed in the end. They had seen him within their grasp, and instead of protecting the prize they already had, they had rushed after another quarry. Him.

  And a last memory . . . this one very recent.

  “You gotta deal with your past, Mags, you have to. If you don’t, it’ll just keep coming back to haunt you, and one day it’ll do something to you that you can’t get out of.”

  Bear probably had no idea how prophetic his words were going to be. Because right now Mags’ past evidently had caught up with him, and he couldn’t get out of it. It literally had him in shackles.

  “Now you begin to see,” the kidnapper said with supreme satisfaction. It was an extremely smug satisfaction, too . . . and a sense that he had been certain all along that once Mags was exposed to “the truth,” he would fall tamely into line. “You are one of us, boy. And we will help you to see that.”

  For the first time in Mags’ presence, the other one—Levor—nodded. “Kan-li is correct.” He smiled. If it was meant to reassure, it did the opposite, since the smile sent chills down Mags’ back. “We will awaken you to your true self. The Shadao has sent his talisman with us for you. We shall give you its spirit, and you will understand your proper place among your people. Then there will be no more need for such as this—” he gestured at the manacles.

  Talisman? Like the ones that Ice and Stone had worn? The ones that had murdered them, crushed their minds out of existence, when it knew they had been captured?

  Somewhere in the valley down below them, a bird began to sing happily. Considering how Mags felt right now . . . he’d have cheerfully changed places with that bird, even knowing a hawk was about to eat it. Because what they were suggesting was worse than quick death.