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  Dallen clearly found the question amusing. ::Easily. Rolan tells me our waiting places are deliberately made so we Companions can get out and come assist if we are needed. I see through your eyes where you are, I’ll meet you somewhere. Just keep following her, and I’ll intercept you at some point.::

  Mags oozed over to the next roof, and crept along the edge, keeping her in sight. She was moving so slowly and so furtively that it wasn’t hard, even though the alley was in deep shadow. She was wearing light-colored clothing . . .

  Not thinkin’ real hard, I reckon.

  He was very glad he had decided to try to get her himself; she obviously had no idea of how to get away from potential danger—other than sneak out a back door. And that might not even have been her idea.

  She wasn’t even looking up. From everything that he had experienced with the foreigners—if, indeed, they were from the same place as the killers who had tried to murder the Companions—they were skilled killers. They could just as easily have been up here on the roofs as he was.

  With that alarming thought, he took stock of his surroundings, thinning his shields just the slightest bit. The quickest way to find out if there was someone lurking was to see if there were any thought-presences near him that were giving out bits of roof-image.

  A moment later he was able to relax that part of his vigilance. No . . . no, there was no one there. All the human presences that he could sense nearby were definitely inside, and most of those were asleep; the only creatures on the roofs were cats and rats.

  Dallen interrupted his thoughts. ::I’m almost there. I’m going to stop her at the end of the alley she is in now. Drop down behind her. We’ll get her between us, so that she can’t easily run.::

  ::Gotcha.:: He worked his way down the side of the building, which was in such a shabby state that there were plenty of finger- and toeholds. It was probably just as well that the inhabitants had so little worth stealing, because a thief who could climb would have no trouble breaking in. He clung to the side of the building and waited for Dallan’s signal.

  He never had been able to figure out how they did it, but when they wanted to, Companions could move like ghosts on the wind. One minute the end of the alley was clear. The next, it was full of a large, white beast.

  The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her posture showing shock and uncertainty. She started to turn—

  And Mags dropped down behind her, trapping her between himself and Dallen.

  Things moved very swiftly then. Her eyes went huge and round, he heard her intake of breath. Without waiting for her to let it out in a scream, he rushed her, ramming her up against Dallen’s chest and slapping a hand over her mouth.

  She wasn’t accustomed to fighting; she went limp, eyes terrified. Her hands were trapped by the bundle she refused to drop. If he actually had been there to kill her, it would have been ridiculously easy. She wouldn’t even have put up a token fight.

  “Whoa-up,” he said softly. “I ain’t gonna hurt ye. Ye knows whatta Companion is, aye?”

  Her head moved under his hand, nodding.

  “This here’s a Companion. My Companion. Name’s Dallen.”

  Dallen curved his neck around and nudged her with his nose. He did that thing that Companions could do and made himself glow slightly, so she could see him clearly in the dark. Her eyes went bigger. “I’m Trainee Mags,” he continued. “We come here t’help ye. I’m agonna take m’hand away. Don’ scream, aye? There’s on’y th’ two on us, an iffen ye got trouble on yer tail, I ain’t sure jest the two on us kin keep ye safe.” He took his hand away from her mouth. She didn’t scream, though she was shaking in every limb. He looked her over as best he could in the shadows of the alley. She wasn’t as slatternly as the women who had sold their stolen finery at the shop, but it was fairly clear what her profession was. Under the huge shawls she had wrapped about herself, her tawdry—and scanty—outfit was a clear advertisement for her services.

  “Yer Senla, aye?” he asked. Her eyes widened again, and she nodded. “Aight. I know ’bout that guide whut was yer reg’lar, an’ whut happen t’him. Here now—don’ cry!” he added, with alarm, as her eyes brimmed with tears. “We ain’t got time fer cryin’! I’m agonna git ye somewhere safe, so no cryin’ till I does!”

  He knew that Dallen would have been keeping Rolan apprised of the situation, and Rolan would have been keeping Nikolas up to date. So he simply Mindspoke Nikolas without a second thought. ::Got ’er. What d’I do?::

  ::Take her to the actor’s inn. Keep her in the stable until I get there.::

  Well, that was clear enough. And it was a good thing that he and Nikolas had left the Companions under saddle and bridle. He hauled himself up into the saddle, then held out a hand to Senla, pulling her up behind him. She weighed next to nothing. He revised his estimation of her age downward. ::All right, you. Ghost us outa here. Make damn sure cain’t nobuddy see us.::

  He felt Dallen’s smirk. ::As if I couldn’t. Hold on.::

  “. . . so when they murdered Giels, I knew they were gonna come after me,” Senla sobbed, both hands wrapped around a mug of wine she held onto as if she were afraid she was going to drop it. “I told Peg. She told me she’d help me, but I had to leave, I couldn’t bring trouble on the House.”

  Cleaned up, she was an entirely different person. Prettier, in Mags’ estimation. He guessed she was about three or four years older than he was—but although in some ways she acted and thought as if she were much more experienced than her age, in others she was rather childlike. Annoyingly childlike. He had never quite realized how much he liked being around girls who thought for themselves instead of passively sitting there and waiting to be told what to do.

  “Did you ever see these men?” Nikolas asked her.

  She shook her head. “Giels told me that they spoke no language he recognized, and he’s guided people all over the south, right down to that city the horse-people go to when they want to sell horses. Katashin’a’in, that’s what it’s called, I think.”

  Nikolas and Mags exchanged a look.

  “He told me they had a lot of things he thought were poisons,” she continued. “They’d put out baits when they thought he wasn’t watching, and they’d check to see if the animals that took ’em had died. That was why when he just dropped dead in the street, I knew they had done it.” She shivered. “I knew they knew about me, and I figured they’d guess Giels had told me about them.” She started crying again. “Mistress Peg, she always likes her girls to make a nest egg an’ get married, and Giels, he always said that was what we’d do. ‘You make a nest egg, an’ I’ll make a nest egg,’ he’d say, ‘An’ when we got enough that we can have that little tavern, you’ll quit, an’ I’ll quit guidin’, an’ we’ll sell beer, an’ you’ll wait on the custom, an’ we’ll have a grand old time of it.’ That’s what he said, and now—” She burst into tears.

  Mags patted her hand, awkwardly. He wished that Giels had told his girl a little more than he had. Right now, given that there was a dead body in a Healer’s hands and the Healer couldn’t identify the poison used to kill the man, it was reasonable to figure this was the same lot as the ones that had tried to murder Mags and the King earlier this year.

  That was really not good. Poison was definitely an assassin’s weapon. Everyone around the King would have to be even more careful and alert about what he ate and drank now.

  Giels had been commendably close-mouthed if he was trying to protect her. The only things she knew was that they were “foreign” and that there were no fewer than three of them.

  “All right,” Nikolas sighed. “Haven is not safe for you. We’ll have to send you away.”

  She mopped at her eyes with the handkerchief he gave her. “Where?” she asked timidly.

  “I don’ know yet,” Nikolas admitted. “You’ll be safe enough here for a few days. I’ll be back later today with someone who’ll help you figure out where you can go and what you can do. Until then, don’t let anyone
in. All right? Open the door only to me. That was why I had food and drink brought up for you. You won’t starve in the time I’m gone.”

  The girl nodded bleakly. Mags felt horribly sorry for her. But what could they do, really? They couldn’t bring the guide Giels back. He hoped that there was something she could do besides sell herself, but in her rambling story she’d said more than once that she’d joined Mistress Peg’s establishment when she’d come up from the country because she’d hated being a servant. So what else was there for her?

  He and Nikolas went down to the stables and retrieved Dallen and Rolan, after changing into uniforms in the secret room. “What’re we gonna do wi’ ’er?” he asked Nikolas on the way back.

  “I have no idea, and fortunately, that is not my problem,” Nikolas replied, with just a hint of irritation. “Personally, I cannot think of anything she’s suited for. I’ll be bringing old Lord Kennely down with me after I get some sleep. It’s his job to work out problems like this when we have someone whose life is in danger and who is assisting the Crown. He’ll figure out what her skills are, find a place for her to go outside of Haven, and see to it she gets there safely. At least she doesn’t have a huge family that has to be resettled along with her.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he rode. “I tell you, Mags, it’s times like this that I am mortally glad that I am not the one that has to make these decisions.” He sighed. “I don’t regret rescuing her. I just wish she’d told us more that is useful.”

  “Well . . . least we know one thing sure,” Mags pointed out. “We know we got more’n the first lot ’ere now.”

  “Yes. And we know that this second lot is definitely not handicapped by being unable to read their orders.” Nikolas’ tone was grim. “You and I are going to have our work cut out for us now.”

  7

  “Where’s Lena?” Mags asked Bear as the latter sat down next to him with a tired thud. Mags passed him the bowl of butter and the loaf of bread without being asked. Across the table, Pip passed over a bowl of pickles, and Gennie stood up to snag a plate of cheese before it vanished down to the other end. Bear made himself a little ploughman’s lunch and tucked in. “Driving herself to silliness in this heat,” he said, in between bites. “Seriously. When she isn’t in class, she’s either playing or writing. And when I manage to drag her out, all she can talk about is Marchand’s pet and sit there and fret because she wants to hate him and can’t. Turns out the feller is all right, dead serious, dead grateful to Marchand for finding him. His family don’t have two pins, they’re from some stony spot on the Border, and he’d been learnin’ on any sort of instrument that anyone would let him borrow. Now, coming up to Bardic, that means his family gets that family-stipend, which I guess is more money than they’ve ever seen, and he gets, well, Bardic.” Bear finished what was on his plate and reached for the bowl of baby carrots—a rare treat, since you only got them when the young carrots were thinned out to allow the biggest to grow. “Off stage he’s shy. Shy! Unbelievable.” Bear shook his head. “So of course she can’t hate him, so all she can do is try and figure out how to make Marchand take notice of her instead of the pet. I keep trying to tell her that she’s wearing herself out for nothing, but she doesn’t listen.”

  Well, that put an interesting complexion on things. Mags felt his thoughts disengage from the problem of find the foreigners to concentrate on Lena. And he snagged a few baby carrots to munch on himself while he thought.

  No use in my tellin’ ’er nothin’, he thought. She b’lieves me when I’m with ’er an’ then fergets ev’thin’ I tol’ ’er when I’m agone.

  ::Exactly so,:: Dallen replied. ::Erm—not exactly. She would listen to you, as you said, but doubts always set it as soon as she is alone. But remember what you are trying to do about her and Bear.::

  ::Right.:: So, what he should do is put in Bear’s mind the direction things should take, and let Bear do the telling, and comforting, and so on. “Ye haven’ been all that around yersel’,” he told Bear, with just the tiniest bit of reproach in his voice. “Ye ken? So wha’s she gonna do, wi’ me runnin’ about after Nikolas, an’ you off doin’, too. She gots nobody she talks to but us.”

  “Yes, but—” Bear faltered. “Damn it, why do you have to be right all the time? And the only time I can get her out of class is—”

  “When I’m agone, aye.” He nodded. “Nay, look, Bear, ye kin afford t’take a liddle time off Amily. Ye gots th’ Herald what draws stuff she sees i’ other peoples’ heads, aye?”

  Bear nodded and crunched a carrot. “She said she’d do it when I asked her this morning. Just have to get her an’ Amily an’ the right Healer together. Dean’s finding me the Healer, an’ Dean’s gonna set it up. She says the best way is for her to make a bunch of drawings, then we use those to rough-saw the cow bones in the right places, then we all get back together again with her and the Healer and Amily and we make adjustments on the cow bones and pin ’em together exactly the right way. Then—I dunno, we’re gonna have to figure out how t’ do something more permanent than cement pins—we’re gonna have a bunch of Healers handling the bones and turning them and studying them. I just can’t figure out how to make ’em stand up to that much abuse.“

  “So who’d know how t’do stuff like stickin’ bones t’gether?” Mags asked patiently. It was beginning to dawn on him what his job was in all of this. It wasn’t necessarily to find answers. His job was to ask the right questions. Then even if neither he nor Bear nor Lena knew the answers, at least knowing the question would mean that they had a direction to go to find someone who did know the answers.

  “Who sticks things together? ’Twouldn’t be a Healer, the bones would have to be living. I dunno . . .” Bear ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

  Gennie noticed and smacked his hand lightly. “Quit that, you look like a hammerbird. Stick what together now?”

  “Bones—bone pieces, I mean,” Bear said, and explained. Now, anything that Gennie was interested in was bound to get the interest of the rest of the team, and they all leaned over to hear what Bear was up to. They were all gratifyingly encouraging in their enthusiasm, and not one of them expressed any thought that Bear wasn’t up to the job; Bear began to brighten visibly.

  And all of them began tossing ideas back and forth about how the bone-model could be made, until people at other tables started to notice. Ideas were tossed out and discarded. Glue obviously wasn’t going to hold past rough examination. You couldn’t nail the pieces together, the bone would split, and screws had the same problem. Pins by themselves were too unstable—

  Finally one of the oldest people listening spoke up—not a teacher, but one of the servers. “Why does’t have to be one thing?” he asked.

  They all stopped talking and looked at him. He flushed, obviously unused to that much attention. “Oh—don’t mind me—” he stammered.

  “No, no, go on,” Bear said, encouragingly. “Please. What did you mean by that?”

  “Well . . . look, my ma is a seamstress for real special stuff for the Guard. Say she’s got something that has got to hold up. Life or death. Uh—like the seams on the carry-bags they use to get sick or hurt people down off mountains, where you can’t even get a stretcher. Well, she don’t use just one thing to put that seam together. First, she sews it loose, so she can adjust curves and all. Then she sews three seams close together. Then she sews something to protect the seam on the outside. Then she glues the seam, then glues a layer of leather down, then she gets a saddler to stitch the leather down. So it’s not just one thing . . . the loose stitches would pull out if that were all there was. One line of stitches might break. Three might get cut. The glue might give. The leather might get torn off if it was only glued. The saddle stitches might pop. But with all of that there, even if part of it goes, the rest is gonna hold it together . . .” The man flushed again. “Sorry. I—I shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, you should have!” Bear exclaimed. “All right then . . . so,
he’s right. The pins only have to hold so we can do what?”

  At this point there were three tablesworth of Trainees and other students involved in this.

  “Well . . .” someone who wasn’t in any of the three Collegia, who was up here taking classes so he could learn how to plan things like bridges and buildings, tentatively put his oar in. “What you need after you position the bones is something to hold them in place, temporary, aye? Well . . . look, is there any reason why your model has to be made of bone at all? Can’t you just make a model directly?”

  Bear frowned a little. “Sort of. I mean, I dunno of anyone who can mold the way the bone is out of clay, if that’s what you’re asking. The Herald that’s making the drawings doesn’t make sculptures, she told me so when I asked her to help.”

  “Right, that clarifies things. I’m Myca, by the way.” He stuck out a hand, and Bear shook it. He tapped the server on the arm; the server jumped. “Introduce yourself, man. It’s only polite.”

  “Pawel,” the server said, diffidently.

  They all nodded a friendly greeting. “Look, sit down—” Bear said, but Pawel shook his head. “I’m on duty, and if I don’t work, the cook will have my hide and I might get my wages cut. Thank you, but I really need to get back to work—” He picked up some empty bowls and headed for the hatch to return them to the kitchen.

  “Huh.” Bear stared after him a moment. “Well, all right. So, Myca, I guess we could use something other than bone once we have the sketches, but there’s no way that I know of to make a model that’ll be accurate other than by pinning bits of bone together.”

  “Fair enough. Then Pawel was right. First pin. But then, go ahead and use carpentry glue, but glue the pins in first. Then glue the two surfaces. Then start working on something more permanent. I guess this is going to get a lot of handling, so it is going to have to be sturdy. I’d say to make a carpentry join, a dovetail or something like that, but that would be difficult to get right, and you’re only going to waste time if you spoil it and have to start over. So—I’d use metal staples out of soft wire so you can set them in rather than hammering them in.”