Changing the World Page 15

  And so it went around the women- who-confused-Wil. They hugged him, or said they were glad to see him, and his response always felt wrong.

  He decided to focus on what he knew: being a Herald.

  “I’m staying at the Companion’s Bell,” he said, “as Attikas Goldenoak.”

  “What else can you tell me about this—whatever it is?”

  He briefly thought about explaining it to her. Well, Lelia, I’ve been having stomach-lurching visions of a horrible murder, but there’s no hard evidence aside from a brigand’s confession and a handful of gems. In fact, the only solution the supposedly brilliant Queen’s Own could come up with was dropping me in the lord’s home and “letting my Gift do its work.”

  No. No, the only thing worse than this so-called plan was trying to explain it to someone. “The less, the better,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes. “You won’t pass for an entertainer, you know.”

  “That’s just one problem with this plan.”

  :It’s not a problem,: Vehs said stubbornly. :You just don’t want to come up with a solution.:

  “Assistant?” Wil hazarded, trying to mollify his Companion.

  “The Whites might give you away.”

  “Conveniently, I wouldn’t be wearing them.”

  She widened her eyes innocently. “The Queen lets you take them off?”

  Wil felt his cheeks burn. Was she being funny or making fun of him? She was smiling. What did it mean?

  She nodded to herself. “I have an idea. You have a weapon?”

  He gave her a disgusted look.

  “One you can wear to a party without looking like an idiot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. On that note—”

  “Going to tell me why?”

  She cocked her head. “Oh, I think the less you know, the better.”

  Vehs chuckled gleefully.

  :Glad you’re amused,: Wil thought sourly at him.

  “I need to collect some things,” she said. “See you at the Bell in the morning?”

  “Sure,” he mumbled.

  “Have a good night, Herald.” She waved and wandered off, whistling as she went.

  Wil directed his attention to Vehs.

  :It was funny,: Vehs said.

  Wil stalked off in a direction opposite hers. Not the fastest route off the Palace-Collegia complex, but at least it guaranteed he’d be alone.

  Vehs drew up beside him.

  Mostly alone, Wil thought.

  :Talamir thinks she’s capable,: Vehs said. :And Lyle is a Herald.:

  :I’d be happier if she were, too.:

  :But then she wouldn’t be a Bard. And then you wouldn’t be able to get onto the Count’s grounds.: Vehs’s amusement sparkled like barleywine.

  Wil looked in the direction the Bard had gone. :She has matured. I mean, physically. She has—um—:

  :Womanly assets.:

  Wil flushed, remembering the brief but warm hug. :I wasn’t looking—okay, I was. But that wasn’t—exactly—:

  :She’s a woman now.:

  :But she’s still Lelia.: He found distinct comfort in that bit of curmudgeonry.

  Vehs bumped him from behind. :This is your problem, you know. You only have faith in me and other Heralds.:

  :That’s because I like breathing.:

  :There are worse things than dying.:

  :Like what?:

  :Never truly living?:

  Wil guffawed. :What philosopher’s memoir did you dredge that from?:

  Vehs would not be deterred. :Just because someone doesn’t wear White—:

  :I’ll think about it,: Wil replied, annoyed. Vehs went silent.

  But Wil knew the Bard, and what she was capable of.

  And that worried him.

  Wil thought he’d been poleaxed by another vision when the countess swept in. But his gut remained quiescent, and no invisible force drove him to his knees. They were here, now.

  “I am Countess Chantil of Tindale,” she said. Three attendants accompanied her: two ladies and the stiff-collared butler who had fetched her.

  “I’m Master Bard Lelia.” Lelia dropped a curtsy and skillfully elbowed Wil at the same time. He bowed hastily. “This is my bodyguard, Attikas.”

  Chantil’s brows crept upward. “Bodyguard? Really! Admirers following you home, Bard?”

  Lelia smiled blandly. “Something like that.”

  Bodyguard. That had been Lelia’s plan yesterday morning when Wil’d walked downstairs and found her waiting. Wil had (grudgingly) admitted it wasn’t a bad idea. A visit to the Midwinter Market had yielded proper clothes, and his long-knife completed the ensemble. No one expected him to dance, sing, or even speak—just look grim. Something he excelled at.

  Chantil gestured. “This way.” She swept off down a hallway, retinue trailing.

  Wastes no time, Wil thought.

  “You’ll be playing in the grand hall,” Chantil said, walking so briskly Wil thought her heeled shoes would crack the marble floors. “Any needs you have, please speak to my steward, Einan.” She gestured to the man Wil had taken for a butler.

  She wheeled suddenly, causing her voluminous raw silk skirts to spin. “I would appreciate it if you kept things—” She coughed delicately into her satin- gloved hand. “—cheerful and understated. Nothing morose, please.”

  A glint lit in Lelia’s eye. Wil immediately knew that had been the wrong thing for the countess to say. He hoped that Lelia’s retaliation would be discreet enough to not get her position here terminated.

  :Focus on your job, Chosen. Let the Bard do hers.:

  :If she performs a protracted sing-along of “The Vigil That Never Ends” . . . . :

  Vehs snickered.

  “As I stated before,” Lelia said, reemploying that graceful curtsey she’d used earlier, “I am well experienced at performing for clientele of your caliber, Countess. And might I say what an honor it is to be here. Your happiness is my first priority.”

  These seemed to be the words the Countess wanted to hear. “Oh, you Bards.” Her eyes flitted to Wil, and her smile soured a trifle. “Surely, it’s quite safe here—”

  “It’s a matter of my peace of mind,” Lelia said firmly. “And now, since you have me performing this very eve, I find it necessary to test the acoustics of the chamber.”

  Chantil’s smile didn’t quite play true. “If you need anything, the kitchens are that way.” She gestured toward a wing of the mansion. “Or find Einan or Marjori. They can assist you.” She gave Wil a final cursory glance and then sashayed off, minions in tow.

  Lelia set herself up on a chair, gittern in lap. Wil stood about, feeling awkward and unnecessary, until she said, “You know, I think the countess is right. I should be quite safe here. Be a dear and fetch me some water?”

  When he didn’t move, she gave him a curious look, then broke into a laugh and shooed him. “Go on.”

  As he started forward, she called, “Don’t get lost.”

  His confusion lasted to the door—and then her hints sunk in. Getting lost was exactly what he needed to do. He plunged into the depths of the mansion.

  As a trainee, he’d been taught that ForeSight wasn’t all flashes of the future—that his uncanny “gut instinct” stemmed from it. And that doubt proved particularly toxic to someone with his Gift, because it muddled its messages.

  He tried to listen to his gut now as he passed oaken doors with brass knobs and double doors with inlaid glass leading out to the atrium. He navigated twisty corridors, noted alcoves with busts of former Tindale lords in them, and passed a door with gryphons carved on it. He saw cozy windowseats with curtains both drawn and down, flower petals strewn across the cushions.

  He tried, but eventually he had to admit defeat and return to the Bard, empty-handed.

  Midwinter Vigil wasn’t for four more nights, but you couldn’t tell that by the press of revelers at the mansion. Lelia thought her sets were well received, although they sounded contriv
ed to her ears. No one listened to her, anyway. She was little more than a musical bauble at parties like this.

  Maresa had worked out an excellent contract, not just in payment, but also in the number of breaks Lelia got. It gave her ample time to lurk and mingle while Wil went on endless “errands” to fetch her water and tidbits. The countess’s entourage avoided her, but the servers were happy to talk.

  The characteristics of a Bard were curiosity as deep as the sky and enough charm to coax secrets from a stone. By the end of the night Lelia had a pretty good idea why Wil was here.

  “So,” she said, once they were back at the Bell and could safely shed their coats and personas, “I talked to some servants tonight.”

  Wil’s eyes narrowed.

  “Andris is the countess’ fourth husband. Did you know that?”

  His face went blank, and she thought, Ah ha!

  “The count’s awfully young,” she continued. “Seemed impressionable to me. Vulnerable, too.”

  “Lelia.”

  “I hear her last three husbands all died under questionable—”

  “Stop.”

  She held the sentence’s ending hostage, meeting and holding his gaze.

  “It’s not a game, Lelia,” he said quietly.

  “And I told you I know that and you act like I don’t!” She shook her head at him, hoisting her heavy pack of books and notes. “Good night,” she muttered, and stomped off to trudge through the cold.

  Wil rubbed his forehead.

  “I can’t do this,” he said at last.

  :You can!: Vehs protested.

  :No. I can’t.: Wil unbuckled his belt and slipped his weapon loop off. :The stories are right. Talamir’s halfway to the Havens. Only a simpleton would have assigned me to do this with—her.:

  :Chosen.: Vehs’s mind-voice was flat serious. :That isn’t it at all.:

  :Vehs, I can’t—:

  :Shut up!:

  Wil rocked on his heels, feeling as if he’d been slapped.

  :Ever since you spoiled that brigand’s ambush, this is all I’ve heard! Endless whining about how you can’t and this isn’t your forte. You’re a Herald. It’s all your job!:

  Wil sat, stunned into silence. He’d never known Vehs to be this—direct.

  :You are the one Herald with ForeSight having these visions. You are the one who stopped the brigand, interrogated him under Truth Spell, and learned of the danger to Andris. And yes, you are the one who will uncover enough evidence to take to the queen so we can keep Chantil from murdering her fourth husband! And do you know why?:

  :Why?: Wil asked meekly.

  :Because you are my Chosen, dammit, and I didn’t Choose an idiot!:

  A long silence followed, and then, :And neither did Rolan.:

  Wil slumped. :I’m sorry. I just—I don’t—: He carefully rephrased the thought. :I feel like a fish out of water.:

  :Talamir gave you gills. Use them.:

  Wil touched his neck, confused.

  :The Bard, Chosen.:

  :What? No. No no no—:

  :She learned a lot in one night. She is far more social than you. She fits in where you do not. If you haven’t completely offended her, she might even help you.:

  Vehs retreated then, leaving Wil alone with his thoughts.

  He crawled into bed, but it didn’t want him. He tossed and turned, thoughts churning. Ages later, he gave a resigned sigh.

  Vehs is going to be insufferable, he thought.

  With that realization, Wil finally slept.

  Lelia had neither a smile nor a good afternoon for Wil the next day. Wil tried to strike up conversation, and every time she either walked faster or intercepted a street vendor, cutting him off.

  Oh, sure, when I want to apologize . . . , he thought, irritated.

  Once at the mansion, she immediately set up and started playing. He stood mutely by, finally wandering off when she muttered, “Water.”

  He wandered the hallways and corridors, trying to feel whatever his Gift relayed. Past an alcove, past a cupboard, past the door with the twin gryphons carved on it, and—

  He stepped back to stare at the door. Hunger pangs, or something else? That door . . .

  It opened.

  He jumped, face to face with Einan, Chantil’s toady.

  “Are you lost, sir?” he asked.

  “Uh—yes. Sorry. Privy?”

  Einan pointed. Wil thanked him and hurried off.

  The Bard’s silence lasted even after her performance, and when they marched back to the Bell, she walked past the front entry.

  “Hey—” he called.

  She looked back, glaring coldly. She hadn’t yet stopped.

  Wil winced. He pointed to the Bell. “I want to talk. Please.”

  She slowed, then turned—and came back.

  :Nicely done, Chosen,: Vehs said.

  Upstairs, she sat down on the edge of the bed and said nothing.

  Wil started pacing.

  “I—” Can’t believe I’m saying this “—need your help,” he said.

  She cocked her head.

  “Somehow, I need to get around that mansion without anyone interrupting.” Wil stopped long enough to meet her gaze. “Can you help?”

  “I . . . can.” She pursed her lips. “Have you heard about Salia?”

  “What?”

  “Chantil’s former maid. One of her trusted circle. A week after the Tindales came to Haven for Midwinter Festival, Chantil ousted her for stealing.” Lelia pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin on top. “Einan, Marjori, and Ylora—that’s the third one—won’t talk about her, but the others—” She chuckled. “Oh, ’twas just scandalous.”

  “Okay. Interesting, but—” He stopped. “Wait. What was she accused of stealing?”

  “Silver, jewelry. A couple of necklaces and brooches.” :The brigand’s mysterious employer paid him in gems,: Wil thought, excited.

  :You think Chantil took them off her own jewelry to pay the brigand and then blamed it on Salia?:

  :And I have to wonder if she melted those settings down or hid them to reset later. How smart do you think she is?:

  :Or how arrogant.:

  Wil thought of the gryphon-door room, and his gut twinged. :Exactly.:

  “Did Chantil report her to the Guard?” Wil asked.

  “Curious you should ask!” Lelia’s eyes sparkled. “Chantil never demanded the jewelry back, never brought charges against her. She didn’t even do the ousting—gave all the dirty work to Einan or Marjori, depending on who you ask. Chantil said she didn’t want to see Salia again.”

  Wil’s brows lifted. “Well.”

  Lelia nodded. “Mull on that. I’ll try to think of a suitable distraction.”

  He frowned. “Like what?”

  She stood in the doorway and looked back over her shoulder. “The less you know,” she said, winked, and stepped out.

  Lelia timed her announcement for when the grand hall was at its fullest.

  She stilled her strings, rose, and cleared her throat. With full Bardic projection, she said, “Attention!”

  The volume died down. Heads turned. A few stray threads of conversations continued, but not for long.

  “As some of you are aware,” she said, “I am the composer and original performer of ‘Today, I Ride’.” She arched a brow. “Or, as some of you call it, ‘That Sendar Song’.” A murmur of recognition—and a few chuckles— rolled through the crowd. “Well, tomorrow I will perform the song—” She lifted the other brow. “—for the last time.”

  A collective gasp went through the room. Wil remained stoic.

  “I ask that if you all wish to hear it for the last time—from its creator—that you be here tomorrow three candlemarks before midnight.” She bowed deeply. “Thank you.”

  A wild clamor followed. The outraged look from Chantil warmed Lelia’s heart. The entourage fluttered and muttered, looking just as distraught as their lady. Lelia had just swiped all the attention, and Chant
il could do nothing about it.

  If you’re smart, you’ll pretend you suggested it, M’lady, Lelia thought.

  Back at the Bell and once again safe from prying eyes and ears, she said, “Sendar’s song is a little less than a quarter candlemark in its full, unedited form. I can get you half if I include one of the parodies.”

  “There are parodies?”

  “Oh, yes. My personal favorite is ‘Today, I Lunch’.” She giggled. “It’s very respectful.”

  “Right.”

  “Nothing I haven’t done before. So. Many. Times. I’m sick of it, to be honest.”

  “The wages of fame.”

  Her lips twitched. “Eh. Got me in to see the queen. I assume it’s how Talamir knew me and why Chantil jumped to hire me.” She took a deep breath. “Speaking of Her Haughtiness . . . I’ll use my Gift. No one will leave that room.”

  “The whole room under Bardic Gift?”

  “I’m not that good. But Chantil and Andris will be my focus. With them pinned, no one’s going to leave.”

  “Might . . . actually work.”

  “Good.” She stood up. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

  Lelia had her hand on the door to the Herald’s wing when she heard the hiss of something swinging through the air.

  Having spent years being hammered on by a large and skilled ex-captain of the Karsite army had its merits: when Lelia heard things hissing toward her, her first instinct was to duck. She dropped her weight, shed her packs, and rolled off to the side. She sprung up again, facing whatever had been swinging at where she’d been standing.

  She saw a nothing that was something—black clothes, black gloves, black hood and half- mask. The black-clad nothing lunged at her with what looking like a club, taking another two-handed strike at her face. Lelia stumbled backward, opened her mouth, and screamed with full Bardic Gift, “Stop!”

  Her attacker staggered in place.

  Lelia jumped forward and landed with bone-crunching force on her assailant’s foot.

  A clunk followed the howl as the club dropped. Lelia crouched and came up swinging the discarded weapon; her assailant’s ribs cracked like greenwood.