Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Read online

  Oh yes.

  :You might want to keep that thought for the next time that someone tries to claim how much better the old system was.:

  :Already thunk of that.: He pondered that a moment more, and turned his attention back to helping Amily.

  Already she had made a lot of headway, and he found himself feeling ridiculously proud of her. The chaos wasn’t going to get resolved quickly—and it was going to need some serious tending to, given that there was no one to keep a stern eye on things all the time the way that the Guard Archivists did.

  But by the time he had to go off for class, he and Amily had made up another box, and young Jonson had shelved two rows of books again.

  The Kirball practices were going well, at least for the South Team. They’d progressed to the stage of not only catching and throwing the ball, but hitting it with their paddles. Those who were supposed to try and catch it now had heavily padded gloves to spare their hands. Only one of the other teams had someone with Fetching Gift on it, and they had decided that the easiest way to deal with a “Fetcher,” was to have Mags “shout” at him with Mindspeech, breaking his concentration.

  For the rest, it was all coordination. They practiced patterns, riding and afoot, throwing the ball to each other, and then as one or another split off to gallop downfield, someone standing in the stirrups to give the thing an enormous thwack. And when the ball reached that far off player, he or she would catch it or bat it into the goal They practiced sending the ball shooting across the ground, leaning down of their saddles to smack it with their paddles.

  All this was conducted in relative silence, as Mags relayed their orders, the only other sounds being of the ball being hit and the drumming of hooves on sod.

  Meanwhile it was also Lena’s turn to face the first big challenge of her Collegium.

  All Bardic students had to compete in a twice-yearly contest. There was no excuse that would get you out of it, other than being very ill indeed on the day of the competition.

  And Lena was a nervous wreck.

  She didn’t have to say why, they all knew; she wasn’t sure whether she was more overwrought about her father showing up, or him not showing up. She agonized about her competition piece—was it too short? Too long? Was it too simple? So complicated it looked as if she was trying to show off? Should she perform something original?

  “Do you have anything of yours that is fit to sing for an audience?” Bear asked, as she sat on the floor of the conservatory, surrounded by a half a dozen music manuscripts.

  “Yes! No! I don’t know!” she wailed.

  “Then sing something that ain’t yers,” Mags advised. “It ain’t as if ye ain’t gonna have more of these things t’ perform at. So go easy fer the first one, eh?”

  “But—!” she exclaimed, but never got past the word. Instead, she picked up and put down each of the songs in turn.

  Finally Mags got weary of it. “Come out of there,” he ordered, giving her his hand. “Leave them things on floor. We’ll settle this for ye.”

  Bewildered, she took his hand and got up. He handed her off to Bear, who walked her over to a chair and made her sit down.

  He looked around and finally picked up a bit of broken pot. Closing his eyes, he tossed it straight up to the ceiling. It landed on the floor with a clatter, then bounced about and ended up on one of the music manuscripts.

  He picked the manuscript up and handed it to Lena.

  “There,” he said firmly. “Tha’s it. Tha’s what ye’ll do.”

  “But—”

  “Seriously, Lena, they are all good pieces, and you do all of them well. Any of them will do, and it might as well be that one,” Bear said, with just an edge of exasperation showing in his voice.

  Lena sighed. “All right. You’re right. It might as well.”

  “Hey,” Mags offered. “Look at it this-a way. Nobody’s gonna be lobbin’ balls at yer head.”

  “I wish they would,” she said, so mournfully that both he and Bear laughed, and then they had to fall all over themselves apologizing for her hurt feelings.

  They were still apologizing when Amily arrived, hobbling along on her bad leg with her crutch to assist her. “Now what have you two done?” she asked, looking from their faces to Lena’s, Mags held the door open for her. “Oh never mind. Listen, I just learned something you all need to know!”

  Mags helped her to a chair, and they all gathered around her; given the mix of excitement and alarm in her voice, the importance of what she was going to say probably transcended any hurt feelings.

  “You know that fuss that was raised late this afternoon?” she asked.

  Bear and Lena nodded, Mags only shook his head. “Practice,” he pointed out. “An’ then I come straight here, after dinner.”

  “Well, it was trade envoys from Seejay arriving,” Amily said breathlessly.

  All of them frowned, since that was where the troublemakers of the winter had—

  “And they were shocked to hear that there had been trade envoys from Seejay here this winter!” she continued. “Especially since those envoys didn’t come with a Royal Charter!”

  Mags sucked on his lower lip. “Well, we’d already reckoned they wasn’t what they said they was,” he pointed out. “So what was they?”

  Amily shook her head. “The new envoys didn’t know. Lady Adetha’s daughter—you know, the one that’s so good at drawing and painting—was even called to bring the sketches she’d made of them while they were here, and the envoys didn’t recognize them. Not at all. And their clothing was nothing like what these new envoys are wearing. By tomorrow, this is going to be all over the place, Mags, and people are going to be asking questions all over again.”

  “Of course they are,” Mags sighed. Because there was one big question that no one had been able to answer.

  Why had that crazed assassin taken one look at him and exclaimed “You aren’t supposed to be here?”

  Sure enough, first thing in the morning, even before breakfast, a page from the Palace was tapping on his door.

  He’d been expecting it, of course; Rolan had warned Dallen, who had gotten him up early. He’d put on his best set of ordinary Grays, and followed the page up to the Palace in a state of dread and resignation.

  He was ushered into a small room crowded with people; there was a throne there, and the King was on it; he was surrounded by Guardsmen bristling with weapons and resentment, and besides the Guardsmen, Nikolas and the entire Council were there.

  And so was a group of dignified looking men and one woman, all in long robe-like garments that at first glance were very unimpressive—

  Until you realized, at second glance, that the subdued colors of their garments were woven in patterns so intricate that Mags had never seen anything like them in his life, and the threads that composed the fabric could not possibly have been thicker than a human hair.

  One thing was certain. Their costumes looked nothing at all like those of the arrogant “merchant princes” who had so abused the Crown’s hospitality.

  They all studied him, as he stood there awkwardly. Everyone studied him. The Guards studied him in a way that suggested that some of them hoped he might try and bolt so that they could bring him down.

  “Well, my lords?” the King said, when the uncomfortable silence had stretched on for far, far too long.

  “Is beink chust ordinary boy, Highness,” one of the envoys said with a shrug. “Is lookink nossink like anyone ve know uff.”

  “Not like some notorious assassin? Infamous thief?” Mags almost cast a sharp glance at the King, for even if his Councilors didn’t detect the edge of sarcasm to his words, Mags certainly did.

  “He is not beink look effen like native of our land, nor those around it,” the Envoy said firmly. “He is beink little and dark, and ve are beink large and golden.”

  Well that was certainly true.

  “He is not beink look like Shin’a’in, either,” the woman observed. “They are beink dark,
but tall. Werry tall.”

  The King spread his hands and turned to his Councilors. “There, you see?”

  “This only proves that the real envoys from Seejay don’t recognize this Trainee as looking like anyone they know, Majesty,” said the Seneschal, with reluctance. “And we still do not know where the false envoys came from.”

  “And I prefer to believe that poor Mags is the victim of that old saw, that everyone has a double somewhere,” Nikolas put in.

  The King laughed. “The most likely explanation that comes to my mind is that we don’t actually know what the assassin thought he saw. The man was mad, and he might have been hallucinating. For all we know, he looked at Mags and saw his brother, his mother, or his worst enemy.”

  “And how likely is that?” the Seneschal asked, pulling on his beard a little.

  “Very likely.” The Head of the Healer’s Circle had been mostly hidden by the others until he spoke. “Hallucinations of this sort are a common component of a deep level of insanity. There are even cases of people murdering beloved members of their families, convinced that the people trying to help them are mortal enemies, or demonic entities. I have known of sufficiently mad women who murdered their own infants, certain that the children had been taken away and demons left in the cradle.”

  “I’m satisfied,” the King said. “You can go, Trainee Mags. Thank you for coming.”

  Mags bowed himself out hastily. So far as he was concerned, he couldn’t get out of that room fast enough.

  The team was waiting for him in the corridor, though not looking particularly anxious. Well that was the advantage of being Grays; your Companions kept you abreast of what was going on. Thank goodness. Pip punched him lightly on the arm, and Gennie threw him a smile, but nobody said anything until they all got inside and were seated.

  “So?” asked Bear.

  He told them what had happened. Or, more precisely, what had not happened.

  Gennie raised her eyebrows. “Well, that’s interesting, but it doesn’t prove or disprove anything except that those men were lying, and we already knew that.”

  Mags nodded—then thought of something. “Mebbe one thing. They didn’ seem ter recognize me, nor think I looked like summun else.”

  “True, true,” said Pip. “Hmm. Well, put this in a logic tree.” Pip, began tracing an invisible diagram on the table with his finger. “The real envoys didn’t recognize Mags. The fakes didn’t recognize Mags, but they did know him after being here a while. The assassin who was working with the fakes, did. Why?”

  “Could be we’ve been looking at this all backwards,” Halleck said slowly. “Well, there’s three possibilities. The first is what the Healer said. He was out of his head. That’s the likeliest, and he could have thought Mags was anybody. I mean ‘You’re not supposed to be here—’ that sound more like what someone says when he sees someone who really isn’t supposed to be there, that it’s impossible for the person he thinks he sees to be there.”

  “All right, and the other two?” Pip prompted as Mags listened intently.

  “It could be the killer was from somewhere else, and actually recognized Mags as looking like someone he knew . . . but then you have to wonder why he was working for the fakes and how they found him. So the next likeliest is that the fakes told him about Mags, the killer went and had a look at him, did everything he could to keep Mags from finding Bear, and when he did anyway, had that reaction. That’s even more likely if he was expecting the fakes to get rid of Mags. After all, Bear is Mags’ best friend. If there was anyone likely to fight like a wildcat to save him, it would be Mags. So obviously, you wouldn’t want Mags to find him.”

  Pip nodded. “And there’s nothing mysterious or sinister about that.”

  “Why would the fakes wanta get rid ’a me?” Mags asked—then answered his own question. “Because I shamed ’em, they’re bullies, and fellers like that likes t’ get even.”

  “Exactly.” Pip spread his hands. “Easy explanation, and you know what they say, the simplest answer is generally the right one.” He grabbed a plate of bacon and began shoveling it onto the plates of the others. “So let’s eat. I’m starving. We’ll let the nags discuss it among themselves, then pass it off to their Chosen.”

  :Nag? I heard that!:

  It was as if the gods were trying to muck up his life as badly as possible. The timing for this could not possibly have been worse. But he’d promised . . . and he wasn’t going to go back on a promise. Especially not now.

  As always, the team was waiting for him to escort him into lunch. He approached them with his head hunched down. They weren’t going to like this.

  “Where’s Lena? And Bear?” asked Gennie, craning her neck to see if they were somewhere in the corridor behind him.

  Mags took a deep breath. “Lena got bumped on her Contest; she’s comin’ up right now an’ Bear got called away. That Councilor Chamjey is s’pposed t’ be answerin’ charges, an’ he took sick; reg’lar Healers can’t make heads nor tails of it, an’ they called Bear, so he’s down in city. We both promised Lena we’d be watchin’ her Contest. . . .”

  He trailed off, just as Herald Setham approached their table.

  “Mags, Dallen said you needed to speak with me?”

  Mags blurted it all out a second time. “So—I know ’tis practice—” he said desperately. “But—”

  “Hang all that, Lena’s our friend too!” said Gennie, her eyes flashing. “Herald Setham, we’ll make up the practice after supper, permission for the team to support Trainee Lena?”

  Setham snorted. “You’d be damn poor friends if you hadn’t asked for it. Of course.”

  Mags’ heart leapt—Gennie slapped him on the back, and the group of them surged down the hall and out the door. If anyone had been taking notes, how they surged might have given them pause, for they moved as a unit, without anyone getting in anyone else’s way . . . they really were a team, more and more as time went on.

  They arrived at the Assembly Hall, where the Contest was taking place; Mags was the first one in, and he knew immediately that Lena was in trouble.

  The Hall was absolutely silent, and Lena stood white-faced on the stage, clutching a lap-harp, with all eyes turned to her expectantly.

  And it was clear she couldn’t move. She was terrified, and she had forgotten the words of what she was supposed to sing.

  And Mags saw why at a single glace.

  Right in front, sitting at the Judge’s table, was her father, Bard Tobias Marchand.

  Looking unutterably bored, as if there was anywhere in the world he would rather be than there. Which was probably the case.

  Oh bloody hell.

  He didn’t even think; he just acted. Gathered his mind, and “shouted” at her.

  :Lena!:

  She jumped a little, unfroze, and her eyes darted frantically around the room until he caught and held her gaze.

  :Deep breath,: he said. :Close yer eyes.:

  Convulsively, she did both.

  :We’re here. Th’ whole team’s here. We’re b’hind ye. Now—le’s make out like ye meant t’ start this way. Deep breath.:

  She gulped in another. He didn’t say a thing about her Father. The last thing he wanted to do was make her freeze up again.

  :Now, quiet. Real quiet. Make ’em strain t’ hear ye. When rose the pole-star bright . . . :

  She knew the song, of course, it was the Midwinter Song. Everyone knew the song. She’d probably have points deducted for choosing so common a song, but that was better than failing because she froze.

  Her voice whispered out over the crowd, sweet, a little melancholy, soft. Sweet enough that, though it was scarcely more than a whisper, people leaned forward to hear her.

  With each verse, as each of the birds in the song added its voice to the Midwinter Call, her voice strengthened. And finally, with her eyes still closed, she added the fingering of the harp to the song as she came to the final verse, her voice soaring in triumphant rejoicing
over the notes that fell like drops of melting ice in the warmth of the newly risen sun.

  From the rear, the team broke out in wild applause, joined a heartbeat afterwards by the rest of the room.

  Now she opened her eyes; caught Mags’ gaze, and mouthed the words “Thank you!”

  Then she flushed and ran off the stage before the judges could dismiss her.

  “All right,” Setham said, as the applause subsided. “That’s over with, and there is still plenty of time for practice. Move out, Team South! Quick time to the field! Let’s see those heels of yours.”

  “Yes sir!” they all said, and hustled out of the room before he decreed any penalty for the last one on the field.

  It was a particularly spirited practice, and one in which Mags was moving too fast to even think about Lena or Bear. The rest of the team played with exceptional energy and exuberance, and it was clear that they all were taking credit for Lena’s performance.

  Damn right they should. He swelled with pride over it. She had seen them, and he knew it had made a difference to her. She’d been able to forget her father for a moment when she realized the entire team was there for her, not just him and Bear—even Herald Setham.

  She wasn’t going to get great marks for this, he was pretty sure about that. She wouldn’t have fooled any of the judges about her stage-fright, and she hadn’t managed to unfreeze enough to play the harp until the end. The song itself was simple and didn’t show off much of anything except her lovely voice. No, she wasn’t going to come in at the top of the Contest.

  But she wouldn’t be at the bottom, either.

  When practice finished, they discovered that Herald Setham sent up the hill for food to replace the luncheon none of them had eaten. Swigging flasks of sweet, cold tea and munching on sausage rolls, they headed back up to the Collegium for their next classes or duties, all of them looking forward to seeing Lena at supper.

  Mags was a little delayed by a note from Amily, asking him to meet her in the Heraldic Archives, and by the time he got to the dining hall, the team had surrounded Lena, though Bear was nowhere in sight.