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

  Bear laughed, and he closed his eyes.

  He didn’t actually sleep, more like drowsed as Bear worked. He definitely felt Bear put the leeches on his skin; they were cool when they first were put on but quickly warmed up to his temperature, there was a kind of pinpicking sensation he wouldn’t even have noticed against the general ache of his bruises if he hadn’t been concentrating on seeing what it felt like. Then there was a numbing feeling and no more pinprick sensations. He thought about it, and decided that the leeches were probably doing the numbing themselves. After all, it was in their interest to make you not feel it when they were biting you and sucking your blood.

  “All done,” Bear said at last, rousing him out a lethargic, dreamy state. “You still awake? You look a lot better.”

  “Kinda,” he mumbled. He opened his eyes with an effort. It felt as if he could open them more now. He blinked at Bear, who smiled at him. “So, ye know what happen, down i’ Haven? Thet crazy feller?”

  “They found him tied down to a bed in that inn when they broke into the rooms the men had been renting. The Guards brought him up here, and he’s worse than before,” Bear replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know what his so-called friends were dosing him with, but it wasn’t doing him any good, he’s down to skin and bones and raving just as badly as ever. Besides that, he’s suffering from not having whatever drug they were giving him, and the Mindspeakers don’t want to come within a furlong of him. Maybe a really, really powerful Mindhealer could mend him, but we don’t have one strong enough. So they gave him over to me.”

  “Well—thet’s good, right?” He blinked again, trying to focus on Bear’s lenses. “ ’Nother reason why yer family cain’t drag ye home?”

  “It is,” Bear acknowledged, but looked unhappy, “The thing is I just wish I had more options for dealing with him. Right now all I can do is get him a little healthier and see if some of my remedies can help him out. I don’t like not being able to do something for a patient. And, yes, I know, no one else can either, but . . . well, I really, really want to break him out of this. If Lena is right, and he’s seeing vrondi, maybe I can find something, some medicine, in the old records that blocks magic. Or at least blocks Mindmagic. If he doesn’t sense them watching him, maybe we can get through to him. All I was able to do before was to—well, dose him so that he didn’t feel threatened by them watching him, if that makes any sense. I don’t know, even if no one wanted me to try and help this fellow, I would do it.”

  Mags pondered this, drowsily, and closed his eyes. “I get it, Bear. Ye wouldn’ be fightin’ t’ be a Healer if’n ye didn’ feel thet way. Healer’s a Healer, bone deep, Gift or no.” He paused. “Am I a fool fer feelin’ sorry fer ’im?”

  “No. I do, too. He never did anything to either of us that I know of, and it was his so-called friends that kidnapped me, not him. Besides, I get the feeling he was forced to come here—and I am pretty damn sure he was forced to stay.” The chair scraped against the floor as Bear got up to leave. “I need to take these little fellows back where they belong. I expect you’ll be getting more visitors.”

  “Mebbe. An’ if not, I kin sleep.” He couldn’t imagine who, besides Lena, would be all that anxious to see him. Pretty soon everyone would realize just what balderdash that “hero” business was. So long as everybody figured out that he wasn’t the “foreigner” in those visions, he’d count himself a happy fellow.

  Bear chuckled. “All right then, sleep. It’ll be good for you.”

  He did just that, soothed by the stuff in Bear’s tea, until a servant woke him for lunch, which was more soft food—pease porridge flavored with ham, but without any ham in it, mashed pears, mashed turnips. It was good. The cook had taken extra care with it all, he could tell. He winced a bit even so, as he ate; he supposed he was lucky none of his teeth had actually been knocked out of his jaw.

  :Half the Collegium wants to visit you,: Dallen reported. Mags laughed.

  :Reckon ye kin take that on yerself?: he asked. :I think it oughta be you what gets all th’ attention.:

  :Oh, I might . . . : Dallen temporized. : Gennie and the team are on the way with a couple of your books, anyway. Healer Juran told them you won’t be down long enough to need all of your studies brought in.:

  It hurt to smile, but he did anyway. The servant who had come to take his dishes smiled back at him. :Then I’ll tell ’em what kinda big damn hero ye are, an’ let ’em spread it round.:

  He chuckled at Dallen’s astonished reaction.

  :Juran is right. You really are ridiculously modest.:

  :Or mebbe I jest don’ like fussin’ an’ I know you eat it up. Jest think ’bout all those people tryin’ t’ bring ye pocket pies.: Just then he heard the sounds of a lot of boots in the corridor outside and turned his attention to the door.

  It wasn’t the entire team, but it was a fair crowd; it included Halleck, Pip, Gennie and Jeffers as well as the young proto-Guards from the Foot, and he had to shush them more than once to keep them from disturbing the other people in the room. There were three other patients, though he couldn’t see who, or even what, they were—only that they mostly hunched themselves up in their blankets and turned their backs on the “fuss.”

  “Dear gods, you look like a bad dyeing accident,” Pip observed cheerfully. “Try not to heal too fast, we’ll get lots of sympathy for our side at the first Kirball game.”

  Gennie pretended to smack him on the back of the head. They all settled around the bed. “Tell,” demanded Gennie. “Or I’ll leave Pip with you.”

  After he got done telling his part of the story—and being true to his word, minimizing his role and making sure Dallen got all the credit he deserved for trying to take on a skilled and armed fighter in a space where the Companion couldn’t even move—he finally got to ask some questions of his own.

  “Anyone sayin’ wha ’appened down in Haven?” he asked.

  Everyone looked to Barrett, who nodded. “No one’s making any sort of secret about it,” Barrett replied. “Your man managed to bolt before the Heralds and Guards got there, and vanished. There were at least five more besides the crazy one staying at the inn, according to the innkeeper. He had given them a couple of rooms over the stable that he was rarely able to rent out because of how noisy and smelly they could get when the inn was full—he’d done that because their crazy friend was given to fits of raving, and that kept him from disturbing anyone else. They’d only been there a fortnight or so.”

  “Huh. Wonder where else they’d been stayin’ ’til then,” Mags said thoughtfully. “They had t’ be somewhere.”

  “Wherever it was, the crazy one hadn’t been screaming his head off, or the other innkeepers would have remembered it.” Barrett said. “Anyway, they stole horses out of the stable, left the crazy one behind, and disappeared. The inn was in an uproar when the Heralds got there, over the stolen horses.”

  “By now they’re long gone,” Pip said in disgust. “I wish I could get my hands on the one that beat up Mags.” His eyes glittered dangerously and Mags was a bit taken aback. This was a side of Pip he had not seen before.

  “Either they’re really gone from Haven, or they stole the horses to make it look like they did,” Gennie put in.

  “Huh?” Mags blinked at her. “Ye think thet’s likely?”

  He couldn’t imagine why they would stay, but the mere thought made his stomach feel odd. They’d had a grudge against him before he caught them out. Now? They’d probably want his hide tacked up on a wall.

  Gennie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what I think, that’s what older and wiser heads than mine are thinking. They say that given that we thought they were gone the first time, from what I heard, equal weight is being put on both possibilities.”

  “So . . . why’d they stay i’ the first place?” Mags wondered.

  There were puzzled glances and shrugs all around the group. “I suppose they didn’t get something done that they needed to do,” Gennie said at last. “A
nd there’s nothing they left behind telling us what that was—unless it was to kill the King.”

  “This sure matches up with that Foreseeing,” Halleck said, speaking up for the first time. “Foreign blood—and an assassin. Let’s hope you put an end to that, Mags.”

  “Eh,” Mags shrugged. “Was more accident than anythin’ else.”

  “Well what I want to know is, will you be ready for the Kirball match?” Gennie demanded. Mags chuckled. He had been waiting for her to say something.

  “Healer says so. Says I’ll be all green’n’purple, but I be good.”

  Gennie sighed with relief. “Well in that case, I’m happy!”

  Supper came and went, and Lena followed it, with another dose from Bear and a request.

  Well, not so much a request as an “I plan to do this and of course I’m sure you won’t mind.”

  “No,” said Mags.

  “. . . but . . .” Lena said, making big eyes at him.

  “Nu-uh. No songs,” Mags said firmly. “I ain’t done nothin’ t’ make a song ’bout.”

  “But I need a subject for this week’s assignment!” she protested. “It’s perfect! I mean, I know you, and I know the story, and it’s topical, which is important, because it proves it isn’t something I’ve been working on all along on the side. Besides, it’s mostly just about keeping your eyes open all the time and—”

  She stopped, abruptly, and shut her mouth. But not before Mags realized what she had just said.

  He stared at her accusingly. “Ye already wrote it, didn’ ye?”

  She dropped her gaze to the hands clasped in her lap. “Yees,” she said reluctantly.

  “Ye din’ sing it fer anyone?”

  “Um—”

  He groaned. “Ye did. How’n hell did ye git a song wrote i’ less’n a day?”

  “I needed a song for an assignment and I couldn’t think of a subject!” she replied pleadingly. “It was one of those ‘make up a song in three days’ assignments. Bards are supposed to be able to make things up on the spot, and this is supposed to train us in doing that. It was perfect! My class liked it!”

  “Yer class.” He groaned. An entire class of Bardic Trainees had heard the song and liked it. Which meant an entire class of Bardic Trainees had probably memorized it by now.

  “It’s very short,” she said in a small voice.

  “It’d haveta be.” If his face hadn’t been so tender he would have buried it in his hands. “An’ since it’s short, they all learnt it already. Cause thet’s what Bards do.”

  “Um. Sort of,” she whispered. “Sort of.” Which meant she’d taught them. Even better.

  “Wonnerful.” Well there was no helping it. He had a song about him now. The best thing he could do would be to see if she could bury it with a better one. “Well, then, Lena Marchand, you owes me. An’ I am gonna collect.” He fastened her with a stern gaze, which was altogether ineffective since she was staring at her hands. “Yer gonna write ’nother song ’bout Dallen. An’ yer gonna make it better’n the one ’bout me.”

  Now she looked up, with a slightly panicked look on her face. “I can’t promise it will be better!” she protested.

  He didn’t relent. “Are ye a Bard, or no?” he countered. “Bards write t’ demand all th’ time. Ye jest said so. Well, I be yer first customer. Ye might’s well start learnin’ how t’ please the customer now, an’ be done wi’ it.”

  She sighed heavily and dropped her gaze to her lap again. “All right,” she replied unhappily. “I’ll try.”

  He could hardly believe it. He’d only been tucked up in Healer’s Collegium for a little more than a day and already this had happened.

  Well, the best way to deal with it was to act as if it wasn’t important—and neither was he. But this was certainly nothing like what Herald Nikolas wanted him to do.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Lena, speaking in what was almost a whisper. “Don’t you want to hear it?” she asked. “Even a little?”

  He almost snapped out “No!” when he got a good look at her face.

  Oh, how could he make her even more unhappy than she already was? That would just be the height of cruelty.

  “All right,” he said, trying not to show his reluctance. “It was damn nice on ye, Lena. ’S jest, I don’ wanna fuss about me, an’ I thought ye knew that. I didn’ like the bad fuss, an’ I don’ like a good fuss about the same. Jest don’ like any fuss, ye ken?”

  She nodded.

  He reached out and patted her hand. “Bet it’s real good though. So le’s hear it.”

  She lit up with a smile and reached down for the little gittern next to her chair. And Mags got to listen for the next half candlemark all about what a brave hero he was, when in fact, he was dead certain he was nothing of the sort.

  “You’re sure you can see all right?” Gennie asked anxiously. From inside the helmet, Mags nodded, the helm following the motions of his head and turning them into something ponderous. So did all the rest of them.

  “All right, you lot. Remember. Play with your heads as well as your hands and feet,” she said to the team that had gathered around her. “Listen for Mags in your heads. But if you see something that opens up in front of you, think it as hard as you can.”

  They stood in a circle, with the horses and Companions on the outside, reins held loosely in their riders’ hands. They could all hear the murmur of the crowd huddled up against the fence surrounding the field. A lot of people had turned up today; it was a gorgeous, sunny, warm day, perfect for just about anything. One enterprising fellow was peddling apples. Pip had taken a look at the crowd and remarked that before long they were going to need stands for the spectators. Mags had thought he was joking, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  They were all unmounted for the moment, the horses stirring uneasily at the ends of their bridles, sandwiched in between Companions to keep them out of mischief. The horses were mostly well-schooled and well-behaved, but they were horses, and one perceived nip or bump might start something, wasting energy that they would need for the game.

  “Riders, we’ve got a disadvantage; the Riders on North are all well monied and they have a horse for every quarter. We don’t.”

  They all nodded. Of them all, only Jeffers had three horses; the other riders had a pair apiece. That meant they’d be alternating, one to ride, one to rest. The second quarter each horse played was going to be hard on them—and even Jeffers was going to have to go with a barely-rested horse for the fourth quarter.

  “So ride smart. Let your beasts rest as much as possible, and see to it that theirs don’t get a chance to. Just remember this, though, your horses are all tough and scrappy. Theirs are high-bred and all nerve and nose. Chances are we can make them or the riders lose their tempers, and if we do that, we win the game. Provided you can keep yours.”

  She turned to the Foot. “You lot have our secret, but remember to wait until we tell you to use it, because once we do, it won’t be a secret anymore and everyone will use the trick. We have to plan this and plan it well. Right?”

  One of the Guard boys saluted. No one found that funny. Gennie nodded. “Right then. Check the saddles, bits and boots for your mounts. Check your paddle-straps. Check your armor. Let’s play the game.”

  The South team lined up in the middle of the field. After a moment, the North did the same, opposite them. Mags noticed something immediately.

  :The North Riders have whips in their hands,: he projected to all of them. :They won’t be able to manage reins, whip and paddle.:

  He saw Gennie nod slightly, and narrow her eyes.

  :Tell them this again from me. Play together, play with your heads, and follow the ball. If North gets it, drive the ball to the Riders and let them fumble it. Keep it away from the Trainees.:

  The “ball,” a curiously soft thing about the size of a baby’s head, lay on the ground between the two teams. It could be kicked by the Companions or by the Foot, it could be snatched up and carried,
thrown, or hit with the paddles. Anything was fair. All eyes were on it.

  “Ho!” shouted the referee, and the Trainees from both sides dove for the ball.

  But Jeffers, on a pony barely big enough to be a mount for him, dove in under the nose of one of the North Trainees, leaning down out of his saddle, and scooped up the ball. The indignant Companion pulled up with a whinny. As he hauled himself back up, he threw the ball toward his side.

  Gennie snagged it out of the air and she and her Companion scrambled for the North goal.

  No one—well, perhaps no one except the South team—had expected anyone to get his hands on the ball that fast. The North was caught unprepared, and pelted after her.

  But their Foot were already moving to intercept her.

  :Pip!: she called out, and feinted toward the goal while throwing the ball in a fast, shallow arc toward her teammate. It came at him like a comet, but he knew this maneuver of old and he stood up in his stirrups and smacked it with his paddle with both hands, as hard as he possibly could.

  The ball flew, high and true, and in through the open door of the North goal.

  The crowd of spectators—for there was a crowd—went insane.

  :We’ve made ’em mad,: Mags warned, catching some black looks from the North team.

  :Good. Now we tire them out with some football,: Gennie replied.

  And so they did.

  North got the ball this time, but as Gennie had told them to do, the team crowded the ball handler and kept the Trainees tied up so that the ball went to a Rider—and then South Riders and Trainees pressed the Riders hard, keeping them away from the North Trainees and from each other. They ran the North Riders all over the field, took them on scrambles over the rises, made them leap the little fences and tear down into the gullies, taking them over every thumb-length of ground. The horses lost their heads over this; they hated being run in this way, and as a consequence they became handfuls, fighting the bits and their Riders, forcing the Riders to use those whips in their hands. Which meant the Riders couldn’t use the paddles. And finally, the ball-carrier fumbled, and Pip nipped the ball out of the air in midfall, just as the whistle blew for the end of the quarter.