Redoubt Page 8

  They leaped over one another, somersaulted through the air, cartwheeled, and threw one another about as if they weighed no more than balls of feathers. The two girls joined them, to be flung about, balanced on shoulders, turned into the tops of stacks and pyramids of people, and balanced on a single hand by one foot. Mags could only stare at them and marvel. He knew they must have been training since they were mere babes to achieve what he was seeing, and he couldn’t help but think that if he’d been born into any other body, he’d like to have been in one of theirs.

  What a wonderful life they must have! To be able to travel wherever they wished and to get paid for making people gasp and applaud! And to be able to do the feats of skill and strength they were doing now! Of course, he was under no illusion that any of this was easy; he knew from his own training how hard it was. But his skills were used in terribly serious ways, and it would have been so liberating to be able to use them just to make people smile. For a moment he imagined himself doing just that, with no more cares in the world than to have to think of and train in some new trick to amaze the audience.

  But even before he heard Dallen’s chuckle in his head, he knew that this dream was rather silly—because he would never be happy living such a shallow life, and he would always be getting himself into trouble trying to help other people. At least as a Trainee helping other people was what he was supposed to be doing, and if he got into trouble, there were plenty of people who would help him out of it again.

  But such a strange life he had now . . . one he could never have imagined when he had been a mine-slave. Strange to think that once he had spent most of his life crawling through claustrophobic, dangerous tunnels under the ground, seldom seeing daylight, only to now be studying the techniques of these creatures who seemed to live in and move on the air.

  :They really are awfully good,: Dallen observed. :Perhaps we can get them to train you. I’ll mention it to Rolan. I assume if they are performing here, they are certainly to be trusted.:

  When they finished and ran off, they were succeeded by two fellows who made a succession of small balls do quite amazing things. Amily watched them in delight, but Mags paid only half his attention to them. That was another odd thing about this life of his—at least of late. Unless it was something that could be of use to him, he was never able to devote all of his attention to just watching something anymore, nor just to be simply entertained. Half of him might be absorbing the entertainment, but the other half was like a watchful cat, keeping track of everything else that was going on around him.

  I guess nearly getting killed a few times does that to you, was all that he could think. Not an entirely comfortable way to live . . . but it certainly beat the alternative: being caught unprepared and unaware.

  He snorted to himself when he realized that in the back of his mind he had actually been wondering if those colored balls could be used as weapons. It was only when the jugglers were finished that the afternoon performances seemed to be at an end, and a small group of musicians who had gathered there unnoticed by everyone except Mags began playing on the steps of the Palace. Some folk who were not dressed in very fine clothing began to sort themselves into a contra-dance, but this seemed to be not to the taste of the more refined, who drifted back to the gardens.

  While they had been watching, Mags had also been debating with himself about revealing Bear’s plan to Amily. She was, after all, one of the cleverest people he knew. But on the other hand, would she consider herself bound to tell her father?

  :What do you think?: he asked Dallen, as they moved out of the courtyard and back toward the trees and some shade. :Should I talk to her about it? Or not?:

  :Bear didn’t specifically ask you to keep it in confidence,: Dallen observed. :But I am not at all sure that he would want you to tell anyone else, either. He seemed reluctant even to discuss it with you, and I got the impression he hadn’t talked with anyone else. Thinking about it, I don’t think you should, until you can ask him whether he wants you to keep it quiet.:

  That squared with Mags’ own thoughts on the matter. :But what do you think?: he asked Dallen, as the three of them walked toward Companion’s Field, which seemed like a good place to go for now. :I mean, you’ve got a lot of experience, and you’ve never been backward about giving me an opinion before.:

  :About Bear and Lena? I am impressed they have been thinking about their situation. I approve of being proactive. It’s a solution, this idea of getting married. I simply haven’t yet made up my mind about whether it is a good solution or not.:

  Mags felt a little anxious. :You think it’s not?: If Dallen didn’t like it—well, he might go talking to Rolan about it, and then there was no telling what would happen.

  But Dallen’s reply both surprised and pleased him a little. :Actually I think it is, I just want to make sure I have uncovered all the possible negatives before I say so.:

  “A copper for your thoughts,” Amily said cheerfully. “Because if I were a jealous sort of person I would want to know why they weren’t centered on me.”

  He laughed. “Nothin’ interesting. I was thinkin’ about that rope dancer, wonderin’ how long it’d take me t’learn that sort of thing, an’ if I would ever need to run out on a rope that way myself.”

  “Knowing you?” She made a face. “Probably.”

  They bantered a bit more, with part of Mags’ mind still thinking about how the rope dancer had performed her tricks and part of his mind mulling over Bear and Lena. And still another part of him thinking about how strange it seemed; once he had only ever been able to think of one thing at a time, and now he could think about two—three if you counted thinking about thinking about things—different subjects at once and still hold a good conversation with Amily.

  “Your Pa likely to want us to work again tonight?” he asked, finally. “’Cause I gotta help in the kitchen after dinner.”

  “He probably won’t know until then,” she told him, and shrugged, looking down at him from Dallen’s back. “If not, I want to see the fire jugglers and the barges. And if so, I still want to see them, if it can be managed.”

  “Wonder if Lena could wangle a place for us on the bridge with the musicians,” he said thoughtfully. “That would sure be a good place to watch. . . .”

  “What about under the bridge? Do you think anyone would think of that? The banks are sure to be crowded.” She patted Dallen’s neck. “It’s too bad you wouldn’t fit under there.”

  “Given that’s one’a Corwin’s favorite spots t’ hide when he reckons t’ get outa barracks cleanin’?” Mags chuckled. “I expect he’s already got his place staked out.”

  :I wonder,: Dallen said suddenly, breaking his mental silence, :if it wouldn’t be better for Lena and Bear to just find an accommodating priest and get married without asking permission first.:

  Mags blinked with surprise. That was the sort of thing he’d expect out of—well, someone like Pip. Not Dallen. :Well,: he said. :That’s the last thing I would’ve expected you t’say.:

  :Really?: Dallen sounded mildly surprised.

  :I thought you was all about playin’ by the rules!: he responded.

  :There are no rules about Trainees getting married,: Dallen replied smoothly. :And it’s often easier to ask forgiveness than beg permission. I’ve been thinking about it, and every single one of the drawbacks to their idea has two or three points countering it, in favor. They are very responsible. Bear is already being treated as a peer and an adult by the rest of the Healers. He’s right about his father, and I see no good solution to that problem as long as he is still technically a dependent. It’s always possible—not likely, mind you, but possible—that some situation would require the King and the Collegium to withdraw their protection from him. And I thought of another thing. Lena is still a Trainee and has not yet begun to make a name for herself—but when sh
e does, I rather doubt at this point that she would care to be associated with the name “Marchand.” However, “Bard Lena Tyrall” has a rather nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?:

  Mags refrained from chuckling, because Amily would ask why, but he was highly amused at that. And Dallen was right.

  :Of course I am. I generally am. Right, that is. But it is nice of you to agree.:

  :And so modest, too,: Mags jibed.

  Dallen just curved his neck and posed.

  * * *

  In the end, the question of whether Nikolas was going to ask the two of them to continue their eavesdropping was solved by the new Princess. They had just settled in to listen to a consort of lutenists in a riverside pavilion, when a page found them and delivered invitations to both of them from Lydia. She wanted her old friends about her for the barge viewing, and he and Amily were being invited to share her viewing stand.

  Mags had to laugh at that. “That’s better’n the mudbank under the bridge, I’d say,” he said cheerfully.

  But Amily looked thoughtful. “I think there’s a little more to this than is on the surface. I think we should talk to Father.”

  Before Mags could suggest it, Dallen was Mindspeaking with Rolan, and he came back with a reply

  :Oh, I may faint with surprise. He’s actually not busy. Rolan suggests we all join him for some dinner, then you can take care of your dinner duties before the barge procession.:

  “Yer Pa says we should come join him for dinner, Dallen says,” Mags relayed, looking at her for her reaction.

  He was relieved when she smiled. “My instincts are still good, then! He’ll have gotten something brought to our rooms, they are the only place you can find privacy at a time like this. Well, shall we?”

  Dallen had drifted off somewhere, not being interested in the lute playing, so the two of them made their way slowly to the King’s Own’s quarters, under Amily’s own power. Under other circumstances, Mags might have been impatient, but their path was so impeded by other people that there was no way they could move other than slowly.

  Amily had been right; though people streamed and thronged everywhere in the grounds and even the Collegia, as soon as they opened the door to the Heralds’ Wing, they were met with an empty corridor and relative silence. Mags let out a sigh, not realizing until this moment how the crowds had begun to wear on him.

  “It’s been fun and exciting, but it’s time for everyone to be gone,” Amily said firmly, as if she had read his mind. “It’s just as well that people are getting tired of being crowded into shared rooms here and in the Great Houses on the hill.”

  The celebrations would be continuing for the rest of the week down in Haven, Mags knew—but that sort of thing would not interest most of the highborn and wealthy. There would probably be private fetes and parties, but those would be held in the Great Houses, and the Great Houses would be taking in select guests. Tomorrow would see the clearing out of everyone who didn’t actually have ongoing business with the Crown or Collegia. And he would not be unhappy to see them all go. Although he had gotten much, much better with his shields, the press of so many people’s thoughts against them was just a trifle wearing.

  They walked quietly down the corridor to Nikolas’ quarters. Amily tapped on the door, then opened it. Nikolas was seated already, waiting for them, with food laid out on a small table. “I thought by now you’d be sick of the wedding fare,” he said, indicating what he’d had brought. “I asked for something a bit less fancy. You should have seen the cook’s face when I requested what they were eating.”

  Mags examined the food with approval as he helped Amily to her favorite chair and took one himself. Salad, some nice crusty bread, hard-boiled eggs, some soup, and fruit. “Never thought I’d say I was tired of pocket pies, but I’m weary of pocket pies,” he admitted. “Even Dallen is tired of pocket pies.”

  Amily made a face and helped herself to salad, bread, and a bowl of soup. “I’m tired of all the sweets. There really is such a thing as too much of a good thing. So, Father, I assume you know Lydia has invited us to sit in her gallery for the barge procession?”

  “I should be, since she consulted me about it.” He waited while they helped themselves, then waved his fork at them. “It occurred to me that this would be a good chance for Mags to take the temper of her new ladies and their parents.”

  The curtains at the windows blew in the continuing breeze. Somehow—perhaps because of the plantings outside the window—all the noise was muffled to a pleasant murmur.

  He nodded. “Any trouble?”

  “Not that we’ve foreseen, but it’s not going to harm anything to be sure,” Nikolas replied. “This is more a matter of information gathering, Mags. Unfortunately, she has a limited number of friends who can serve as her ladies-in-waiting. Most of the ones in the running for the position are the daughters of the nobly born; she does not personally know most of them, and all of them will be sitting in the stands tonight. I would very much like you two to observe them so we can at least eliminate the ones she absolutely will not want. Most of them know each other. Lydia is going to surround herself with her oldest friends just for tonight—but I want you two to sit down at the back and center of her stand so you can listen and observe.”

  By “listen,” of course, Nikolas also meant that Mags should keep his attention open for strong and malicious thoughts. Not overtly read minds, but if something should happen to be strong enough that it got past his primary shields . . .

  “Isn’t it possible there will be some sniping just because a couple of Lydia’s old friends are . . . well . . . rather common?” Amily asked, doubtfully. “That alone could give her some problems. There are some otherwise reasonable girls who are awfully snobbish.”

  “They won’t know.” Nikolas offered. “We’ve taken care to supply clothing for those who don’t have it. These are all outfits that are at least the equivalent of those that the potential ladies-in-waiting will be wearing,” Nikolas assured her. “And everyone knows to be suitably vague about their backgrounds tonight.” He smiled a little. “The only one who might give himself away with his speech and language is Mags, and since he is the Kirball hero—not to mention the hero of Amily’s rescue—”

  Mags made a face. “I could jammer like a mine-kid an’ they’d just giggle an’ say how charmin’ it was,” he said.

  Nikolas nodded. “I couldn’t have managed to contrive a better opportunity for you if I’d tried,” he said. “While this is not critically important, you’ll be getting the chance to do what I do all the time in the Court, and do Lydia a favor at the same time. And there is nothing vital hanging on the information you gather. Lydia has been playing at politics for a very long time, thanks to her association with Master Soren, and I very much doubt there is a young woman in the entire Court she couldn’t handle on her own. But it would be a good thing for her—quite the favor, in fact—if you could help her find the ones that are going to give her the least trouble.”

  Amily nodded. “We’ll leave it up to you and her to work out what sort of reasons you are going to give to the ones you reject,” she said cheerfully. “The rest, I think, we can manage.”

  Mags had to chuckle a little at that. “I don’t suppose Bear and Lena’ll be included?” he asked.

  “You suppose incorrectly,” Nikolas replied, with an arched brow. “After all, Lena is the most promising student in Bardic, and even if her father is in disgrace now, he is still one of the most prolific and prominent Bards in the Circle. No one doubts Lena’s Gifts. And as for Bear, he has, as a mere Trainee, successfully planned and supervised a most difficult and complicated medical procedure on the daughter of the King’s Own. Lydia would be a fool not to want to include such a prodigy in her circle of friends, and I assure you, she is no fool. All the ladies will be eyeing Bear as well, wondering if they shou
ld be making overtures to him to secure him as a Healer should they need something that doesn’t require a Gift.”

  “Well, then,” said Mags, feeling a bit more comfortable with the situation, “We surely can’t turn down the chance at a bunch o’ good seats for the procession now, can we?”

  A bell rang, reminding Mags that he might be a Royal Guest tonight, but at the moment he was a kitchen boy. He excused himself, leaving Amily and her father to continue to discuss whatever it was he wanted her to be on the watch for, and ran down to the kitchen to take his place at a sink.

  He reflected, as he scrubbed away, on all the times he had longed to be one of the kitchen drudges at the mine. Until he was old enough to actually work in the mine, he’d been put to work in the kitchen, under the care of one of the other drudges. He remembered her as being an old lady . . . but who knew? She could have been as young as twenty, but wizened and aged before her time by the endless hard work and constant hunger. He only remembered she had been as kind to him as she dared, and she curled up around him at night to protect him. Life in the kitchen had been hard, but nothing as hard as the mine. In the kitchen there was always the chance of snatching a little extra food, and it was warm in winter at least. The master was so stingy that he never wasted a twig of wood if he could help it, so the kitchen never got punishing hot in summer, because all the baking was done in a clay oven in the yard rather than in the oven built into the side of the hearth, which made very efficient use of the wood, and kept the heat out of the house.

  His first memory of the kitchen was from before he could walk; a bundle of rags would be tied around him, and he would sweep up the kitchen as he crawled. No matter how young you were at the mine, you were working, whether you were aware of the fact or not.

  Often he had cried himself to sleep, unable to understand why he could not have the food he smelled, or tired and worn out with work he was barely strong enough to perform. But once he had been banished from the kitchen to the mine itself, and a hammer and handpick put in his little hands, he dimly began to think of the kitchen as paradise. The older he got, the more like paradise it seemed. When he and the others sluiced the gravel in winter with water just barely above freezing, he would think bitterly of the relative pleasure of scrubbing crusted pots in water that was at least warm. When he and the others huddled together under the barn floor in their sleeping pit, fighting over scraps of blanket, he would remember how he could press his back against the bricks of the hearth and be comfortable all night. When he managed to steal burned bread or otherwise ruined food from the pig buckets before they went into the trough, he would think of how his caretaker had picked the least-burned bits out of the husk and fed them alternately to herself and him.