Bastion Read online

  “Dean Caelen wants t’hold me outa classes for a while. Dunno why,” Mags said, making it public knowledge for the first time. “Weaponsmaster reckoned he can use the help, and I ain’t arguing with him.”

  “Don’t blame you, but that doesn’t explain Amily,” Bear retorted. Amily shrugged. “What else have I got to do?” she asked reasonably. “And you wanted me to exercise more to strengthen the leg before the snow came. This is certainly exercise.”

  “It’s all of that,” Bear replied, though he sounded a little dubious. “Just don’t overdo it—”

  Mags and Amily looked at each other and burst into simultaneous laughter. “Don’t tell us, Bear,” Mags choked out. “If yer really serious ’bout us not overdoing, you need to tell Weaponsmaster!”

  Bear looked away for a moment. “Not sure I’d dare,” he confessed.

  Amily patted his hand fondly. “That’s all right, Bear,” she said. “Not sure I would either.”

  • • •

  Whatever else the new regimen was doing for him—and Mags was pretty certain he was getting very damned good at weapons work, and his stamina was increasing—it also wore him completely out. Despite being with Amily all day, he was untroubled by fantasies about her at night because the moment his head touched the pillow, he was asleep. Sometimes he wondered if it hadn’t been Herald Nikolas’s idea to put them both to work like this, because it left them neither the time nor the energy for “getting up to mischief” as some people delicately put it.

  But Amily swore that when she’d gone back to the rooms she shared with her father that first night, it had all been news to him. So maybe it had been a completely legitimate need of the Weaponsmaster, after all.

  Mags was discovering, however, that there were some very physical memories that he had picked up among all the others that the assassins had tried to shove into his head. He discovered it when, two fortnights after they had begun as his assistants, the Weaponsmaster had brought out a new sort of knife to throw, small, heavy, and looking a bit like a dart without a feathered end. Mags had picked up several, and with a sideways flick of his wrist that he had never been taught, he sent them in rapid succession—one, two, three—into the center of the target. The three had been placed so closely together that their tips touched.

  Weaponsmaster had given him a look, but had said nothing, except to order him to teach the others the same throw. Mags was pretty certain there was a lot being said between the Herald and his Companion, and from there onward—probably being relayed on up to Nikolas. He expected a new interrogation after dinner, but all that happened was that Dallen nudged him a little as he was parting from Amily.

  :Nikolas says if you come up with anything else useful, be sure to let him know.:

  He agreed wordlessly. Nikolas seemed satisfied.

  That night, he dreamed briefly in the assassin’s tongue again. He seemed to be witnessing two powerful men arguing. It didn’t last long enough for him to determine what it was they were arguing about; his dream began about the time they were both disparaging each other’s character. And “witness” was all he could do, for he couldn’t move or speak, and they didn’t appear to notice his presence.

  When he woke he still didn’t have a clear sense of what had been going on. It had been rather like coming into the middle of a disagreement, so that all he got was the knowledge that the two men were never going to come to terms with each other.

  It’d be nice if I were Farseeing, he thought wistfully, And those men are the leaders. It’d be awfully useful if that lot were fightin’ among themselves.

  He fell back asleep again, to find himself dreaming of training among the assassins, making his way back and forth across a sort of obstacle course, except that it was about a story above the ground. The dream-him was extremely good at this, and he took mental notes of some roof-walking techniques that he had never seen nor thought of. Acrobatics, actually. It seemed that by incorporating tumbling moves rather than simple jumping, you could get more distance.

  He was better than the other young men in his dream, and their instructor bestowed sparse praise on him that left him glowing and the others glowering. It appeared that such praise was not often forthcoming, and marked him as something special. It felt good in the dream, but when he woke up, the good feeling faded and was replaced with consternation. That was the first time he’d dreamed something about these people that had attracted him to them and their way of life. Were those memories starting to take root?

  He could only repeat to himself that Dallen knew his mind better than he knew it himself, and if something was wrong, Dallen would certainly raise an alarm about it.

  :Yes I would,: Dallen said patiently and sleepily at about the fifth repetition of this. :Mags, you are still you. There is nothing about you that has changed, just . . . grown. Do you understand what I’m saying?:

  :That I’ve had t’grow up?: he replied, feeling just a trifle irritated.

  :That is exactly what I am saying,: came the reply. :Trust me, no one likes being forced to grow up. It’s damned unpleasant. You learn you’re never safe. You learn that people you depend on to protect you might not be able to. Not even me. You learn all sorts of things you would really rather not have known. I hated it. You hate it. Everyone hates it.:

  Yes, but that didn’t make these things less true. And he hated that, too. Well, maybe hate was too strong a word, but he certainly didn’t like it, not one bit.

  He realized at that moment just what it was that was peculiarly attractive about the assassins.

  No one ever has to figure out anything. They get told what to do, an’ they do it.

  After everything he had gone through, all the uncertainty, there was comfort in that. Heralds were supposed to make decisions all the time. Heralds had to make decisions not only for themselves, but for other people. Big, important, life-changing decisions. Becoming a Herald like Nikolas—effectively a spy for the King—meant he would be making all kinds of decisions that would affect people for the rest of their lives. Or shorten those lives. Could he do that? Would he ever feel ready to do that?

  He’d come here in the first place from the mines, where everyone knew his place and what he was expected to do—and, almost as important, was expected to keep to that place and never step out of it. The assassins had a similar life. They didn’t make the decisions and were not responsible for the decisions, only for carrying them out.

  A Herald’s entire life was spent finding his own way.

  Right now . . . knowing your place seemed a lot more attractive than finding your way.

  :Oh come now, you’re too intelligent for that, Mags. Even if conditions at the mine had been good, you’d have been bitterly unhappy being confined like that. And if you were to go join your “cousins,” or whatever they are, even if everything was wonderful, you were never assigned to murder anyone who wasn’t a hideous villain, and you had friends there, you’d be bitterly unhappy at being confined and not trusted to make your own decisions about your own life there.:

  “I suppose . . .” he said aloud, into the dark.

  :My impression is that—just as an example—if these people decide that someone should be fathering children, they fling a selected woman at you and expect you to breed like a prize bull. I rather doubt you’d care for that.:

  Well . . . that was true enough,

  :And seriously, can you lie there and tell me that you wouldn’t be questioning every single time you were told to go and murder someone?:

  Mags sensed Dallen—laughing?

  :Of course I’m laughing. The idea is utterly absurd. Admit it.:

  Well . . . it was absurd.

  :All right then. Get some sleep, the gods know you will need it. Who knows, something new might be turning up tomorrow.:

  5

  And in the morning . . . something did turn up.

  :Up, you,: he heard in his mind as he first swam up into wakefulness. :The Dean wants to see you. I told you someone would h
ave something for you soon, and I was right.:

  That woke him up in a hurry.

  By now mornings were unpleasant. Not in the sense of having to get up, but in the sense that it was always dark and perishing cold outside when he did. There were brick ovens built into the outside of the stable, one at his end, one at the opposite end. When he’d first returned, it was still warm enough that no one bothered to fire them up except at night. Now they were kept burning all night long, imparting heat to his room and the rest of the stable.

  :Do you know what it is?: he asked, scrambling out of bed and hunting for a fresh uniform. It was too blessed cold to wash up at the stable pump, but he did have a basin and a reservoir of tepid water here; when he first moved into this room, someone had kindly arranged for a tank of rainwater to be stored right up against the chimney brick, and as long as there was a fire there, the water was bearable. He dipped out enough to wash in, since it seemed there was going to be no time for a proper bath.

  :I haven’t been taken into their confidence,: Dallen replied, sounding a little miffed. :All I know is that the plan also includes Amily, Bear, and Lena.:

  All right, that was more than a bit of a puzzle! How could a plan include Bear and Lena that had to do with him?

  He made great haste to finish his washing, got himself into that clean uniform, and hurried to breakfast. There was no point in going to the Dean’s office on an empty stomach.

  :Do Amily, Lena, and Bear know about this already?: he asked as he loped up the path. There was heavy frost everywhere, and the leaves were all in their autumn colors and already starting to fall. His breath puffed out in clouds, and he was glad of his cloak. Winter would not be long in coming.

  :I doubt it. I think this is something Nikolas and Caelen cooked up between them.:

  That was even more interesting. He hurriedly got himself his food and bolted it without tasting it. At this point, he was beginning to feel that almost anything would be better than spending his time in somewhat disorganized research and being interrogated until his head hurt.

  The Dean was right in his office, as usual, and Mags wondered for a moment if the man ever left. But Dean Caelen was clearly waiting and watching for him, for as soon as Mags came into view, the Dean waved him in, then closed the door.

  “Mags, I’m sure you are aware that your situation is making some people nervous about your continued presence here at the Collegium.” The Dean took a seat behind his desk and clasped his hands on the top of it, peering at Mags earnestly. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear: No one is at all concerned about your loyalty or stability, but they are concerned about what your presence might bring here.”

  “Can’t say that I blame ’em, sir,” Mags replied honestly. “I’m more’n a bit nervous m’self. I dunno how much of those memories they dumped into me are really for true. For that matter, I dunno what else they got into that could bring other trouble here. I mean, I’m sure they broke that contract with Karse, and I’m sure they ain’t gonna go and write up a new one, but—”

  The office was curiously quiet; with all the Trainees slowly fumbling their way toward breakfast there was none of the usual background noise penetrating the Dean’s sanctuary. The Dean held up his hand. “You can rest your mind easy on that score,” he said, with a slight, encouraging smile. “We do have agents inside Karse. The Karsites are not at all pleased with those fellows. In fact, there are orders out to kill them on sight, and we’ve good reason to believe that the Karsites have set their demons to hunt for them as well. So—no reconciliation likely there.”

  Mags nodded slowly. “That’s one less worry, then. But they’re still after me. And everything I know says they’ll come here to get me. And . . .” he let his voice trail off, because anything else he would say would just be obvious. That the assassin clan had already gotten onto the grounds of the Palace and Collegia not once, but multiple times. That maybe that strange stone embedded in the table in the lowest level of the Palace could tell where they were, but not very accurately, and there were not very many people who could talk to the stone in the first place. That—

  He could go on forever, really, with good reasons why people would, and should, be nervous about his presence. And he was only one fairly common Trainee, no matter how much Nikolas liked him or thought he had potential. It wasn’t as if Nikolas couldn’t train, say, Corwin to replace him. Or Barrett. It wasn’t as if he was the Heir. There was no good reason to muster resources to protect him. It had been bad enough when quite a number of resources had been gathered to rescue him. He just was not that important.

  “Mags, are you listening to me?” the Dean’s voice rose, breaking Mags out of his preoccupation.

  “Oh, no, sorry, Dean Caelen,” he said, shamefacedly.

  “I thought you looked as if you were miles away.” Rather than sounding annoyed, the Dean sounded sympathetic. “Mags, we’ve put our heads together, and we are going to try something to shake them off your trail. Oddly enough, it was a helpful suggestion from some of those who were not happy about Heralds going to a Collegium system in the first place. They pointed out that in other years, you’d have just gone off with a mentor, just like every other Trainee. You’d be hard to follow in the Field. And the mentor in this case would eventually send back word of your tragic death at the hands of bandits or something of the sort. Your pursuers would not know that the Death Bell always rings when a Herald dies, but your friends, of course, would, and would not be fooled.” Dean Caelen shrugged. “Then, once your training in the Field was complete, you’d return with a new name and identity, get your Whites, and be sent off to some other remote Circuit.”

  “But—” Mags faltered, unable to see how that applied to him. There were so very many things he still needed classes for!

  “But you’re thinking you still need classes,” the Dean responded. “Actually, we looked into that. We’re not sure that you do. Perhaps some other Trainee might—but you are not destined to be sent into the Field, Mags. You don’t really need to know how to run a survey, you don’t really need a class in adjudication, you’ll never be asked to do a score of things that Heralds riding Circuits need to know how to do. What you will need to know are things Nikolas is already teaching you—things you’ve proven yourself proficient in. You’re a natural with weapons. And you’ll need to know how to properly survive in the wilderness, without any sort of help at all, because it is entirely possible in your line of work that you will find yourself forced to do just that. You need to learn how to read people, how to know what they mean, rather than what they say. How to know when they are hiding something. How to get it out of them. To get to the point, Mags, you don’t need classes to get the rest of what you’ll need to know, you can get it all from being tutored, directly, with a senior Herald. So for the remainder of your time as a Trainee, we are going to revert to the old ways. You’re going out in the Field with a senior Herald.”

  “Yes but—” He could already see a huge hole in this. The assassins knew all about his closest friends, about Amily, and they wouldn’t hesitate to take them and use them against him.

  “Mags, we’ve been discussing this for days, Nikolas and I,” Caelen told him, interrupting the frantic flow of his thoughts. “I am fairly certain you are worried about your friends. That’s why they’ll be going with you.”

  Mags felt his jaw dropping. “What?”

  Caelen shook his head wryly. “It’s so mad an idea it practically has to work. Lena is ready for Scarlets and needs to go on her Journeyman’s ride to gather the material for a Master piece. Healers don’t have an equivalent, but Bear is more than ready for his full Greens. He is going to be granted them so that he can go with her to continue teaching the use of his healing kit to an even wider audience. The Healers will approve when Dean Lita suggests it; they’ve already been discussing sending him out anyway, and only the fact that his wife was still a Trainee was stopping them.”

  It occurred to Mags that for Lena, having a hus
band like Bear was the ideal situation. He wasn’t a Gifted Healer, so no one would object that he was being “taken away” and leaving a hole in the Healers’ ranks. Sending him out with Lena, however, was going to allow him to disperse his vital information even faster than he had before—and away from Temples and Houses of Healing, some of which had senior Healers who, like his own father, objected to anyone who wasn’t Gifted practicing any form of medicine.

  Best of all, with the Collegium supporting Bear monetarily, they didn’t have to rely on the whims of Lena’s audiences for their income.

  Eventually—Mags suspected it would be sooner rather than later—she would find a permanent patron and settle. And Bear would settle with her, probably as the family Healer, or in addition to the family Healer.

  That gave Mags a sudden pang of sadness. Because that was going to happen. They were all going to part ways, eventually. They’d write . . . he might be able to visit them . . . but they would never again be as close a group as they were now.

  But Dean Caelen was continuing. “Amily will supposedly be sent off to visit relatives. You won’t leave together; it will look as though each of you is heading off in a different direction, and then you’ll catch up with each other at some point outside of Haven.”

  Mags felt a little dazed at this plan. Caelen was right, it was an absolutely mad notion. Except it was incredibly sane. Amily was a brilliant fighter, obviously whichever Herald was to serve as Mags’ mentor would also be a good armsman. Mags reckoned himself the equal of most now—

  :Two Companions are not to be sneezed at, either,: Dallen pointed out.

  They could easily defend themselves and Lena and Bear if it came to it. But with luck, it wouldn’t. With luck, all would go according to plan, Mags would be reported dead, and the trail would stop. They’d all return in a year, or maybe two, and . . .

  Well, that was when they would all part ways. But they would have had a final, wonderful year together.