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  “Aye, Weasel. But it still ain’t fair—”

  Nikolas snorted. “Ye want fair, go get yer friends t’gether an’ make yerself a guild so ye can make yerself rules ’bout what’s what! Fair!” He laughed through his nose. “A Thieves’ Guild! Ha! That there might be funniest notion I heard all year!”

  The thief looked at him sourly but did not dispute any further with him. He scooped up his money and left, looking entirely disgruntled. Nikolas slipped the brooch into a secure pocket inside his tunic. Mags went back to braiding horsehair.

  Eventually Nikolas went to a cupboard with a lot of little drawers and rummaged around in it, coming out with a handful of curious beads. He handed these to Mags, who studied them.

  No two were alike; they looked like something out of a magpie’s hoard, if the magpie had excellent taste. There were carved stone, glass, enameled metal, and carved wood with a faint, exotic sweet scent to it. The one thing they all had in common was large holes, fully large enough for him to slip the round braided horsehair through. So he did just that with one of the enameled ones, secured it in the middle with a knot on either side, and finished the braid off with a loop and another intricate knot. He held it up to Nikolas, as if for approval.

  ::Very clever! Yes, that will give you an excuse to be here,:: said Nikolas. The Weasel, however, just grunted, snatched the bracelet, and hung it on a nail at eye level. Mags started a necklace.

  By the time they left for the night, he’d made three pieces of jewelry and “sold” one—“sold” being relative, since another slattern, younger than the first and with only a smear of red lip paint, traded some of her offerings for a necklace with a porcelain bead covered in a garden of miniature flowers. It made him almost sad to see her put it around her neck; for a moment he could see what she might have been—and at the same time, what she was going to become.

  He wondered how Nikolas could stand it, being in this shop night after night, seeing these people come in, some of whom were merely victims of appalling luck or very bad choices . . . .

  ::I stand it because there are some I can help,:: Nikolas said as if he had read Mags’ thought. Or perhaps he had read the expression on Mags’ face. ::That one—maybe. That bead is worth five times what I traded her for it, but I don’t think she’s going to let go of it easily, and it might be that little bit of beauty in her life will remind her that she can make other choices than she has.::

  Mags was dubious . . . but . . . well, why not. Why not hope for her? So long as there was no expectation with that hope. Expectations, now, that was what bit you every time.

  Hope for the best, expect nothing.

  ::Not that long ago, you hoped for nothing as well.:: Dallen chuckled.

  ::Aye, well, this big white mule seemsta hev corrupted me.::

  He sensed Dallen’s snort of derision at the same time that Nikolas straightened his back and stretched, then turned and cuffed him in the ear.

  Well, made it look as if he had been cuffed. The fist merely grazed his ear and whiffed through his hair, but Mags had the sense to act as if he had been hit. He cringed and made a little animal moan.

  Nikolas grabbed his shoulder and hauled him to his feet. “Come along, ye gurt fool,” he growled. “Time t’be getting’ home.”

  Nikolas blew out lanterns and locked up, making sure the foreign-looking brooch was in his pocket. Then he trudged up the street, Mags following with his back hunched. It was still as black as night, but Mags knew the “feel” of things, and dawn wasn’t far off by his reckoning.

  He was beginning to feel the effects of the long night; he was glad that he was moving, because he knew the moment he closed his eyes, he would start to nod off. He and Nikolas could scrounge something out of the kitchen, he was sure, though it was far too early for even the kitchen staff to be awake. Then he could actually get a good seven, maybe eight candlemarks of sleep. Much better than he had reckoned he would get; he had expected he would not see his bed until after dawn.

  The inn was without lights at the back where they slipped in, and as silent as if it were populated only by the dead. They changed back into their uniforms and went out to the stable, where a sleepy hostler, awakened by the Companions, had just finished saddling them.

  “They kept ye might late, Herald,” the hostler said, though with no hint of complaint in his voice.

  “Actors,” Nikolas said in a tone of weary amusement, while Mags yawned ostentatiously. “They think because they can sleep all day and carouse all night, the rest of the world does the same.”

  “Aye, well, ye know what ye be getting into, Herald, any time they ask ye to stay,” the hostler said with a yawn of his own and a chuckle. “It ain’t as if ye haven’t been here afore.”

  Then he leaned over and whispered. “New lad. Not sure he’s asleep.”

  “Good man,” Nikolas whispered back and slipped him a couple of coins for his trouble. “Well, then. Till the next time my feelings of friendship overcome my good sense.”

  The hostler merely waved to them as they rode out of the stable doors.

  Mags’ whole thought at this point was for his bed. It appeared that Nikolas was like-minded, for the two of them practically flew up the hill to the Collegium, with both Companions moving at a very brisk trot, and there still wasn’t any light showing in the sky by the time they parted at the stable door.

  “I left word with one of the servants I trust to leave some breakfast waiting for you in your room, Mags,” Nikolas told him as they hastily stripped the Companions of tack and stowed it. Fortunately so short a ride meant neither needed to be groomed, and although both of them had probably dozed some, it could not have been the sort of restful sleep they really needed.

  “Thenkee, sir—” Mags began, but Nikolas waved him off.

  “Part of what I do for you at the moment; when you make your own contacts among the servants, you’ll handle these things for yourself. Now go and eat and get some sleep. You did will tonight. And, oh—” he handed Mags the brooch. “Study that while you are still awake, and give me your thoughts later.”

  He took it. “I will, sir, but—”

  Nikolas just waved off his unvoiced objections, then headed for his own rooms and bed.

  Nikolas had been as good as his word. There were pocket pies of the savory and sweet sort both, exactly the sort of thing that kept well and tasted fine cold. Someone had left a “sweating” crock set up for him as well—this was a sort of half-glazed vessel with a wooden spigot on the bottom that kept whatever was in it remarkably cool by evaporation through the unglazed portion. The cool water in it tasted as sweet as anyone could wish.

  Following Nikolas’ orders, Mags studied the brooch as he ate his pies neatly and methodically. The cabochon-cut stones were nothing remarkable, though the finishing was very fine. The rose-gold told him nothing. The designs . . .

  He caught his eyes unfocusing and his head nodding.

  Not gonna get anything more done t’night, he thought blearily, and left the brooch on the table to stumble over to his bed and fall into it.

  6

  The noon bell woke Mags, although the morning bell had not. It was already quite warm, despite having the windows open; a little longer and it definitely would be too warm to sleep in here. Now he was glad he had made the choice that he had, to sleep through the morning and get up at noon.

  He threw on yesterday’s uniform, since it would have to go down the clothing chute anyway, carried a clean set of Grays up to the Collegium, and had a good bath before going down to what remained of the noon meal. Things were pretty picked over, but he was quite able to put together a solid selection—and just as he was settling in at a newly cleared table to enjoy it, Bear came rushing in.

  Bear looked even more untidy than usual, though the effect was mostly due to his hair standing practically straight up, as it did when he’d been nervously running his hands through it. And he looked distracted—so very distracted that he didn’t even notice Mags was s
itting there until Mags gave an unceremonious whistle. Bear’s head swiveled as if it had been pulled by a string, and his face lit up.

  Uncharacteristically, he bounced over to where Mags was sitting, with his round face so full of repressed emotion Mags worried that he was about to burst.

  “Easy on, there, m’lad,” Mags said, soothingly. “Siddown. Ye look like a runaway cart. What’s got ye so riled up, eh?”

  “Amily,” Bear said succinctly, dropping down onto the seat next to Mags and helping himself to some of the veggies.

  “Oh-ho!” Mags exclaimed with complete understanding now.

  It had been determined that Amily’s crippled leg, if rebroken, could probably be Healed again—not perfectly, but she would end up with a leg she could actually use, instead of one that was a twisted burden to her. Bear was the first one that had suggested this, based on the fact that he had rebroken and set farm animal’s legs so that farmers didn’t have to put them down. It probably could not have been done anywhere but here—but here at the Collegia, Healer’s Collegium in particular, were some of the best and brightest in the Kingdom. And Amily was the daughter of the King’s Own.

  “So, they’re gonna do it, an’ they gi’ ye a seat at front?” Mags hazarded.

  Bear practically exploded. “They told me I’m the one to oversee it all, cause it’s my idea! Well, not exactly oversee, but the one to figure out what’s needed, get everyone together and agreed, and then be the one to keep everything running smoothly until she’s all fixed and walking!”

  Mags blinked. On the one hand—

  “Uh, tha’s good—” he said, feeling decidedly mixed about this. “But yer jest a Trainee—”

  Bear didn’t seem at all upset that Mags was dubious. Instead, he nodded vigorously. “Exactly, and I’ll have the Dean checking over everything, and lots of people making sure that I don’t make some stupid mistake. But I have done this before, and no one else has. And they tell me that when Amily is all healed, not even my father will be able to say I’m not a real Healer.”

  Now that he looked closer, Mags could tell something else. Under the excitement, Bear was scared. As well he should be, in Mags’ opinion. This was going to be dangerous work—dangerous for Amily, that is.

  Ah, but Mags already knew just how badly Amily wanted this. And who was he to stand in her way?

  He wanted to help Amily more than anything in the whole world. He wasn’t a Healer, and he knew nothing about Healing. So the only way he could help Amily in this was to help the Healers. To help Bear.

  “Aight,” he said, slowly. “So, this’s kinda like plannin’ a Kirball game. Aye? So. Fust thing i’ th’ game’s gonna be getting’ th’ leg broke agin. But tha’s like sayin’ fust thing i’ a real game’s gonna be meetin’ th’ other team on field, an’ we know thet ain’t how’t goes. Aye? So . . . fust thing . . . fust thing i’ Kirball game’s knowin’ th’ lay of the ground.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at Bear, who was listening to him intently. Bear’s eyes flashed.

  “Yes! That’s it exactly! So the first thing is going to be to get some kind of . . . of map of where all the old breaks are, and how strong the mends are! Yes! And then get everyone familiar with it, even the ones that don’t have the Gift to see it—”

  “Sounds t’me like ye’ll be needin’ some’un who kin draw?” Mags hazarded.

  “Yes! No . . .” Bear began running his hands through his hair again

  “No, whoever draws this has to be able to See what things look like and—”

  “No ’e don’,” Mags said patiently. “When we gets some’un in what got robbed an’ ’e knows th’ face uv th’ feller what robbed ’im, we jest git Herald Rashi. She kin draw, an’ she got Mindspeech, th’ kind what sees pichers. She looks at picher i’ feller what was robbed’s head, an’ draws it. So ye gets Rashi, an’ she makes yer picher.”

  “Or better yet! She makes a model!” Bear exclaimed, face alight again. “We can get cattle bones the right size and shape, we can break them and cement them together—”

  “Saw ’em,” Mags advised. “Break ’on’t be th’ same as Amily, ’less ye saws ’em exact.”

  “Right, but we can put them together exactly the same as Amily’s leg and—and we can make muscles out of stuffed cloth or something—and—” He was running his hands frantically through his hair now, but in a frenzy of ideas rather than frantic worry.

  “Stop!” Mags laughed, holding up a hand. “That’ll do fer now. Ye go tell yer Dean an’ build yer field t’study. Like Dallen tol’ me when I fust got here. One step at a time, aye? Jest take it all liddle bits at a time.”

  “Right! Thanks, Mags! You’re a star!”

  Bear bounced off again without even stopping to eat. Well, mebbe he et early on. An’ if’n I don’ eat now, I ain’t getting’ nothin’ till dinner.

  Classes were a little confusing—and confused, as one of the teachers was not aware he’d been juggled into the history class in question, and there was even an enquiry send to Herald Caelen before it got resolved—but things went a lot more smoothly than Mags had expected.

  Except in one class. The Weaponsmaster was concerned that he not fall out of practice; Mags was, frankly, just as concerned. After all, he’d nearly been killed far too many times, and he really did not want to find himself facing down an armed opponent with skills gone rusty.

  “Can you tell me why the Dean shortened your class?” the Weaponsmaster asked. “You should be spending a good three candlemarks up here a day. You’ll only be spending one. You can’t possibly keep in practice at everything with your practice time shortened to a third.

  Mags shook his head.

  “Can you at least tell me what you are doing in place of it?” the poor fellow asked desperately.

  “Nossir,” Mags said, and watched as the Herald tilted his head to one side, and got that “listening” look many of them did when their Companions were talking to them.

  From the look of him, the Weaponsmaster was actually arguing with his Companion. Finally he sighed and rubbed his temple. “I don’t know why I try,” he said, a little crossly. “You can never win an argument with one of them, and they always have the last word.”

  Mags did his best not to smile. “True, sir,” was all he replied.

  “Supposedly this won’t last past the summer,” the Weaponsmaster continued. “But I want you to pledge me faithfully that you will do everything you can to keep your coordination sharp and your muscles conditioned.”

  That was an easy promise to make. Mags had no doubt that Nikolas would have him climbing up and down ladders all over the shop, moving heavy objects, rearranging things, cleaning things, to keep him awake if nothing else. He would stay fit, of that much he was sure. “Yessir,” he promised.

  “All right then. But any time you have a moment free and the inclination for a lesson, I want you to come to me. Whatever class I am teaching, I’ll fit you in.” The Weaponsmaster put one fatherly hand on Mags’ shoulder, looking very worried indeed. “You have had far too many close calls, Mags. I would feel directly responsible if something happened to you that a little training and practice could have prevented.”

  At that point it was almost time to join Nikolas, and Mags escaped from the Weaponsmaster with another set of apologies and promises. He had just enough time to grab something to eat, shove the brooch in his belt pouch, and get Dallen saddled when Nikolas summoned him out to a different gate in the wall from the one they’d used the night before.

  As they rode down to Haven, Mags related to his mentor the Weaponsmaster’s doubts and concerns. Nikolas was very silent for a while, as they passed through some quiet, residential streets in a modest neighborhood. Finally he answered as he led Mags down an alley to what seemed to be a dead end.

  ::He has some legitimate concerns. He’s right, you have needed to defend yourself far more often than our average Trainee. I’ll see what I can do about this . . . .hmm. This actually might prove to be more
of an opportunity . . . ::

  An opportunity for what, however, Nikolas did not say. Instead, he touched some part of the wall, and the entire end of the alley pivoted in the center. Mags would have liked to get a closer look at that—it was literally a brick wall, somehow pierced through the middle and rotating with hardly more than a touch when the locks were released. But he didn’t get a chance, and Nikolas led him into a tiny, enclosed yard with a bit of roof over it. Hanging in an alcove at the back were outfits similar to the ones they had worn last night. There were also a pair of buckets full of clear, clean water. Nikolas took a bag off Rolan’s saddle and filled two empty dishes with grain. He and Mags took off the saddles and set them aside, changed their clothing, and went back out through the pivoting door.

  ::Did you consider that brooch?:: Nikolas asked.

  Since the wretched thing had been drifting in and out of his dreams all night, Mags nodded. ::I dunno why,:: he said finally, ::But it made me think uv horses.::

  Nikolas didn’t change his posture or his expression, but Mags felt his reaction, as if mentally he had smacked himself in the head. ::Of course. It’s Shin’a’in. Or rather, it’s a Shin’a’in trade piece. They themselves rarely make anything that requires metalwork, but they’re like magpies. They love jewelry. Members of a prosperous clan will hang themselves all over with it—and their favorite horses too. That’s a bridle brooch.::

  Mags had to keep himself from frowning. ::Does thet mean th’ dead feller was Shin’a’in?:: Somehow he didn’t like to think that. He didn’t know a lot about the Plainspeople, but what he did, he liked. He rather thought he wanted to meet one, someday.

  ::This far north in the spring? Not likely. You might—might—find one turning up at the Ashkevron Manor in the fall, when they cull the horse herds. But that’s as close as they ever come to Haven. No, this is more than likely someone come up from the south who got the brooch in a trade or the like.:: Nikolas sighed. ::I think that’s a dead end. I cannot imagine Shin’a’in having anything to do with someone like our ‘guests.’::