“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.’::
Mags stared at the back of Nikolas’ heels and did frown. ::Thet don’ follow,:: he said instantly. ::Feller coulda killed a Shin’a’in an’ took it.::
::If he did—well, that’s why he’s dead now,:: Nikolas replied soberly. ::But it’s not likely. Shin’a’in on the Plains are almost impossible to find. Shin’a’in off the Plains are extremely suspicious of strangers. Rightly so, their horses are prized, especially the ones that they don’t sell. I’ve heard that the couple of genuine Shin’a’in studs that the Ashkevrons own are valued at their own weight in silver.::
Mags felt his jaw dropping. A horse’s weight in silver? He could scarcely imagine that much money.
By this point they were at the shop, and Nikolas repeated last night’s routine. When they were ensconced in the little room behind the barred window, and Nikolas had lit the lamp indicating they were open for business, someone came in almost immediately.
It was a Constable, a tall, burly, black-haired fellow with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, who said nothing to Nikolas, merely peered suspiciously around the store as if he was looking for something. “Evening, Weasel,” he said, finally. “Been shown anything I should know about?”