“I think that’ll work,” Bear said slowly, then grinned. “I think that’ll work!”
“Might want to make two, and call on one of those fellows that makes the fancy colored-glass windows.” It was Lord Wess, who had popped over from the Palace to have the noon meal with the team as he often did. “He might be able to do something with that copper foil and lead they use. Try that on the second model instead of the glue and leather and sinew.”
“No reason why not,” Bear agreed. “Then, if we can get one that’ll hold through being used to make a mold from, we can make as many plaster copies as we like!” He looked around at the small mob that had gathered. “You’re terrific!” he burst out, beaming like the sun. “You’re all terrific!”
Mags smiled quietly to himself. ’Tis all askin’ th’ right questions. Then makin’ sure when ye ask ’em, there’s plenty of people about.
::These are people used to thinking, Mags. You need people who are used to thinking. Otherwise you might as well go down to the kennel and ask the dogs, you’ll get about as much help.::
::Eh, I ’spose thet’s true.:: Only partly true though. He reckoned you could get about anybody to think if you just coaxed at them long enough.
He finished his lunch quietly as the chattering died down. Someone brought some paper so the one lad could copy his rough drawings of stapling onto something more portable than the top of the table, and Bear could put everything else into coherent notes, and things generally got back to normal. “So,” he said, once Bear had tucked his precious notes into one of his books. “Now, ’bout Lena.”
Bear sighed and shook his head. “What about her? Mags, I—I don’t know what to tell her, really. And she cries, and I feel like breaking something because I don’t have anything good to say, or anything at all really, and—”
Bollocks. Ev’body knows how they feels ’bout each other but them.
“Whoa-up,” Mags stopped him. “Goin’ at this all wrong, like. Ye oughter ask yersel’—what the hell is goin’ on here? This’s Marchand we’re lookin’ at. If th’ attention ain’t on ’im, ’e finds th’ center of attention an’ sits on’t. If there’s a more self-centered feller i’ th’ whole damn Kingdom, I never heerd of ’im. So now ’e goes and picks up this raggedy tad-bit what’s got a lot of what makes a Bard an’ brings ’im ’ere, an’ why? Goodness uv ’is heart?”
Bear stared at him. “Put that way—”
“There’s somethin’ in’t fer Marchand,” Mags said firmly. “I know it. I jest don’ know what ’tis. All I know is, gotta be somethin’ ’e can’t git from Lena, so—” he made a dust-off motion with his hands. “ ’E knows ’ow she feels. Ain’t like ’e’s gonna lose ’er no matter ‘ow ’e treats ’er. So ’e gits whut ’e wants from this pet, an’ then Lena gets a crumb or so when ’e reckons ’e wants somethin’ from ’er.”
Bear looked at him in mingled admiration and despair. “You’re right. That feels right, it matches the man perfectly. But I can’t tell Lena that!”
Mags tilted his head to the side. “So? I thin’ I know what yer thinkin’. Sure, tell ’er, she likely won’t b’lieve it. So what’ll make ’er believe?”
“I don’t know,” Bear said slowly. “But I can think about it.”
“Good.” Mags smiled. “An’ i’ th’meantime, ’stead uv tryin’ t’ think uv some daft thing t’say, which you ain’t good at, ye know, jest tell ’er—no, show ’er, thet she’s as good a Bard as anybody else up ’ere, an’ then get all stern wi’ ’er and tell ’er that it ain’t ’er pa she needs t’please, it’s ’er teachers. ’Er pa ain’t gonna grade ’er—they wouldn’ let ’im, even if ’e’d teach, which ’e’s too bone-lazy t’do.”
“Amen to that,” Bear sighed, then managed one of his old grins. “All right then, I’ll take all this to the Dean. He’s made it clear that once I find solutions to things, he’ll see to it that they’re implemented. He told me he wasn’t going to give me an excuse to skip class and go larking about Palace, Collegia, and Haven.”
“As if ye would!” Mags laughed.
Bear reddened a little. “Well . . .” he admitted. “Maybe a little . . .”
Mags smacked him in the shoulder and left him to finish his meal. He headed for the kitchen. If Lena hadn’t eaten, and he was pretty sure she hadn’t, bringing her a basket was a good excuse to work his wiles on her.
Mags did not go to Lena’s room himself; for a start, that would have been improper, and for another, he wanted a little bit of backing before he tackled his friend. So, counting on the fact that she encouraged people to come to her, he presented himself with not one, but two baskets of nuncheon at the door of the office of Master Bard Lita Darvalis, Dean of Bardic Collegium and head of the Bardic Circle. The door, as he had been told was usual, was open. The Dean liked her students and teachers to know that she would ever shut them out or refuse to see anyone, regardless of rank and status. Lita was oblivious to the quiet cacophony of her Collegium—people practicing anything and everything in their rooms, in the practice rooms, with their teachers, alone or in groups,voices lecturing in classes, people just talking. A lot. Bards seemed to do that.
The very air of Bardic hummed. He had the slightly confused impression that if all the people were suddenly snatched away, Bardic Collegium would still murmur quietly to itself, like a bell that hums on and on after it has been struck.
He tapped politely on the doorpost, and the Dean looked up. Her brows creased. “Mags?” she said. “What brings you here? Shouldn’t you be—”
“Got a candlemark,” he assured her. “I brung ye nuncheon, Dean Lita.” He held up a basket with a sprig of rosemary tucked under the lid. “Cook put in whut was on offer ’e knowed was yer favorites.”
“Knew,” she corrected automatically. “And brought. Thank you Mags... now what’s your real reason for being here?”
Lita did not look all that imposing sitting behind her cluttered desk, with an open window framing tree branches behind her. She just looked like an ordinary middle-aged woman, handsome rather than beautiful, dark-eyed, with dark, graying hair. Her Bardic Scarlet outfit was no uniform—unlike the Heralds and Healers, the only thing “uniform” about what Bards wore was the color—and it was not particularly fancy. She generally favored a split skirt, a belted tunic and shirt tailored like those that the Heralds wore, and at the moment, both were made of very lightweight, breezy material, so she looked just a bit gypsylike. There were ink stains on her writing hand, and the only sign that she was the Head of the Bardic Circle was the Seal of her office in the form of a ring on that hand.
But Mags had seen her perform, and he knew that the moment she put her hand to the strings of one of her favored instruments, you would forget everything about her, and be caught up completely in whatever story she was telling you. Afterward, if someone were to ask you what she looked like, you would probably use words like “goddess,” and “regal” and “queenly.”
Mags chuckled, not taking offense in the least, and put the Dean’s basket on the least cluttered corner of her desk. “Lena,” he said, simply.
The Dean rolled her eyes. “That girl... how Marchand threw such a child, I will never know. He lives to please himself, she lives to please everyone but. On the other hand, I could wish all my students gave me the sorts of problems she does. I tell you, it is far from comfortable presiding over a Collegium where by rights we should count double enrollment.”