“So? That doesn’t mean he can’t be a spy too,” Bear said stubbornly. “In fact, that would make him a better spy. He could write things down in musical notation, and no one would be the wiser. And anyone suspicious of him would see he really was someone who belonged in Bardic and not think any more about it.”
“That’s true,” Lena agreed. “But—look, you have all been trying to figure out why Father brought him here. You assumed he was a spy and were and thinking it was because he somehow tricked Father into it. But that’s not what happened at all.”
“What?” Amily asked, skeptically. “He told you what happened?”
“He didn’t have to, once I figured it all out.” Lena frowned unhappily. “He’s not some kind of scheming adult in a youngster’s body. He didn’t trick Father. It’s the other way around. Father’s tricking him. Father’s using him.”
“Aight.” Mags scratched his head. “Lena, I cain’t see ary way Bard Marchand could be usin’ a youngling.” Well... not true. He coul, but evidently that wasn’t the sort of using that Lena meant.”
“I’m getting to that,” she replied. “Three days after I helped Farris with one of his own original melodies, I heard Father use that same melody for one of his own new songs! Or what he claimed was his new song.” She looked as if she had swallowed something bitter. “And when I asked Farris about it the next day, he was all, ‘I know! Isn’t it fantastic! It’s such a great honor! My stupid little thing in one of Bard Marchand’s songs!’ ” Lena shook her head. “I tell you, I thought I was going to be sick when he said that.”
It took Mags a few moments to unravel what it was that Lena was saying. He started to ask a question to make sure he understood her correctly, but Amily beat him to it.
“You mean... your father is stealing his protege’s work, and claiming it as his own?” Amily asked incredulously.
“Oh... he does change things, rearranges it a bit, and adds a lot to the melody. He puts it into his style. And he is certainly writing all the lyrics,” Lena amended, though she was still looking sour indeed. “But... the melodies aren’t his. The hardest part—coming up with the bare music—he’s not doing that. And he’s making Farris think that he’s doing Farris a favor by stealing his music! He’s using Farris! And it isn’t the first time, either.”
Amily made a shushing motion at Bear. “How would you know?” she asked.
“Because I did some checking in the archives. Every single one of those bursts of songwriting has been when he’s had a protege, or he’s been somewhere way off away from Haven amd come back with a whole new book of songs. And his proteges? I checked. They’re always very poor. He carts them off with him when they are about ready to produce their Master work. He says it’s to give them the space and isolation they need to work. They mysteriously get offered a really comfortable permanent position somewhere far off and never come back, and the work they send back as their Master piece is just barely good enough to get them full Scarlets.”
Mags looked at her askance, his mind full of nefarious things that Marchand could be doing. “Ye don’t thin’—‘e ain’t murderin’ ’em—is ’e?”
Lena looked at him, shocked, and shook her head. “No! Uh . . .” Then she blinked. “Actually... in a way he is murdering them... not physically but . . .” She bit her lip. “He takes someone who adores and admires him. He takes the best of their work. I bet the closer it gets to them getting their Scarlets, the more horror stories he tells about how hard life is on the road. They were poor, for the first time in their lives they’ve been living in plenty, and now he’s telling them, ‘Oh, and by the way, once you get your Scarlets, you’ll probably be poor again.’ But then he takes them on one last trip with him; he probably tells them that he’s doing them this huge favor, taking them somewhere quiet and luxurious so they can put all their energy into their Master piece. But that’s not why he’s taking them. He’s found a wealthy household off back of beyond of nowhere that desperately wants a Bard of their own, like a sort of prestige pet. And he’s already been priming them with his visits. So this last time, he brings his protege with him and says, ‘Look, see how much I esteem your regard for me, I am bringing you my very own student! Offer him the position!’ ”
Amily’s eyes flashed anger. “Oh, that... snake! So of course they do! And of course after all of Marchand’s terror tales, the poor thing can’t believe his luck and takes it!”
“And Father ‘helps’ him with his Master piece. Which is, of course, just barely good enough to pass. And everyone says, my goodness, poor fellow just never lived up to his promise, so sad, but at least he has a position! And he settles into to that position never realizing Father used him all those years and now has just dumped him in a backwater to become someone’s fat little house Bard, happy to sit by the fire and be a trophy and write songs about horses and cows!” Lena was clearly very angry by this point. Mags wasn’t entirely certain why she was so angry—though he could certainly understand that it was extremely unethical for Marchand to be stealing his protege’s work and claiming it as his own—but he had the feeling that Amily understood perfectly, and he figured eventually she could help him figure it out.
That wasn’t what was important at the moment.
“Aight, I know ye know Bard business,” he said. “An’ I’m purty certain-sure thet iffen ye say Marchand’s doin’ this, ’e is. What I don’ unnerstand is why this means ’e ain’t a spy.”
“Oh . . .” Lena deflated a little. “Well... I suppose it doesn’t. It’s just... this is why I know he’s not using my father, my father is using him. Farris isn’t the conniving one, it’s Father. You see?”
“Aight. So... gimme ’nother reason.” This wasn’t just baiting her. Mags trusted Lena’s instincts. And he knew that if there was another reason... she’d articulate it, once she thought about it.
“I... hmm.” She sat there with her brows furrowed with thought, while Bear held her hand. “Well... he never leaves Bardic, much less the grounds, except to eat. If you think I work hard, you should see him! All he ever thinks about is music. I just don’t think he’d have any time to pass people messages. He’s very naive. He desperately wants to think the best of everyone. His people may be poor, but they are awfully kind, and he’s very good-hearted.” She sighed. “I don’t know how to say this, Mags, but him being kind is something you just can’t fake.”
“Aight.” Mags nodded. “I ’spect some’un’s gonna find a way t’ get Truth Spell on ’im t’make sure’a thet, but... I ’spect yer right. So... whatcher gonna do ’bout what yer pa’s doin’?”
A thin little smile crossed Lena’s lips. “I already have done something about it,” she said. “You know that a copy of everything a Bard does is supposed to go in the Archives here, right?”
“No, but I’ll take yer word fer it,” Mags replied.
“Well, I took the copy of that new song, and I took the copy I’d made of the composition work—” She paused a moment. “Well... blast. I need to explain something else now. Whenever we work on composition, we take it to the teacher that same day, and he or she dates and initials it. This isn’t just to prevent someone from stealing your work, it’s to prevent anyone from claiming you stole his work. So Father’s song had the date he left it in the Archive, and Fariss’ work was dated, and it was pretty clear what came first. I put them in a folder, and I left them on Bard Lita’s desk.” Lena looked like a very satisfied kitten... one with a mousetail sticking out of the corner of her mouth and a smudge of cream on her nose.