According to Corwin, who had actually been there, Bear’s rant had not only been scathing, it had hit home with no few of the Guard. Evidently Bear’s father was not the only man who wanted to keep his son under his paternal thumb, bound body and soul to whatever the family business or tradition was, regardless of whether the boy was suited to it. Bear had gotten quite a few sympathetic hearers that he probably had not expected.
Enough that when Bear was done and had stormed back to Healers’ Collegium, the Captain of the Guard had taken Cuburn aside and suggested that his men were going to find it difficult to completely trust in someone who had taken the position with the Guard for the purpose of spying on someone. How could they trust anyone who was “no better than a nosy old gossip?”
Cuburn had vigorously denied he was doing any such thing and swore that he had taken the job because he wanted to serve the Guard, who were the first defense of Valdemar. He swore he would prove it any way that the Captain wanted.
He probably hadn’t reckoned on the Captain calling his bluff.
“In that case,” the Captain had said, “You won’t object to my arranging a transfer.”
Mags didn’t know if Bear had heard about that part. He also didn’t know if the Captain had actually gone through with asking for that transfer. Corwin had told him that transfers could take several moons, so... well, he supposed they would only know the truth when Cuburn was gone.
Officially, Bear had been given a stern lecture by his Dean. Unofficially—well, who knew? He was still acting as disgruntled as his namesake after a long winter’s hibernation. Mags was perversely proud of him, actually, as proud as he was of Lena. Bear didn’t have his father in reach, but he did have his father’s spy, and he could be certain that every word he had spoken would get back to the man he really wanted to have words with.
But he couldn’t tell them that, because he hadn’t seen so much as a thread of Bardic Trainee rust or Healer Trainee pale green since he’d sent them out of his room.
All Mags could do, really, was concentrate on his studies and on research in the library and the Heralds’ Archives to see if anything like Ice and Stone or the shields they wore had ever come up before, and, if so, had there been any way of finding such things when the ones who were being shielded didn’t want to be found. He frequently found himself looking back with nostalgia on the time when the most urgent reason to be here was to find out who or what his parents had been. Then it had only been to prove that he was not the child of thieves and murderers. Now there was, potentially, an entire city at risk.
And he prayed for the weather to break. Because just maybe all it was going to need was a good hard rain and cooler weather to clear peoples’ heads. Since he was pretty sure that virtually everyone else in all of Haven was praying for the same thing, it was a wonder that the gods hadn’t answered before this.
Which, Dallen’d tell me, an’ prolly any good priest, ain’t how gods work. Which don’ seem fair t’me, when all we’re askin’ fer is a liddle rain.
He was up in the Archives alone when the sound of light footsteps in the corridor warned him that he wasn’t going to be alone much longer. He sighed. He really, truly, did not want to be bothered right now. It was late enough that his daily headache had bloomed nicely behind his forehead and cheekbones, and it was only the fact that it was still too hot to sleep in the Field kept him up here in the Archives.
And they were female footsteps from the sound of it, unless it was a page. Pages usually didn’t come up here unless they were sent. So either some female was coming here, or a page had been sent here, and in either case it was more likely that the desired object of the person’s search was Mags and not a random volume of Heraldic Reports.
He abandoned the passage he had been working on and waited, knowing he might as well. If that unknown someone was coming here to do research herself, he could go right back to what he was doing. But if she was looking for him, he wouldn’t be allowed to get back to work without hearing what she wanted and probably coming up with an answer for her. He just hoped it was something trivial—like an answer to part of the classwork.
But when Lena came in through the door, he was actually shocked. He would have expected to see almost anyone but Lena. “Lena?” he said incredulously.
She ducked her head a little, diffidently. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important . . .” At the moment there wasn’t a trace of the bold little tiger who had faced down her father.
He closed the book and pushed it aside. “Importat, aye. Urgent... not s’much.”
“Oh, good. I need advice,” she said, sitting down at the little table across from him.
Oh, bugger. Here it comes. She’s going to ask me for advice about—
“It’s my father.” She sighed heavily. “He wants me to talk to you about an invitation for you and Amily.”
Mags eyed her dubiously. “What sorta invitation? T’what? Why me’n Amily?”
“He wants you and Amily to come to one of those private concerts,” she said, with decidedly mixed emotions warring in her expression. “It’s in one of the mansion on the Hill. I... just don’t know what to think about him anymore.”
“Ye think ’bout him th’s same way ye think ’bout any other thief. But why’d ’e ask fer me i’ the furst place?” He looked right into her eyes so she could see the sincerity there.
“You’re—well, you’re Mags,” she replied, as if that was answer enough. “You stopped that madman from burning the stable, you’re a brilliant Kirball player, and you saved Amily.”
“Lotsa people saved Amily,” he pointed out with perfect truth. She rolled her eyes.
“You are either incredibly modest or incredibly dense,” she said crossly. “You act as if you aren’t anyone special, but you saw how those young highborn treated you before you rescued Amily—like a hero. And now? Every single person at that concert is going want to talk to you, flirt with you, ask your opinon on things.” She shook her head slightly. “Anyone who is there is going to lord it over everyone who wasn’t if you turn up there. Which, of course, Father knows. He acts like a spoiled adolescent who just knows no matter how much trouble he gets into, he can charm his way out of it. This is probably part of the ‘charming his way out of it.’ ”
“Because it gets ’im more people what think ’e’s next thing’ t’ a miracle worker. I’d be sick ’cept it’d take too much energy.” Mags actually did feel a little sick. Did Marchand ever stop trying to manipulate people? Was there ever a moment in his day that he wasn’t scheming and plotting a way to make an already fabulous existence even better? The man had adulation, hordes of followers, he was wealthy, he could have virtually anything he wanted within reason. But it never seemed to be anough for him.
“He’s asking Amily too, because you are the romantic couple, the hero who risked his life to save her and all of that rot.” She paused. “I think.”
“Whazzat s’posed t’mean?” he asked.
“That... I don’t know, because he could actually have taken Lita’s lecture to heart this time, and this could be a demonstration of good intentions. Or he could be even more crafty than I thought, and it’s the appearance of good intentions, designed to throw any sort of suspicions off.” She frowned. “I just don’t know. I can’t tell. And... oh, damn, anyway!” She scrubbed fiercely at her eyes. “He’s being nice to me after I was the one that told Lita what he was doing! He thanked me for ‘bringing him to his senses.’ I don’t know if it’s real, or if it’s because he knows he won’t be able to get to you except through me. I want it to be real. I still want it, even after all I know about him!” She looked up at him, shoulders hunched. “Do you think it’s real?”