Mags tried to figure out how to be sympathetic without being overly sympathetic and failed utterly. “Erm . . .” he said.
“And I am not going to cry!” she said fiercely. “Bear was horrible about it, but he was right. I am not going to cry over this! He doesn’t deserve one bit of my concern, right?”
“Ah,” was all he could manage. He studied his hands. And thought. “Well,” he said tentatively. “Amily could stand ter get out. I don’ mind bein’ shown ’round like a prize, ’cause I kin git a chance t’ do th’ whole boy ain’t too bright act thet Nikolas wants me ter do. So, hell, Marchand’s motives don’t even come inter what I decide, practically speakin’.”
“I suppose . . .” she replied. She didn’t sound convinced.
“An’ ‘nother thing. Git ’im t’invite Lord Wess. Feller has a eye on ’im, an’ ’e’s sharper nor a good knife. I cain’t go sniffin’ ’round Marchand’s head w’out he’s doin’ somethin’ ’gainst th’ law. But Wess? Wess kin watch yer pa, an’ lissen, an’ prolly git ’im t’say thin’s ’e’d ruther not. Iffen yer pa’s fakin’ it, reckon Wess’ll winkle it out.”
He smiled, rather pleased with himself for thinking of that, and made a mental note to add Wess to his little company of helpers. He didn’t have anyone among the highborn, just the people around Master Soren. Wess would be exceedingly useful, and he’d gotten the impression that Wess would enjoy being exceedingly useful. The young lord had often complained that as the third son, he had about as much utility as a third leg.
“But—” she began.
He shook his head. “Don’ e’en bother tryin’ ter figger Marchand out, ’cause it don’ matter what ’is motive is. Point is, we make ’im useful ter us, an’ nothin’ else hasta matter. Jest keep yer head on thet. ’cause otherwise, ’e’s gonna get t’yer, yer gonna want ’im t’ be a real pa t’ye, an’ yer back where ye was.”
“But—” Her eyebrows creased. “What if he really is trying to do right?” She thought a moment. “Well, this concert thing does look rather bad. There’s no reason why he would want you and Amily there except to increase his own prestige. But maybe someone is going to be there that he thinks you or Amily should meet!”
“I dunno iffen ’e’s finally doin’ right. You dunno. Likely ’e don’ even know.” Mags shrugged. “We got ter wait for it t’play out. Till then, we jest make sure we use ’im, cause damn sure iffen ’e ain’t walkin’ th’ straight path, ’e’s tryin’ t’use us. An’ iffen anythin’, ’e owes us fer bein’ sech a piss-poor father. Fair?”
She sighed. “Fair.”
He held up a cautionary hand. “Now, I ain’t said yes yet. This’s fer two, and I gotta go talk t’Ami—” He stopped, looking at the faintly guilty expression she wore. “Ye already did, didn’ ye?”
She sucked on her lower lip and looked at him out of the corner of her eye.
He didn’t know whether to be cross or amused. But amused was a lot less trouble than cross. “Wimmin,” he sighed. “I dunno why I’m a-tellin’ ye ’bout tuggin’ yer pa ’round, an’ makin’ ’im inter yer game-piece, when wimmin do thet natural as breathin’.”
She gave him an affronted look. “No we don’t!”
“I ain’t a-gonna argue. ’Tis too bleedin’ hot t’argue. All right, ye kin tell yer pa we’re gonna go get trotted ’round like a couple’a breed-horses at ’is stupid party. When is’t?”
“Three days from now,” she said, and kissed his cheek before she stood up. “Thank you, Mags.”
“Don’ thenk me,” he replied, turning his attention back to the chronicle he’d been picking through. “I’m figgerin’ t’get plenny outa this. Le’s jest ’ope th’ ’eat breaks afore then, or there’ll be folks pickin’ fights there too.”
Chapter 18
Bad enough that the heat hadn’t broken, but Mags was going to have a to really push it to keep from looking like some sort of rude boor by turning up late for the wretched thing that Marchand had arranged.
He’d said yes assuming it was one of those evening concerts Marchand liked to stage. Which would have been just fine, no trouble at all. But it wasn’t. It started with a party in the garden—a garden that was supposed to be something special even by highborn standards, with all sorts of cooling fountains and water features. Then dinner would be served at dusk, the fountains would be hushed, lanterns would be floated on the still surface of the water features, and Marchand would perform.
One small problem. Or not so small, since Mags didn’t want to look as if he didn’t care when the event was taking place. Classes were going to go practically right up to the time Marchand’s “little gathering” was supposed to start; Mags was going to have just enough time to change into his good set of Grays before throwing himself on Dallen and literally galloping down to the event. Of course Marchand had not bothered to see what Mags’ schedule was before setting the time of the gathering . . .
If he’d been taking Amily pillion on Dallen as he always had before, this would have been impossible. But Amily had told him that she didn’t mind going ahead of him, especially since Marchand was supplying her with a carriage and a burly footman to get her into and out of it.
So all he needed to worry about was getting himself down there. And it turned out there actually was a legitimate connection with him, and an equally legitimate reason why Marchand might be doing him, and the highborn, mutual favors. This was the home of one of Marchand’s highborn patrons, an avid—one might almost say fanatic—follower of Kirball. Fanatic enough that he was supplying horses to the Riders in the interest of having the best possible games to watch.
Now, supplying horses to one team was one thing; Lord Wess’s father was doing it for Mag’s team because his son was on it. But supplying horses to all four? That argued for someone who really was interested in the game as a pure game,and wanted to make sure that one team didn’t win over another because of superior “equipment.” Mags was very interested to meet this man and talk to him.
It would be a fantastic change from talking, and thinking, about potential killers.
Mags sprinted through the furnace-heat from his last class to the stables. It felt as if he were wearing his Kirball armor, the heat weighed him down so much. It also felt as if he were running in a dream, the sort where you are running as fast as you can and getting nowhere at all.
Dallen was already saddled and waiting; the grooms had done as they promised. Mags dashed past his Companion into his room. He’d laid his good Grays out this morning. By his own mental reckoning, he was right on time. He shed his trews and tunic, washed himself down with tepid water from the basin on the stand, and pulled on the trews. Yes. He was going to be right on time.
Right on time—until he heard an ominous rumble in the distance.