Foundation

Finally—“That’s all I c’n think of,” he said, spreading his hands apologetically, then looked with surprise at the empty mug in one of them. He didn’t remember drinking all of that cider.

“That’s enough,” Dia replied. “That’s more than enough.” She looked at the others. “Well?”

Marc nodded. “I think you girls can take them down.”

Mags blinked. He had halfway suspected that the boys were thinking of challenging the mercenaries—but the girls?

Lydia gurgled a chuckle. “They’ll never know what hit them. And they will be utterly humiliated.”

Mags blinked again. “There a reason why yer wantin’t’ do that?” he asked carefully. It seemed to him to be a very odd sort of thing to want to do. If they knew those arrogant young men, if one of them had been bullied by the mercenaries, that would be different. But of course, they didn’t, or they wouldn’t have been asking him so many questions.

They all exchanged glances. It was Jak that answered.

“These fellows that are supposed to be merchant princes,” he replied. “The ones the mercenaries are guarding. They’re no more merchants than my pet hound is. Princes—maybe. But why they are here—they’re looking us over. Testing us. Call them spies in diplomatic clothing. They’ve got some of their lot testing the Heralds and the Guards to see what kind of fighters they are. But we want them to discover that if it comes to a fight, it won’t be just the Heralds and the Guards that they meet.”

“So we’re going to challenge them,” Dia said, with her little chin in the air. “And we are going to humiliate them. And they will go home knowing that they had better make peace, because they truly do not want war with us, not when the women will fight at the sides of the men, and just as fiercely.”

Mags gazed at them all with enormous respect. His initial vague impression of them had just gotten an abrupt shift.

Lydia nodded, her green eyes twinkling. “And before you ask, yes, our parents know about this. And with the proviso that we could do this with a minimum of damage to ourselves, they agreed it was a good idea. It is one small part of a larger plan, you see.”

“It was my father who saw how they were testing the Heralds and the Guards and sensed something more was going on,” Jak said, motioning to a servant to bring them all more spiced cider. He waited while the servant poured, and then until the man was out of earshot, before resuming his conversation. “He came to me to find out if we thought there was anything we could do to help. And so you have it—” He spread his hands wide. “Master Soren and our parents are not at the highest level of rule—but my father says that gives them a broader scope, so to speak. They see things that the ones that sit in Council might not.”

“And of course, everything they see and do, they consult with the King’s Own about.” Amily, who had been very quiet until now, spoke up in a matter-of-fact voice. She was nothing like as vibrant as Lydia or as bold as Dia; in fact, she seemed to fade into the background a bit. Even her clothing was in a subdued shade of soft brown. But when she looked up at Mags, he saw a glittering intelligence in those eyes, and he realized that the image she projected was deliberate on her part.

He shook his head. He wanted to say to them all, I am completely out of my depth here, but he didn’t quite know how to say it.

Lydia patted his hand. “Don’t worry, Mags,” she said in a kindly voice. “We’ve been doing this sort of thing since we were old enough to understand that we could help our parents this way. And our parents have been helping Master Soren for quite a long time. He understood that some of those who sit on the Council are there only because of birth, not brains. He went to the King’s Own and offered to put together some people that could help counteract some of the blunders those folk stumbled into, or the troubles they deliberately created. And we are the second generation to follow that path.” She tilted her head to the side. “And I’ll tell you the truth, and that is we’ve been testing you, just now, to see how good your memory is, and how well you can report on things you’ve seen. My uncle asked you here, not because he is kind, which he is, nor because he thinks he owes you a favor, which he does, but because he thinks you are the person we need to tell us things from inside this new Heralds’ Collegium.”

Now Mags’ head was fairly spinning. She thought he would do—what? But—how did he know this wasn’t intrigue piled on top of intrigue? Granted, Dallen had said that Master Soren was all right, but how did Dallen know? If he agreed, what was he agreeing to?

At just that moment, the door servant’s voice rang out over the crowd. “King’s Own Herald Nikolas.”

A figure clad in brilliant white with a silver belt and the crest of Valdemar embroidered on the left breast entered the room. He looked about as if he was searching for something or someone. Mags’ mind raced. Could he ask the King’s Own Herald about all this? Did he dare? Dallen had said that they were all Heralds, equal, together —but no, there was only the one King’s Own, and he—

—and he was coming straight for them!

Amily rose, and Mags saw at that moment, the final bit of irony that the heavy skirts of her gown had concealed. She was lame, and had to use Jak’s aid to get to her feet. Her right leg was twisted all wrong—

Herald Nikolas reached the group, and put both arms around Amily, embracing her and steadying her at the same time.

“Hello, my scheming darling,” he said, dropping a kiss on top of Amily’s head. “Have you finished terrifying the poor lad yet?”

“I’ve only just started,” Amily said cheerfully. “Father, as I am sure you know, this is Mags, the boy from the mine, the one that uncovered that cheating merchant for Master Soren. Mags, this is my father.”

The King’s Own reached out and shook Mags’ hand. “Good to meet you, Trainee,” he said. Mags looked up at him.

If you didn’t know he was the King’s Own Herald, you would never have guessed. He had that same ability to fade into the background that his daughter had, only in his case, this was clearly a skill honed to perfection. His face was no particular shape, his hair no particular color, and his eyes were a kind of washed-out neutral. He wore his Whites with no particular air. If you had to pick him out of a crowd, you couldn’t.

“I hadn’t yet gotten around to telling him what you wanted out of him, Father,” Amily said with a smile.