Mags felt his eyes widening. Yes indeed, there was the answer. A FarSeer could easily “peer” into the rooms. And with that, someone with the Fetching Gift could move things.
Should he do something about it? What were his options? He could report them to Herald Caelen, he supposed—
Mags slipped through the stalls until he was right outside the one belonging to Colby, and paused to listen.
“Right, now use your Fetching to pull the string on the bull-roarer, but slow,” said a voice. “Do it slow and it sounds like someone groaning.”
“I can’t believe you were lucky enough to get that thing into their rooms,” someone gloated. “They never leave their rooms without at least one of them in it!”
A third voice answered with a chuckle. “That was Gordo’s doing. After I threw the ax at them, they didn’t want any more sharp things up on the walls, and what they had up there, they wanted riveted in place. So Gordo snuck in and put the bull-roarer inside the breastplate before it got hammered onto the wall. Nobody knows it’s in there but us, and it was put up in plain sight of all of them.”
Well, if that wasn’t an admission of guilt, Mags had never heard one. He straightened, and hooked his arms over the wall of the stall. “That don’ seem real friendly to me,” he said, startling all six of the occupants of the stall.
Barrett was the first to recover. “I don’t mind being friendly to people who are friendly back!” he said, with a cocky smile. “But I doubt you are going to find anyone willing to put in a good word for those bodyguards.”
“Nor their master,” the one in Bardic colors said sourly. “But none of you have had to deal with him.”
“Not d’rectly,” Mags admitted. “But I seen him. An’—does seem a nasty piece a work. You doin’ this for any reason but ’cause you can?”
Barrett looked incensed at that, and so did the rest. “Of course!” he snapped. “I got tired of seeing them swagger around and bully people! I wanted to give them something to think about besides harassing folk! And I wanted them to feel what it felt like to be harassed and bullied!”
“An’ c’n ye give me a good reason why I shouldn’ tell Herald Caelen ’bout this?” Mags persisted.
He flushed and looked down. “Uh—” he replied. “No ...”
Mags regarded all of them carefully. Just how much did he want to reveal to them? “Reckon y’oughta tell some’un,” he said slowly. “Ye’re scarin’ the servants, an’ that ain’t right.”
Barrett started at that, as if the possibility hadn’t occurred to him. “We—are?” he faltered.
Mags nodded solemnly. “Happens they talk t’ me, ’cause I ain’t highborn an’ I got no money an’ no fambly,” he said matter-of-factly. “Y’skeered one wee mite near outa her skin w’ that—ax. That fair?”
Barrett flushed a deep, shamed crimson. So did the others.
“They keep tellin’ me,” Mags went on, deliberately stalling for time, “thet now I’m a Herald, I gotta think ’bout what I do afore I do it. Aye?”
Barrett nodded, and wouldn’t look at him.
“And—”
Foosteps behind him, deliberate, but brisk, told him that Nikolas had entered the stables. He waited for the King’s Own to make a show of “seeing” them.
“Well, is this some sort of impromptu gathering?” Nikolas’ voice sounded relaxed and genial. “Can’t quite give up Midwinter holidays, lads? Not that I blame you—”
He came up beside Mags, and looked with feigned astonishment at the furiously blushing Barrett, at his shame-faced coconspirators. “Why, what is all this?” he asked, quite as if he had no idea. “This doesn’t look like a celebration.”
Barrett cleared his throat. “It’s—not—sir,” he said, and then launched into a rapid, but painful, explanation of what they had been up to.
“Hmm.” Nikolas raised an eyebrow. “I ... see. And how is this not misuse of your Gifts?”
“I ... uh ...” Barrett looked even more shamefaced if that was possible. “Uh ...”
