Intrigues

They headed up the road to the Palace and Collegia. :How convenient that you’ll get your chance today,: Dallen told him, with a hint of amusement. :There is a Council meeting going on right now, and it is going to go long, according to Rolan, Chamjey is showing no signs of wanting to slip away. And I expect if you were to put on a page’s uniform and go serve wine for a candlemark or so, no one would object.:

Mags groaned. As if he didn’t already have enough to do. Oh well. Best get it over with.

Evidently there had been a great deal of silent communication among Nikolas, Rolan, and Dallen, because when he arrived back at the Collegium, there was a page waiting with an impudent grin and a spare set of pages’ livery in approximately his size.

He then spent the most boring pair of candlemarks in his life, standing with the other two pages while the circle of old men droned on and on about—well, it involved a lot of maths. Trade things, it seemed. Fortunately he was not there to understand what was going on, he was there to get himself familiar with the feel of Chamjey’s mind.

Chamjey himself would have been utterly ordinary if it hadn’t been for the flamboyance of his dress. And that was the oddest thing. Because judging by that “feel,” Chamjey was using that very flamboyance as a kind of... mask? No, a distraction. He was using it to make the other Councilors underestimate him. Not that he was brilliant by any means, but he was shrewd. He knew exactly what he was doing.

The outside was a plainish man, average in height, weight, and facial features, with thinning hair and a bit of a belly, who appeared to be desperately trying to make himself look more important, attractive and wealthy with his rather too elaborate clothing.

The inside was a shrewd calculator, who never did anything without studying it from as many angles as possible. If Chamjey had been an animal, he would have been a crow. Not highly intelligent, but clever. Very clever.

And very much on the lookout for himself and no one else. When the set of pages that Mags was with was relieved of duty by another trio, he wandered off to his room to try and make up for missing two candlemarks worth of study time, wondering if he had somehow stumbled onto something not even the King’s Own was aware of.

Strange.

:What’s strange?: Dallen asked.

Mags leaned idly against the side of a building and waited while his quarry, all unaware, approached him. This was a relatively busy corner, where young men with nothing better to do—or who hoped to pick up an odd, easy job or two—loitered in the shadow of an inn. He was wearing the same set of mismatched cast-offs from various Guardsmen that he had arrived at the Collegium wearing—although, now that he had a bit more weight and height, they fit him a great deal better.

:Clothes. Funny how they make ye feel. Yon fancy stuff I have, tha’ I wore t’ Midwinter... feel like there’s allus someone watchin’ me, an’ I gotta be extra careful and quiet like so’s I don’t make mistakes. Like if I open m’mouth I’ll get found out an’ kicked out, even when it was just Master Soren what invited me in the first place.:

:I can see that,: Dallen replied.

:Reg’lar Trainee uniform, I feel like I gotta just try hard all the time, not waste a drip of a candlemark, better measure up, no slackin’, no slouchin’. Like... like I gotta live up t’ the Grays, belike. This... : He chuckled to himself. :This, y’know, I dun feel like there’s all that pressure.:

:An amusing observation. Is that why your posture is so poor?:

Dallen was—somewhere. Somewhere that Chamjey wouldn’t see him from the street at any rate, and somewhere that a Companion alone would not excite much interest. Nowhere near Mags. Probably waiting in an inn-yard somewhere nearby, one where Heralds or Trainees might leave a Companion while they went on an errand. Companions were not exactly unobtrusive after all—horse-sized, horse-shaped, brilliantly white with silver hooves and blue eyes—you couldn’t mistake them for anything else, and their white coats literally would not “take” dyes. So having a Companion visible on this street, when he was already nervous, would immediately put Chamjey on alert.

But one more lounging youth leaning against a wall and watching several other wastrels at a game of dice wouldn’t alert him to anything. Except, perhaps, an irritated observation about wastrel youth and wasting time.

:Nay. Just blendin’ in.: Mags had picked this spot very deliberately. It was the first place where Chamjey would be able to choose a direction once he came down off the street that led to his manor. So Mags was going to wait here, see what direction it was that Chanjey chose, then ride forward on Dallen, getting ahead of him, to the next spot where the same choice was likely to happen. Chamjey would never see anyone following him because no one would be following him. It was all about staying within range of that faint “feel” of the man. As long as he did that, he would know exactly where Chamjey went.

And in this case, as he leaned over the game intently, Chamjey reached the intersection and went west without even a glance at Mags and the gamers.

After he was gone, Mags sauntered off, looking as if he was going nowhere in particular. But he met Dallen in the alley behind the building; making sure no one had seen either of them, he hopped up into the saddle, and off they went.

It was a very good thing that Companions were a common sight here in Haven, and an even better thing that he had brought the cloak that went with his Grays to conceal the very non-uniform clothing he was wearing. No one gave him more than a cursory glance. The most that happened was that traffic parted a little to let them pass, with perhaps a smile or a wave.

It became apparent that Chamjey was headed in the direction of the Trade Road—and probably was going to one of several extremely large and busy inns on the outskirts of the city, all situated on either side of the Trade Road, and all devoted to merchant-travelers. These inns catered to everyone from the simple peddler with a donkey to merchants specializing in gems and other small and extremely valuable items. If you were going to have a clandestine meeting with someone, you had a choice, after all—you could slip away in the dead of night, try and find a secluded spot, and hope no one had followed you, or you could “hide” in the sort of place you had every right to frequent and do it at the busiest time of day. Chamjey had picked the latter, which was very shrewd of him.

:Now that we know where he’s going?: Dallen said suggestively.

Mags knew exactly what Dallen was going to suggest. :Aye. Might’s well cut straight there, then you disappear whilst I lurk and figger out how I kin get close ’nough to listen.:

Dallen moved into a canter; at this point the best thing that they could do would be to get far ahead of Chamjey and minimize his chances of spotting them.

When they arrived at the spot, it was the busiest time of the day. It wasn’t going to be hard to hide amid all the noise and bustle of the inn-yards. The inns swarmed with people; travelers arriving, travelers leaving, local merchants turning up for a meeting or merely a meal. And as for the animals, there were horses, donkeys, even a chirra or two—small carts and enormous “show wagons” where the side could be let down to form a stage—there were so many draft animals and vehicles that moving them in and out was a science. The practitioners of that science were grooms and servants and in at least two of the inn-yards, a blacksmith.

Mags had no idea how anyone kept anything straight, but amid the chaos no one was going to notice one slightly undersized, slightly shabby young man. Especially one that walked as if he had somewhere to go and a purpose. You didn’t want to loiter in a place like this, that made you look suspicious, and you might be thought a potential thief.

Mags even had taken the precaution of bringing a “messenger” bag with him, a flat satchel that went over one shoulder and was used by paid runners in the city to convey documents and small objects. That, all by itself, would insure his invisibility.

With Dallen safely tucked away in one of the out-of-the-way stalls reserved for Companions—for, yes, Heralds came here too—Mags walked the inn-yards, looking like a young man with an errand, bag prominently on his hip. The air was thick with the scent of horse and hay, sweat, dust and the occasional whiff of something good from the kitchens. There were boys with shovels and buckets scampering about just to get droppings from the