Intrigues

voice. “Buying up the fleece and lambs before they’re harvested, so to speak, is brilliant, Chamjey. The herders think we are risking our money, paying for lambs that might die and fleece that is going to be poor. They don’t know how widespread the problem is, and that we’ve rounded up the whole market and put it in our pocket. We’ll be the ones setting the prices, no matter what.”

“And you made sure nothing can be traced back to us?” Chamjey asked anxiously.

“Not a chance,” the man assured him. “I’ve used so many intermediaries sometimes it makes my head spin. By the end of the fortnight, we’ll have completely wrapped up this year’s mutton, lamb and wool market, and we’ll be able to demand whatever we want.”

“Brilliant,” said Chamjey with deep satisfaction. “I’ll see about imported wool. I think I can get a high tariff put on it, in the name of protecting our shepherds from cheap outside wool. There’s just not that much imported right now that I think anyone will even blink.”

As he swept up every single mote of ash, Mags was just—astonished. Somehow Chamjey—or perhaps, this unknown person—had discovered the misfortune that had befallen, not just a few flocks, but evidently the flocks across—what? Most of Valdemar? And now he was somehow going to make a lot of profit off it?

:I think we’ve heard enough,: Dallen said. :I’ve already relayed all this to Rolan. Let’s return this stuff to the soapmaker and get back up the hill.:

Chamjey and the other person were deep in a conversation about wool, which Mags didn’t think was going to interest Nikolas. :Right. Sooner I get out, less chance I get caught.:

He put the fire things back where they belonged—because not doing so would look very suspicious, and because he didn’t want to make any extra work for the inn servants—and took his bucket of ashes outside. Once there he got his barrow and headed back.

The soapmaker greeted him with a nod, as if she had expected he would not take long. She took back her apron, and thrust it at a rather grimy boy who took it cheerfully enough. When the boy was gone, taking the barrow back to the inn, presumably, she turned to Mags.

“I hope you got what you were looking for, Trainee,” she said. “And I’m glad we could help you.”

“So’m I, missus,” he replied with a little bow of thanks. “Ye saved me a mort’ o’trouble.”

“Well good.” Then she grinned. “And you might think of sending here if you need soap.”

He dusted himself off with the help of the girl, who brushed him down with a broom with a bit too much enthusiasm, and went to get Dallen out of their yard. Dallen was looking altogether pleased with himself, and Mags felt he had every reason to be.

“So what’s Nikolas say?” he asked, as they made their way up the hill.

:Well, the long and the short of it is—you know that example Lydia gave you? It was uncannily spot-on. While we were aware that the blizzards were causing some hardship, and we knew there was a plague of something that was affecting the flocks in the south, we didn’t know just how bad both were. Somehow, Chamjey found out, and rather than alerting the Crown via the Council, he decided that he was going to secure all the available wool and meat for this year to himself, so that he can command whatever price he wants.: Dallen, strangely, was not angry. He was not even annoyed.

Perhaps because Chamjey had been found out . . .

“Would that matter all that much?” Mags wondered aloud.

:For the meat and leather probably not. One could use goat, cow—even wild animals for meat and leather. But the wool is a life-and-death matter for the spinners, dyers and weavers. Soren is going to be purple over this.:

“Well, we proved we kin do what Nikolas asks us to, eh?” he replied, still not sure why this mattered all that much, but believing that it was that important to Nikolas and Master Soren.

:More than that, Rolan and Nikolas really didn’t think Chamjey was up to anything more than a minor peccadillo—oh, it would be worthy of getting him to resign from the Council in embarrassment, but nothing more. Instead we caught him in a major scandal.: Now Dallen sounded pleased again. :This is good, this is very good. The only thing that would have been better would have been if you had recognized who it was that was meeting with him.:

“Oh—hellfires. Should we go back?” Mags swung around in the saddle to look back down the road.

:No need. This is important enough that they are about to be intercepted. We’ll find out soon enough who it is.:

Chapter 4

MAGS made it back to the Collegium in time to make his last two classes—or rather, one class and one exercise. Sadly, the class was the languages one. Happily, the exercise was riding. He didn’t even have to think about riding anymore, and even though the wind was strong and bitter enough to cut right through his clothing, he and Dallen just romped over the entire course, staying warm enough through pure exertion.

Riding just felt right, in a heart-deep way. He knew what Dallen was going to do before the Companion actually did it. Dallen knew what he wanted the moment he decided on a direction. The two of them were physically melded so close together that they might just have been a single entity.

It was glorious. Even though they made a few mistakes—missing two jumps by knocking down the bars, and having to go around a scramble, losing time—it was still glorious. If this had been all they had to do, life would have been perfect.

Of course, it wasn’t. But at least for that slice of time, it was as close to perfect as Mags could get, or had ever gotten.

He washed up at the Collegium, where there was all the hot water he could want, and tubs for soaking in when he had the time. The washing facilities at the stable were about the same as at the mine, the only difference being that the water came from a pump rather than the stream or the sluice. Once clean and feeling more civilized, he then went in to supper. Bear was there, but not Lena, who was still not talking to her friends.

:It’s only been three days,: Dallen reminded him.

“Three days is a long time to sulk,” he said out loud, and Bear looked at him oddly.

“Lena?” he said finally.

Mags flushed. “Aye. Sorry. Talkin’ t’ Dallen.”

Bear shoved a bit of meat pie into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “She wants to impress her da,” he said, after swallowing. “I mean, really impress him. Make him sit up and take notice. Been working at that all year. Hardly ever does anything but work on being a Bard. And then he shows up and doesn’t even know who she is, which, when she’s thinking he’s at least seeing the reports on her and maybe seeing she’s living up to him—”

Mags blinked, finally understanding what Lita meant. Trust Bear to put it into simple language even a dunderhead like him could understand.

“Oh... ” he replied.

“So, likely she thinks she hasn’t done enough. Or hasn’t done the right things. Or, you know, she’s done all the right stuff, but she’s just not good enough to impress him.” Bear gulped his tea, a glum look on his face.

“That ain’t fair,” Mags said slowly.

“It isn’t fair and it isn’t true, but that’s what she thinks.” Bear put his mug down. “I guess I know something about not being able to impress your folks,” he added bitterly.

Belatedly, Mags remembered that Bear came from a family of Healers, of which he was the only member that did NOT have a Healing Gift. He licked his lips awkwardly.

“Well, she’s here, not at home, and maybe the Bards can sort her out,” Bear concluded. “Probably. I mean, after half Bardic Collegium listened to her pa getting the skin pulled off him, maybe she’ll figure out that not everybody is as impressed with him as he is with himself.”

Mags decided that a little duplicity was in order. “Bard Marchand? Getting’ the skin pulled off him? What?”

Bear cheered up a little and proceeded to describe in detail the dressing-down that Lena’s father had gotten. It was a lot more accurate than Mags had expected—but then, Bards were supposed to be able to memorize things that happened on the spot, so they could repeat them back accurately in song or story form later, so maybe that wasn’t altogether shocking. That was cheering, too. It meant that, really, Marchand had no one to blame but himself for the tale getting around. Mind you, with someone like him, he’d probably look for any scapegoat rather