Intrigues

:You jest stay here. I figger on takin’ m’time ’bout this.:

The errands that Nikolas had him running now—dropping off a series of sealed messages—could not possibly take more than two or three candlemarks. He had the entire afternoon to himself. Already he felt his shoulders loosening, his spine uncoiling from that hunched-over posture he’d been assuming without really thinking about it —

He knew that posture, for it had been the posture he had held for years. The posture that meant he was waiting for the blow to fall, the inevitable, inescapable blow. Back at the mine, that meant the cuff to the back of the head, the strike of a stick to the shoulders, for nothing more than catching someone’s eye.

Here at the Collegium, the blows might not have been physical, but they certainly had been felt over the past moon.

Eh well, I kin enjoy t’day, an’ try an’ figger out what them Foreseers really are seein’. Or mebbe they’ll see somethin’ more, an I’ll be outa it.

Since Nikolas had entrusted him, and not someone else, with the delivery of these messages, he assumed that the King’s Own was probably concerned, at least a little, that a Royal Page might be followed. So just to err on the side of caution, he deliberately began to wander. He had done so merely by fact of interspersing Amily’s errands with those of her father earlier, now he actually put some effort into it.

He began up among the mansions of the noble and wealthy. Some of them got messages, but he stopped at others to flirt with kitchen maids, admire a garden open for viewing, or discuss the points of a horse with a groom.

When he got down into the city, he got himself a sausage roll in one place, a pint of cider in another, a slice of cheese at a cheese-shop. He shopped a little, picking up dried apple slices dusted with spice for Dallen, a neat little ink blotter for Amily, and a strap of pretty woven stuff that Lena could use on her gittern from a street-peddler. He went in no particular direction, reversing himself often, until by the time he had delivered the last message, he had doubled back on himself so many times that he was surprised he hadn’t met himself on the way.

At that point, he relaxed further, and simply sauntered along, stopping to look at whatever caught his eye. Once it was a clever little dog who had figured out how to steal from dried fish vendors by sneaking under the ample skirts of some of the shoppers and getting within tooth-range of the fish that way. Once it was a juggler who had set up on the corner and would literally juggle anything you threw at him. And when Mags threw him an apple, he not only juggled it, he ate it while he juggled, which earned him a great deal of laughter and applause.

Then, suddenly, something else caught his eye.

He stiffened involuntarily, not sure he had seen who he had thought—but a second glimpse through the crowd cemented the identification. He would know that profile anywhere.

It was one of the “bodyguards” who had been with the fake envoys. Here everyone assumed that when the lot of them had escaped the Palace, they had left Valdemar, but what if they hadn’t? What if they hadn’t even left Haven?

Now here he was quite by accident, encountering the man. And most importantly, the man hadn’t spotted him.

Dallen sensed his alarm before he actually said anything. :Mags?: came the urgent call. :What’s wrong?:

In answer, Mags let the Companion see through his eyes, and caught Dallen’s recognition. :Tell Rolan t’ tell Nikolas,: he said, urgently. :I’m gonna foller ’im. I’ll stay outer sight, but we cain’t chance losin’ ’em again.:

A moment later, Dallen answered. :Nikolas agrees. Be careful.:

Heh. Like I’ma gonna rush up t’ the man an’ ask ’im ever so polite-like why ’e had Bear kidnapped. Aye, that there is a fantastic notion.

The difference between following this fellow and following Chamjey was that Mags knew the “feel” of Chamjey’s mind. This man’s mind—well, without actually reading his thoughts and getting inside, it was like the mind of pretty much anyone in the streets here that had a sword and knew how to use it. There was a lot of arrogance and restrained aggression. Mags hadn’t had enough time yet to discern what made it unique, and with having to concentrate on keeping close, yet out of sight, he wasn’t going to get the leisure to do so.

He had to fight his instincts in order to do as Nikolas had taught him. His instincts told him that as soon as the man turned toward him, he should duck out of sight. He didn’t do that. The man was a trained fighter, and would alert on that sort of movement.

No, when the man turned to check his rear, he had to be doing something perfectly natural. Watching a busker. Reading an inn sign. Drifting off at a slight angle to the man’s current direction, as if he intended to visit a shop or take a side street.

Then, when the man turned away again, Mags did something to change his own appearance a little. He bought a drab scarf at a stall, and when the man’s attention was elsewhere, he switched how he was wearing it, putting it around his neck, tying up his hair, making a headband out of it, even a sling. All these things seemed to be working. The man only gave cursory glances behind him and his eyes never lingered on Mags.

They were heading to the part of the city where beast-drovers and small traders of the sort with a single cart went. It was crowded there, the more so because it was getting on to supper time, and people unfamiliar with Haven—or who were simply frugal—were going from inn to inn hunting for bargains for their evening meal. Every inn had a different “special”—sometimes it was because they had made too much of something that day, sometimes because they got a good deal on some foodstuff or other. The smart traveler sought these out to save a few pennies.

Mags felt as if every nerve was stretched as thin and tight as one of Lena’s harpstrings, the closer they came to this inn-district. He felt sure that the man was staying here, somewhere—and maybe there were more of the foreigners than just the one. Mags tried to vary his posture as well as his appearance—even his gait, although in the crush that was less than successful. But when the scarf was on his head, he slouched, as if discouraged. When it was a sling, he limped. When it was around his neck, he swaggered.

The bawling of animals in enclosures, the cursing of the drovers, people being shoved out of the way and cursing back—you would have to shout at the top of your lungs to be heard in this din. It was all a nightmare of noise and heat and dust and smell. Dung and sweat stink mingled with food and beer odors, making him feel a little sick.

It was very hard to keep up with the man without shoving and making himself conspicuous. He had to take advantage of his small size, and duck through every available gap, and still keep track of the man.

The man definitely had a goal in mind, though—his movements were purposeful and a bit impatient. Mags was more and more certain by the moment that he was staying somewhere in this district.

This part of Haven was absolutely full of people who were strangers to the city and to each other. Innkeepers didn’t bother to keep track of anyone, so long as the reckonings got paid and you weren’t crowding more people into a room than you had paid for.

He realized that this was exactly what the foreigners needed; incurious landlords and a steady stream of strangers coming and going. Even in the dead of winter, this district had a fair amount of traffic; Haven was a big city, and there were a lot of mouths to feed, more than could be fed purely by the effort of the local farms.

Maybe—probably—they’d found a place to hide until things in Haven got back to normal after the blizzard. There were plenty of places in Haven that would have sheltered them, plenty of people as well, and not necessarily criminals, either. They could have posed as stranded travelers and stayed at a Temple Hostel, for instance. Or they might have thought far enough ahead and arranged for a bolt-hole down in the city when they had first arrived. They could even have done so through an intermediary, who probably wouldn’t have cared what nationality they were as long as their gold was sound.

The inns here would have been better, though, for people not used to waiting on themselves, nor taking care of their own day-to-day needs, like finding food and cleaning their own clothing. All they gotta do is move from inn t’ inn regular, an’ they’re pretty much not gonna get noticed. Inns would do virtually anything you wanted for a price. Presumably they had the price.

He hung back a little; it was actually easier to keep track of the man now because he was pushing his way through the crowd, creating a little area of disturbance—something else Nikolas had taught Mags to watch for. He followed that area until he actually saw the man mount the steps of an enormous drovers’ inn—the Silver Bullock.