Intrigues

It looked as if you did.”

He thought about it. “Reckon... I did,” he said, after a moment, feeling surprised. “I mean, I got on ’cause Caellan, y’ know, Dean of Collegium wanted me to. An’ yer Pa seemed t’ want me to. So I did, an’ it was kinda like another class fer me. But... aye, now ye say, I reckon it was fun.” He thought about it some more. “Y’know, I think I’d play it even if it wasn’t like a class.”

“Well, that’s why. And when the East and West meet, you’ll see it’s fun to watch, too.” She nodded decisively, and would have said more, except that they heard the door to the Archives open and footsteps coming toward them across the wooden floor. Two sets of footsteps. They both looked up to see Lena and a handsome man in Bardic Scarlet approaching them from out of the shadows at the door end of the Archives. Mags knew that face all too well.

Bard Marchand, Lena’s father.

Now that Mags had leisure to study him, he couldn’t say he liked the man any better. The Bard had a classically chiseled face of the sort you would expect to see on a heroic statue. He wore his dark hair a little long, and there was gray at both temples. His eyes were a common enough brown, with disconcertingly long lashes, but despite the long lashes there was nothing effeminate about him. He moved with the confidence of someone who expects everyone else to get out of his way, and he carried himself as if he expected to be the center of attention. He wasn’t as heavily muscled as a Herald or a fighter of some sort would be, but he was lean and fit.

Lena had a sort of tremulously hopeful look on her face. But the expression on Bard Marchand’s was a bit more difficult to read. It looked a little like avidity, which was a strange expression, considering the circumstances.

“Mags, this is my father, Bard Marchand; he wanted to meet and talk to you,” Lena said, and her anxious thoughts were so strong they spilled past Mags’ shields. Please be nice to him, he finally noticed me! Mags blinked a little to realize that there was something else going on with her as well... as the Healer had said, he got an inkling of the emotions that were driving her as well. Certainly not enough to be uncomfortable or intrusive for him, and he was sure he could shield them out if he wished to, but he knew very well how anxious she was even without reading her expression.

“Father,” she said, with a touch of desperation. “This is Trainee Mags.”

They both ignored Amily, which was uncharacteristically rude on Lena’s part.

Mags would cheerfully have snubbed the man—who clearly had no idea that this was the same Trainee he’d sent on a servant’s errand to make another servant of the King’s Own mere weeks ago. But he couldn’t spoil this for Lena.

On the other hand, he didn’t exactly have to be “himself” for the Bard, either. This was an excellent opportunity for some misdirection.

:Good idea, Mags.: Dallen was irritated. :Whatever he wants, make him work for it.:

“Pleased t’ meetcher, Bard Marchand,” he said, and immediately put on his thickest accent and an amiable- but-stupid expression. He thrust out his hand; Bard Marchand took it with a bit of hesitation. He pumped the Bard’s hand with great enthusiasm and exactly as if he was working a pump handle, before letting go of it.

“Pleased to meet you at last, Trainee Mags,” said the Bard, flexing his fingers gingerly, although he didn’t make a great show of doing so. That was a little odd. It couldn’t have been because Mags had crushed his hand with a hard grip; Mags knew better than to pull that kind of game with a Bard (someone who needed his fingers intact) even if he didn’t like the man.

No, he got the flash of an impression that Marchand was keeping himself from pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his hand off only by force of will. As if he expected that Mags would be dirty, or something.

Nice, he thought sourly.

“This here purty filly’s Amily,” he said, since Marchand was still ignoring the other person in the room as utterly unimportant. Time to display the fact that he, at least, had some manners. “She be Herald Nikolas’ daughter.”

A flicker of recognition passed across the Bard’s face, and a flicker of chagrin as he must have realized that Amily was too important a personage to continue to ignore, especially after that dressing-down he’d gotten from Master Bard Lita. “Ah,” the Bard said, turning toward her and beaming the full force of his personality at her as he scooped up her hand and kissed the fingertips. “Enchanted. I had no idea my old friend Nikolas had such a lovely daughter.” It was easy to see how the Bard charmed his admirers; although this wasn’t— quite—the application of his Gift, the Bard had a full measure of charisma and clearly was used to employing it with great precision.

Amily flushed, but only Mags knew it was not with pleasure. “I prefer to stay quietly out of the public eye, Bard Marchand,” she said with an edge to her voice under the sweetness. “I’ve no taste for court maneuverings, and I suppose you would say I am something of a bookworm. Father indulges my taste for solitude.”

“What kin we be a-doin’ fer ye, Bard Marchand?” Mags said, letting his voice take on tones of faintly servile admiration. The man lived on flattery, it seemed, so... give him what he wanted and see what came of it. “ ’M jest a Trainee, cain’t think what brung ye up here, ’less ye wanta know stuff’s in Archives.”

“Oh, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to give me your view of the events of this winter, and the discovery of those vile miscreants in Haven a few days ago, Trainee?” Marchand continued, turning back to Mags with a coaxing manner. “I understand you had a firsthand view of them during their stay at the Palace, and were instrumental in discovering that they were still in Haven.” He smiled. “It’s all fodder for work, of course. And while I am sure that you have already told others of my calling all about those events, a Bard is doing less than his duty if he fails to get the tale directly from those who lived it. The Dean of your Collegium himself advised that I speak directly to you when I enquired of the matter.”

For a moment Mags wondered if that last was a lie. He wouldn’t put anything past Marchand, if Marchand wanted something badly enough, including lying about whether Herald Caelan had actually sent him.

But... no, probably not. He might be self centered, but he wasn’t stupid, and it would be ridiculously easy for Mags to catch him in a lie, even if Mags was as dull as he was pretending to be. It was very likely he’d be caught out, in fact; Mags would certainly say something about it to Caelan the next time he saw the Dean. After all, Bard Marchand was wildly popular and wildly famous, and it would be natural for Mags to be flattered that he had been singled out, and just as natural to thank the Dean for the opportunity to meet the Bard.

Well, natural in Marchand’s eyes, anyway.

:Humph. Indeed. He thinks the world is always watching him.:

:I’d like t’ be watching th’ back of him as he leaves, right now.:

The fastest way to be rid of him would be to tell him the bare, unvarnished truth in as few words as possible; use that veneer of stupid stolidity to Mags’ advantage. Someone as dense as Mags wanted to seem would have little or no imagination, and might be so overwhelmed by the “honor” of Marchand’s attention that he could only manage to get out simple sentences.

So that was what Mags did; keeping the tale spare, staring without comprehension when Marchand asked him things like “But what did you think of that?” or “But how did you feel?”

“Don’t rightly know, Bard,” would usually be his reply, as he would let a puzzled expression creep across his face.

This set him down in Marchand’s mind as a singularly unimaginative, stolid country bumpkin, which suited Mags perfectly.

But it was painfully clear as the questioning continued, that Marchand also considered him to be, if not an actual “hero,” certainly a proto-hero, and one with a great deal of potential. Precisely what Mags did not want him to think. Marchand kept dropping flattering little comments about how brave he was for one so young, and how he surely had a bright future ahead of him. There was no doubt in Mags’ mind that Marchand was not going to be satisfied with this single encounter. He was trying to cultivate Mags.

And Mags kept saying things like “Eh, ’twas all Dallen,” and “I didn’ git a chance t’ think, belike.” And it didn’t seem to help.

:I’ll say this for him, his instincts are very good when it comes to spotting those who are likely to make good songfodder,: Dallen admitted reluctantly. :And even better for spotting those who can help him enlarge his own fame.:

And when the conversation shifted to the new game of Kirball, it was obvious that Marchand’s interest was not feigned—though he seemed less interested in the game itself than in the players. Mags was a Kirball champion,