strangers for a blink. “—he’ll take it better from me than from you.”
Good girl, Lena! “Aye. ’E’ll say I’m bein’ a nanny an’ ’e’ don’ need one.” He grinned at her. “ ’E’s said as much already.”
“And I need to make sure he sees some sun and thinks about something other than Amily.” She smiled. “And, of course, when he starts complaining about his family, I listen and let him run on and then tell him that they are idiots and don’t deserve him. Which they are, and they don’t. so it won’t even be a little lie.”
“Teach him hare-and-hounds,” said one of the young men at the game board, unexpectedly, turning and looking at Lena. “Or if he already knows it, play it with him. I know they teach you Bards the game straight off—I’ve lost plenty of pocket money to you Trainees. It’s a good excuse to come down here in the cool. If we’re here, we can even trade off partners. If you don’t mind that, that is?” He looked up and flushed a little, as if realizing he had been just a bit rude for eavesdropping, and even more for butting in on the conversation.
But Lena beamed at him. “That would be a lovely idea—Lord—?”
“Charliss,” said the speaker, with a foolish grin. He was a very affable looking fellow, with blond hair that flopped a bit into his deepset blue eyes and a generous mouth that looked as if he smiled a lot.
“Moron,” said his friend, who was a thinner, slightly harder version of the first young man, aiming a cuff at him. “Lord Pig With No Manners.” Now he turned toward the two of them. “And after you were so nice as to feed us too. I’m Grig. No Lordishness attached. I’m the poor-and-pitied cleverer cousin, assigned to make sure Char keeps from putting his foot in his mouth too often.” He sighed and shook his head. “As you can see, it is a never-ending and utterly thankless task. And yet, I endure.”
“Grig, Lord Charliss.” Lena somehow managed to give an impression of a curtsy while still sitting. “I’m Trainee Lena, this is Trainee Mags.”
The two young men started, their eyes popping, taking Mags completely aback. “The Trainee Mags?” gasped Charliss. “The Kirball player? For South team? The one with the Companion that runs like a cat with twelve paws?”
::A cat with... twelve paws? That’s an ungainly image,:: Dallen snorted.
“Erm—aye?” he said.
The two young men exchanged a gleeful glance. “Benter is never going to believe us,” said Grig, grinning as if he was never going to stop.
“Oh, he’ll believe us. He’ll just never forgive us,” replied Charliss, with the air of someone who had just taken all his opposing player’s hounds in one go. “So, Trainee Mags... just what strategy would you recommend to get on a Kirball team?”
So thet’s where th’ wind blows! “We-ell,” he said, with a glance at Lena to make sure it was all right with her to start this particular conversation—because, after all, he had come here with her, not them. “T’start with... ye gotter git th’ right horses . . .”
::When I proposed this business, I thought you would be sitting here in the shop with me, not climbing about rooftops all night,:: Nikolas said, ruefully. ::Mostly, I thought you would be watching me work these people, and watching out for my back. And you have done that. But I never imagined I’d be putting you out there on your own.:: He was not happy with this, but... and this had given Mags such a thrill that he almost forgot how dangerous this was going to be... he had not argued at all.
::Somebody gots t’be i’ shop, buyin’ what-all,:: Mags replied briefly, with a glance down at Nikolas’ worried face, as he pushed open the hatch in the ceiling. ::Somebody gots ter foller th’ lads as sells ye th’ words. Nobody’d b’lieve ye’d leave me i’ charge’v shop, even if’n I weren’t s’posed t’be deaf, so reckon I gotter foller.::
Nikolas was going to start second-guessing himself in a moment, if Mags didn’t say something to lighten the mood. He climbed up into the attic space and dropped the hatch back in place. ::Asides, yer too big t’climb ’bout like yon roof-rat.:: The “word” he used was “big,” but the mental shading that came with it was unmistakably “fat.”
::Oy!:: Nikolas replied, with mock outrage. ::I’m not that big!::
::An’ yer jest not limber ’nough, either. Reckon yer bones git creaky. Cain’t hev ye breakin’ yon tiles an’ fallin’ through some’un’s ceiling,:: Mags continued, mockingly. ::That’d land ye in gaol fer certain-sure, they’d figger ye fer a thief. An’ then whut?::
::And would you dare take me and Rolan in a challenge race, you unwashed brat?:: came the “growled” reply.
::Nossir,:: he said promptly. ::Wouldn’ dare, sir.::
::Because you know we’d beat you like a hand-drum,:: Nikolas told him.
::Nossir. Cannot lie, sir. ’Tis cause yer not on’y big, yer me elder. Wouldn’ be fittin’, t’ challenge a gran’ther, sir.::
Not only “fat,” but “old.”
He suppressed his giggles at Nikolas’ reaction of outrage. He wasn’t just goading Nikolas for the sake of it. The King’s Own was seriously worried about him, and if he had to do his part of this evening’s work with an undivided mind, he had to shake off his concern for Mags. It was true, he did have a dangerous job. He was going to lie in wait above the door until a couple of men who said they had information to sell about the foreign spies arrived, sold their information, and left. Then Mags was going to follow them. It wasn’t the full moon now, it was the dark of the moon. And he wasn’t merely making his way across the rooftops to get from one place to another, he was going to have to follow someone, which meant keep up with people walking on the flat, open street, and it wasn’t going to be people as oblivious as Selna.
Wunner whut happened t’ Selna . . .
Further talking with her had uncovered the rather disconcerting information that she’d gone into the “profession” with Mistress Peg because she’d come up from the country to be a serving maid and hadn’t liked all the
