Changes

“There is that,” Nicolas admitted, and hoisted himself into the saddle as well. “So, off we go to our grand adventure of sleeping in a cellar, bathing in a bucket, and eating dubious sausage and hoping it isn’t so dubious that we need a Healer afterward.” He shook his head, and Rolan echoed the gesture. “Oh, the grand and glamorous life of the King’s Own! I’ve more than half a mind to kidnap Marchand and show him what our work is like on an intimate basis. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so cursed jealous of me.” He led the way out of the stableyard and onto the road.

Jealous? Huh. Thet might ’splain a few things . . .

“Oh, I wouldn’ do thet, sir,” Mags said aloud as they passed through the gate and moved down among the Great Houses. “Fust time ’e felt a mouse run o’er ’im i’ th’ night, ’e’d bloody scream so loud ’arf Haven’d think we was stranglin’ a cat. Then, there goes us bein’ all quiet-like.”

“It would be worth it,” Nikolas said, fervently. “Can you imagine his face?”

“Oh, aye.” Mags chuckled. “Huh. Mice. Cain’t say I like hevin’ m’ face run over i’ th’ night meself. Reckon we better git us a cat?”

Nikolas sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid so. It’s been a while since I smoked the vermin out. The bugs haven’t returned, not even the black beetles in the cellar, but there isn’t much there to attract them. Mice are another matter, and they’re probably back already.”

::I’ll help you find a good mouser,:: Dallen said.

“Aight,” Mags said. “I’ll sort it.”

Nikolas cast a ghost of a smile his way. “I rather hoped you would.”

“Here’s the problem. This cellar was really only meant as another escape route, or a place to hide while someone searched the shop,” Nikolas said aloud, as he shoved the crate that Mags usually sat on aside, revealing a hatch.

’E’s talkin’ out loud ’stead’a Mindspeakin’. Which prolly means he don’t want me t’chance getting a liddle bit of whatever ’tis ’e ain’t s’posed t’ tell us. ’cause ’e knows I kin git stuff that kinda spills over. Well, if that was what Nikolas wanted to do... it wasn’t as if Mags had any grounds for objecting. He thought about it carefully, and decided that he didn’t mind. Because Nikolas knew that Mags knew that Nikolas —Mags caught himself before he started snickering. Hellfires, ain’t like he’s insultin’ me. Jest doing whut he was tol’ t’do. Furthermore, Mags had the oddest feeling that if Nikolas thought for one moment that Mags actually needed to know what was going on, he would violate those orders and tell him.

So I’ll make’t easy on ’im an’ not fuss.

“I ’spect most shops ’round ’ere hev thet,” Mags observed dispassionately. Or at least, with a good imitation a cheerful indifference.

Nikolas pulled up the hatch; instead of the ladder Mags expected, there was a good solid—new-looking—set of stairs. Nikolas handed him a lit lantern; he went down first.

As a home, it was pretty primitive. There were a couple of straw mattresses stacked up against the wall, with some bedding rolled tightly atop them, and that was about it. Mags sniffed; no mouse stink, nothing but damp, but he was glad he and Dallen had acquired the new shop cat anyway. If they started bringing food here in any quantity, mice would follow.

The walls were extremely crude slat-wall wood, the floor was either hard-packed dirt or soft rock, the tunnel leading out of one side was cut through the dirt, but had been expertly shored up. It was cool. “It’ll do,” Mags pronounced. Nikolas looked vaguely relieved.

Guess ’e fergits what I come from.

The only problem was... the floor space was minimal. Not bad for one, not so comfortable for two. “Where’s tunnel go?” he asked, shining the lantern in, but not venturing down it too far.

“The basement of the shop next door. The empty one. We bought it when we bought this one, to keep it empty.”

“Huh.” Mags considered that a moment. “Might could sleep o’er there, iffen ye don’ like sleepin’ down ’ere. Thet place got heavy shutters an’ bars over t’winders, ain’t nobuddy gonna see in t’know.”

Nikolas looked thunderstruck, as if the idea simply hadn’t occurred to him. Mags allowed himself a ghost of a smirk.

See? I ain’t entirely useless.

“If it’s cool enough,” Nikolas replied. “I have no idea if that place is going to be a stifling hellhole or a reasonable space to use. But I feel like an idiot for not thinking of that myself.”

“Outa sight, outa mind,” Mags said philosophically. “So, ye know them liddle ’uns I was follerin’ last night?” he continued, instead of gloating. “I reckon t’take ’em over an’ find out what they was doin’ fer the dead fellers.”

The King’s Own turned to look at him, wearing a slight frown. “By take them over—you don’t mean—” Nikolas began hesitantly.

“Nay, ain’t messin wi’ they heads, but I ain’t got time t’lure ’em neither. I gotter git ’em under m’thumb right quick. Iffen them others know ’bout ’em, ye kin bet they ain’t gonna be breathin’ too long.” That, too, had occurred to him this morning. “I reckon t’take over thet gang’uv theirs.” He quickly explained what he had in mind; Nikolas listened carefully. “Reckon I kin hev most’a what they know in a couple nights. Then we figger what t’do wi’ ’em.”

“You’re probably chasing nothing, Mags,” Nikolas cautioned. “I very much doubt that those men were so stupid as to entrust a couple of children with anything important.”

That might be true. On the other hand, Mags knew firsthand that adults, men especially, tended to forget that children had minds and ears of their own. They might have overheard something useful. They might have deliberately eavesdropped. And they might not even be aware that what they had heard was important.

But there was no point in bringing that up just now. It would just sound as if he were trying to dig up