Changes

There was a good, sound cellar here, one with only one door in and no windows. It was perfect for his purposes. He had already gotten the keys to the place from the Guard—anyone coming around now was going to have a rude awakening to find the place locked as tight as it had been open before. The turning of the key in the lock caused a thunder of deep barks to erupt on the other side.

The little girl would have screamed if he hadn’t had a precautionary hand at her throat. Instead, she shook where she stood.

“Down, Dammit!” he growled, reinforcing the command with a mental one. The dog—a huge fawn-colored mastiff, whose name really was “Dammit,” dropped to the ground. He shoved all three of the children inside and locked the door. “You—” he barked, pointing at the younger boy. “Kitchen. Git th’ food onna table. Now.”

The boy scuttled off and returned with the old, splintery basket full of broken meat pies and burned sausages and grease-soaked loaf ends Mags had bought from a vendor. Mags pulled open the hatch to the cellar and gestured roughly. There was a lamp burning down there; the two boys went down the stairs, followed by Mags, followed by the girl on the end of her leash. When they got to the bottom of the stairs, Mags whistled, and the dog came down in a rush.

There were three pallets down here, a couple of empty buckets, and one full of clean water. There were also iron rings in the wall over the pallets. Mags hauled the girl over to the pallets and shoved her down on one, then tied her leash to the iron ring above her.

“Guard!” he told Dammit—who had been borrowed from Tal. An exceptionally well-trained animal, he would no more harm these children than fly, but they didn’t know that. And he would guard them. Nothing would get past him.

Dammit whined, his thick tail thwacking the dirt floor. Mags turned to the children.

“Ye got food an’ water an’ bed,” he snarled. “Use ’em. T’morrow, yer gonna work.”

Then he thumped his way up the stairs, slamming the cellar door closed, shooting the bolt home.

Now he had them. It was just a matter of—not breaking them, but bending them.

And he felt so sickened by all he was going to have to do that he could not wait for it to be over.

The next three days were exhausting for the children. Without letting them know what exactly they were doing, he had the boys running all over the city, carrying meaningless messages until they could barely stagger, while the girl was put to such simple household tasks as her strength would manage. He had a plan, and he figured it was a good one.

On the night of the third day, the Guard “stormed” the house.

“His” Guard, of course. Mags “escaped.” Tal was in the lead and took charge of the children immediately. And the little ones, who would have run like rabbits at the sight of a blue uniform three days ago, literally flung themselves at him.

They were so grateful for rescue that once the questions started, they couldn’t stop babbling—even though most of the time neither they, nor Tal, had any idea of what they were actually talking about. But Mags, who was in the next room listening to the thoughts that spilled out like gravel from an overturned bucket, found himself practically struck dumb.

He didn’t believe it at first. The overheard words as the three waited for their rewards, night after night.

“Our men on the Hill.”

He was certain they could not have heard it correctly—or the assassins had meant something else entirely. But, no, there was another memory, sparked into life by one of Tal’s gentle questions, and another, and another— none of them saying directly that the plants were in the Palace, the Collegia, or both—but the code words couldn’t possibly mean anything else!

That was... insane. Not possible. Everyone was vouched for! How could—

He sat there, thunderstruck. Even Dallen was speechless.

Time and time again, these three children had been sent to pick up messages that came from “Our men on the Hill,” or take messages to them. Never directly, of course; they came via message drops, places where a message could be hidden until someone who knew it was there came to collect it. Thanks to the memories, Mags had the locations of these drops, of course, but there was no use going to them now—with the original Agents dead, they wouldn’t be in use. The new Agents would have established a new set of drops—and they wouldn’t be so lazy as to send half-feral children to fetch the messages for them, either.

::This is insane,:: Dallen said, finally.

::Tell me ’bout it,:: Mags retorted, feeling as if the floor had dropped away beneath him.

At least he could count on Dallen to relay all this, because right now it felt as if he were so rattled he couldn’t move.

And then—he was metaphorically knocked halfway across the room.

The door to the little room next to the one in which Tal was questioning the children opened, but it wasn’t one of the Guard that was standing there.

It was Nikolas.

“Time to go, Mags,” the King’s Own said, tense, but quietly. “We’re leaving.”

“Ye heard?” Mags blurted. “Ye heard, right? Dallen relayed, aye? Ye—”

“I heard. So did the King, and—well, most of the Circle. We all heard. And we all agree. It’s impossible.”

Mags stared at him. Surely Nikolas had not just said—