Changes

explanation.”

“We got time,” Mags pointed out. “I really wanta hear this.”

She nodded. “You probably would never have noticed... I actually don’t think anyone but me has noticed... but Father’s compositions seem to come in lumps. He’ll do a lot of new music, then there won’t be anything new for a while. Then he’ll do a lot more new music. It’s not just that he’s working on something long and complicated. He doesn’t work on anything at all. He’ll do concerts and performances, he’ll go to parties, he’d even come home to visit, and when I was in his rooms, the only music that was there was whatever he was learning. I mean, I’ve known that forever, and even though I don’t know any other Bard who works that way, I never actually thought it meant anything—until a few days ago. You see, I’ve been helping Farris learn composition—”

Bear gave her a look of incredulous surprise. “You... what? But I thought—” He glowered a little at her. “I told you I thought you oughta avoid him altogether.”

“I was just taking Mags’ advice!” Lena said. “Mags said, if I was nice to him and he was horrid, people would notice, and he would look bad. If I was nice to him and he was nice to my face but horrid behind my back, people would notice that even more. But if I was nice to him and he was nice back, and grateful, then I’d have a friend. So no matter what, I won if I was nice to him.”

Bear scrunched up his nose, pushed his lenses back up, and thought about that a while. “Remind me never to cross you,” he told Mags finally. “You seem so perfectly ordinary most of the time, then you turn around and come up with something like this that’s—it’s political-level scheming is what it is! Where do you come up with these things? Sometimes I wonder if you’re manipulating me like that!”

“I wouldn’t call it scheming,” Amily said mildly. “He wasn’t telling Lena to do anything but be nice, which is what she would rather do anyway. He was just giving her the reasons why it was to her advantage.”

Mags shrugged uncomfortably. What could he reply to that? He wasn’t really trying to be manipulative, but it was so easy now for him to see how people worked, take that apart, and put it back together in a way that made things better. Being such an outsider was turning out to be as much of an advantage as it was a handicap. “I’d ruther hear what Lena has t’say. I really wanta know why she’s so certain-sure th’ spy ain’t Farris.”

Lena took a deep breath. “I know this is roundabout, but it’s important, and it all has to do why I know it’s not Farris. When I was helping him with beginning composition, I realized right away that he’s good. He definitely has Creative Gift. His melodies are wonderful, and they just flow out of him naturally. And he works the way everyone else I’ve seen works—he always has songs he’s working on. Even when he says he’s finished, something will set him off, and he’ll look for a piece of paper to jot the music down on. He can’t stop and take a rest from it any more than he could take a rest from breathing.”

“So? That doesn’t mean he can’t be a spy too,” Bear said stubbornly. “In fact, that would make him a better spy. He could write things down in musical notation, and no one would be the wiser. And anyone suspicious of him would see he really was someone who belonged in Bardic and not think any more about it.”

“That’s true,” Lena agreed. “But—look, you have all been trying to figure out why Father brought him here. You assumed he was a spy and were and thinking it was because he somehow tricked Father into it. But that’s not what happened at all.”

“What?” Amily asked, skeptically. “He told you what happened?”

“He didn’t have to, once I figured it all out.” Lena frowned unhappily. “He’s not some kind of scheming adult in a youngster’s body. He didn’t trick Father. It’s the other way around. Father’s tricking him. Father’s using him.”

“Aight.” Mags scratched his head. “Lena, I cain’t see ary way Bard Marchand could be usin’ a youngling.” Well... not true. He coul, but evidently that wasn’t the sort of using that Lena meant.”

“I’m getting to that,” she replied. “Three days after I helped Farris with one of his own original melodies, I heard Father use that same melody for one of his own new songs! Or what he claimed was his new song.” She looked as if she had swallowed something bitter. “And when I asked Farris about it the next day, he was all, ‘I know! Isn’t it fantastic! It’s such a great honor! My stupid little thing in one of Bard Marchand’s songs!’ ” Lena shook her head. “I tell you, I thought I was going to be sick when he said that.”

It took Mags a few moments to unravel what it was that Lena was saying. He started to ask a question to make sure he understood her correctly, but Amily beat him to it.

“You mean... your father is stealing his protege’s work, and claiming it as his own?” Amily asked incredulously.

“Oh... he does change things, rearranges it a bit, and adds a lot to the melody. He puts it into his style. And he is certainly writing all the lyrics,” Lena amended, though she was still looking sour indeed. “But... the melodies aren’t his. The hardest part—coming up with the bare music—he’s not doing that. And he’s making Farris think that he’s doing Farris a favor by stealing his music! He’s using Farris! And it isn’t the first time, either.”

Amily made a shushing motion at Bear. “How would you know?” she asked.

“Because I did some checking in the archives. Every single one of those bursts of songwriting has been when he’s had a protege, or he’s been somewhere way off away from Haven amd come back with a whole new book of songs. And his proteges? I checked. They’re always very poor. He carts them off with him when they are about ready to produce their Master work. He says it’s to give them the space and isolation they need to work. They mysteriously get offered a really comfortable permanent position somewhere far off and never come back, and the work they send back as their Master piece is just barely good enough to get them full Scarlets.”

Mags looked at her askance, his mind full of nefarious things that Marchand could be doing. “Ye don’t thin’—‘e ain’t murderin’ ’em—is ’e?”

Lena looked at him, shocked, and shook her head. “No! Uh . . .” Then she blinked. “Actually... in a way he is murdering them... not physically but . . .” She bit her lip. “He takes someone who adores and admires him. He takes the best of their work. I bet the closer it gets to them getting their Scarlets, the more horror stories he tells about how hard life is on the road. They were poor, for the first time in their lives they’ve been living in plenty, and now he’s telling them, ‘Oh, and by the way, once you get your Scarlets, you’ll probably be poor again.’ But then he takes them on one last trip with him; he probably tells