Changes

them that he’s doing them this huge favor, taking them somewhere quiet and luxurious so they can put all their energy into their Master piece. But that’s not why he’s taking them. He’s found a wealthy household off back of beyond of nowhere that desperately wants a Bard of their own, like a sort of prestige pet. And he’s already been priming them with his visits. So this last time, he brings his protege with him and says, ‘Look, see how much I esteem your regard for me, I am bringing you my very own student! Offer him the position!’ ”

Amily’s eyes flashed anger. “Oh, that... snake! So of course they do! And of course after all of Marchand’s terror tales, the poor thing can’t believe his luck and takes it!”

“And Father ‘helps’ him with his Master piece. Which is, of course, just barely good enough to pass. And everyone says, my goodness, poor fellow just never lived up to his promise, so sad, but at least he has a position! And he settles into to that position never realizing Father used him all those years and now has just dumped him in a backwater to become someone’s fat little house Bard, happy to sit by the fire and be a trophy and write songs about horses and cows!” Lena was clearly very angry by this point. Mags wasn’t entirely certain why she was so angry—though he could certainly understand that it was extremely unethical for Marchand to be stealing his protege’s work and claiming it as his own—but he had the feeling that Amily understood perfectly, and he figured eventually she could help him figure it out.

That wasn’t what was important at the moment.

“Aight, I know ye know Bard business,” he said. “An’ I’m purty certain-sure thet iffen ye say Marchand’s doin’ this, ’e is. What I don’ unnerstand is why this means ’e ain’t a spy.”

“Oh . . .” Lena deflated a little. “Well... I suppose it doesn’t. It’s just... this is why I know he’s not using my father, my father is using him. Farris isn’t the conniving one, it’s Father. You see?”

“Aight. So... gimme ’nother reason.” This wasn’t just baiting her. Mags trusted Lena’s instincts. And he knew that if there was another reason... she’d articulate it, once she thought about it.

“I... hmm.” She sat there with her brows furrowed with thought, while Bear held her hand. “Well... he never leaves Bardic, much less the grounds, except to eat. If you think I work hard, you should see him! All he ever thinks about is music. I just don’t think he’d have any time to pass people messages. He’s very naive. He desperately wants to think the best of everyone. His people may be poor, but they are awfully kind, and he’s very good-hearted.” She sighed. “I don’t know how to say this, Mags, but him being kind is something you just can’t fake.”

“Aight.” Mags nodded. “I ’spect some’un’s gonna find a way t’ get Truth Spell on ’im t’make sure’a thet, but... I ’spect yer right. So... whatcher gonna do ’bout what yer pa’s doin’?”

A thin little smile crossed Lena’s lips. “I already have done something about it,” she said. “You know that a copy of everything a Bard does is supposed to go in the Archives here, right?”

“No, but I’ll take yer word fer it,” Mags replied.

“Well, I took the copy of that new song, and I took the copy I’d made of the composition work—” She paused a moment. “Well... blast. I need to explain something else now. Whenever we work on composition, we take it to the teacher that same day, and he or she dates and initials it. This isn’t just to prevent someone from stealing your work, it’s to prevent anyone from claiming you stole his work. So Father’s song had the date he left it in the Archive, and Fariss’ work was dated, and it was pretty clear what came first. I put them in a folder, and I left them on Bard Lita’s desk.” Lena looked like a very satisfied kitten... one with a mousetail sticking out of the corner of her mouth and a smudge of cream on her nose.

Mags blinked, then turned to Bear. “An’ you said I was bein’ all poltical-connivin’ an’ manipulational!”

“Oh, hush. And that’s not a word.” Bear kissed Lena’s hand, and she blushed. “That was fearfully clever! It could have been anyone who left that on the desk! It’s not like Marchand hasn’t irritated a lot of people around here.”

“I’m half tempted to tell Bard Lita it was me,” Amily said thoughtfully. “But she won’t ask. All she needs is the evidence, it speaks for itself.”

“Tha’s a fact,” Mags agreed. “But... ye had that other prollem... didn’ ye?”

This time it wasn’t a blush that reddened Lena’s cheeks, it was a painful flush. “All I ever heard was the rumor,” she said. “No one would ever tell me directly they’d heard him say that. And... now that I know what I know about his composition . . .”

“Look,” Bear interrupted, “let me just ask this outright. Do you want him to be your pa? Cause I’ll tell you right now, if my pa claimed I wasn’t his, I’d send the old blowhard a smoked ham and a thank you letter!”

“Bear!” Lena exclaimed, shocked, as Mags and Amily laughed.

“Well, look, what’s he done for me? Nothing but give me gray hair before my time! Look!” Bear pulled a lock of very dark hair away from his head. “See? And what’s Marchand done for you? He didn’t even get you into Bardic! Your grandpa did that!”

Lena wavered. “That’s true—but it’s not me that I’m worried about. Mama would... if the rumor got home, Mama would never dare go out in public again. It would be horrible for her. Everyone would be trying to figure out who my real father was. Grandpapa would be mortified, and he’d blame Mama . . .” Tears sprang up in her eyes at the mere thought.

Bear hastily put his arm around her. “Hey, there, it hasn’t happened yet. It’s just been a couple of whispers. Your friends are pretty good at squashing ’em. Lord Wess has been real good at that. He says he just looks down his nose and drawls that—no, wait, let me see if I can do this right.”

Bear took his arm from around Lena and stood up. He slouched indolently against the wall and looked down his nose at all of them “My dear old creature, of course Marchand would say something like that. The fellow cannot bear the idea of anyone having more talent and adulation that he does when it’s a stranger; can you imagine what he’s thinking about being eclipsed by his own offspring? And a girl at that? He’s already done what he can to keep her out of the public eye, but that won’t hold for much longer. He’s probably writhing in agony on his pillow at night at the mere thought that the words ‘The great Bard Marchand’ would be applied to anyone but him. Since he can’t do anything about the poor girl’s brilliance, he probably decided to see if he couldn’t separate her from the name, and damn the consequences.”