Read Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Online

Authors: Mercedes Lackey

Tags: #Fantasy - Epic, #Fantasy - General, #American Science Fiction And Fantasy, #Fantasy fiction, #Fiction - Fantasy, #General, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #Valdemar (Imaginary place), #Epic

Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) (29 page)

The Northern Trainees had learned by watching, and now it was their Companions who were playing as much football as the South. The time for compliments and kicks was over; both sides scrummed grimly over the ball, hocks were kicked and dust rose above the melee and the Northern Foot came up to join the fray.
This was new! They had left their poles behind!
The Foot circled the outside of the scrum, dancing back and forth, watching, watching. Mags could scarcely believe it, but it looked as if they intended to dash right in there and snatch the ball up from among the flying hooves if they got a chance!
And then it hit him. He glanced at the Northern goal.
There was only a single Foot there to guard it.
Dallen didn’t need prompting; he responded the instant Mags’ eyes took in that fact. This was what he lived for, a straight, hard run across rotten ground, as fast as he could put hoof to turf. Mags was halfway to the goal before the lone Foot realized he was coming. The man leapt to intercept them, but instead of taking one of the ramps, Dallen gathered himself like a rabbit and made an enormous jump that got his forehooves on the top of the base. He scrambled for a desperate moment with his rear, as Mags threw his weight over Dallen’s neck, saved himself, and pivoted. Mags snatched at the flag, just as a roar from the other end of the ground told him that the North had scored.
Run!
They had the flag—but they had to keep it—
And now the entire field had realized what he had done and were heading toward him.
He hunched down over Dallen’s neck. Dallen leapt off the top of the goal-structure, aiming not for their own goal, but the side of the field where the very worst of the ground was, the boulders and hillocks and a hundred treacherous things. He scrambled among them like a rabbit, jigging and dancing from side to side, as fifteen Riders and Trainees avalanched toward them at a speed that was insane.
One of the Riders, on a beast built like a greyhound, came up on them first, but Dallen feinted to the fence and the horse shied from it. The horses didn’t like the fence—they didn’t like the shouting people climbing on it, and they didn’t like the fence itself. The North horses could not come at his right hand side, and so the North Companions moved to get in ahead of him and stop him.
The South Riders and Companions weren’t going to give them a chance, not if they could help it. And this was bad ground, very bad, and Dallen couldn’t move in a straight line across it. The entire scrum piled onto him, threatening to trap him.
:Turn them into the fence!:
Mags cried, and they did, crowding the horses, whose nerves stretched and snapped, and crowding their fellow Companions, while Mags and Dallen ran, slid between them, still heading for their goal.
And that was when Mags saw it. The ball in the Rider’s hand, forgotten.
:Pip! The ball!:
he yelled, as Dallen gave a leap and a wiggle and nipped under a Northern Companion’s bridle.
And then they were clear.
Dallen got a surge of energy from somewhere and put on a burst of speed, as behind him and from the crowd, Mags heard a roar.
He ignored it. They had their job—
A Northern Foot popped up out of nowhere right in their path. The man made a vicious swing at Mags with his hook. Mags and Dallen both ducked, and the hook grazed the back of his helmet and his head—and Dallen hopped up like a rabbit to prevent his feet from being pulled out from under him by the return sweep of the hook.
And then they were past—
And then they were pounding up the top of the ramp and Mags stabbed down with the pole of the flag, planting it next to their own, just as a roar came up from the other end of the field—matched by the roar from the spectators at this end when they saw him safely in and the flag in capture.
And the trumpets blatted, marking the game over!
“One goal up
and
the flag in capture!” crowed Pip, for the hundredth time. “Oh! That was a
game!
”
They were playing it over, move for move, at the celebratory dinner. Tonight there was no time limit on how long they could all occupy the dining hall, and even the cooks kept turning up with more to drink and tasty snacks to hear about the game. Mags and Pip, who made the final goal, were the great heroes of the hour. Now that the game was over, everyone was friends again, and although they were all too young to be allowed to drink very much, they did toast each other again and again in the small beer, cider, and weak wine they were permitted.
“My eye,” said Halleck with satisfaction. “This is something like. I wish my family was here.”
“Well now, this was just the first game, so don’t go thinking we’ll let you get away with this when we meet up again,” said the Captain of the North with a laugh. “And East and West were watching, so those clever tricks you used won’t work a second time.”
“Nothing ever does, my lad,” Halleck countered, waggling his eyebrows. “You just be on your mettle, for we’ll have new tricks for you the second time around.”
Mags kept very quiet, and off to one side, but he was full of silent contentment again.
Tomorrow, something else might crop up to make his life a misery again. But for now . . .
For now, life was good.
11
“I
’M glad you had time for this today,” Amily said happily, as she passed Mags another random pile of Heralds’ reports. “I didn’t think you would, what with Kirball practice and all.” The little nook in the library felt as warm and welcoming as his own room now. And today was even better, since he and Amily were alone up here.
“Well, yer Pa’s left me alone fer a bit, so thet gives me some time,” Mags replied, though his brow furrowed with worry. “I dunno though, I’m a bit afeared I mighta got too . . . watched. What wi’ the game an’ findin’ them foreigners. Mebbe I ain’t no use t’ him now, an’ thet’s why he ain’t got nothing’ fer me t’ do.” The prospect made him unhappy, for reasons he couldn’t quite define. Maybe because he had gotten used to being needed and wanted, doing things that were important, even if only Nikolas knew that he was doing so.
“Only until the East and West game, and only until people forget about the foreigners,” Amily replied giving him a pat on the back of his hand. “It will be fine. Father is patient. In fact, he’s probably figuring out ways to use this to his advantage—perhaps to get you to play up that you are very physical, rather than intelligent. People who are good at fighting or games are rarely expected to be clever; if you play into that, people will underestimate you. And he knows that eventually you and Pip won’t be the only star Kirball players. People will all have their favorites; it’s the way that games work out.” At his quizzical expression, she elaborated. “People will pick a team to support with their enthusiasm, and they will have favorite players on the team itself. If you stay quiet and uninteresting, they will turn their attention to someone who is outgoing and very vocal. Someone who relishes the attention, but not in a bad way. Didn’t you know that?”
He shook his head. “Never seen no games like this afore,” he replied, more that a bit surprised at her words.
“Oh.” Amily was a little taken aback. “I keep forgetting that you didn’t—” She stopped before finishing her sentence.
“Thet I didn’ hev a normal kinda growin’ up,” he finished for her. “Well, thet’s good. Cause I kinda won’t fit in th’ way yer Pa wants me to if people are noticin’ thet alla time. If you ferget, it means I’m getting’ better at that fittin’ in stuff.” He smiled shyly at her and was rewarded by another pat on his hand.
She eyed him carefully. “So you have no idea what Gennie really means when she talks about ‘giving the other team football’ do you?”
He shook his head. “Well, I jest thought it was keepin’ th’ ball ’mongst the Companions’ feet. Kinda explains itself. Tha’s not it?”
Amily giggled a little. “No, it’s an actual game. Fancy, a girl is going to have to explain football to a boy!” She found this very funny, although he didn’t see why. “People play football all over Valdemar. It’s very popular. I know enough about it to explain it.”
So she did; evidently this was a kicking game with a ball, one that was a little bigger than a Kirball. It was played by two teams—on a flat, rectangular field with a goal at either end. The field was much smaller than the one for Kirball, and was generally grassed over. You were allowed to kick or hit the ball, you just weren’t allowed to pick it up and run with it.
“Why?” Mags said, finally, when she got done explaining how villages would compete with each other, and how there were many teams down in Haven composed of players from various Guilds and professions—and many more that were just friends getting together. “Why go t’ all that fuss an’ work t’ do somethin’ like that? I mean, ’f I had a day free from hard work, I sure wouldn’ wanta spend it kickin’ at a ball!” He shook his head. “At the mine, all we wanted t’ do when we wasn’t workin’ was t’ hunt fer food an’ sleep.”
“It’s . . . fun,” Amily said slowly. “It’s fun for the people playing it. It’s fun to watch. It’s fun to support one team or another. Well, at least it is for people who aren’t as desperate as the people in your mine were. When you aren’t starving or exhausted, people do all sorts of odd things for fun. Didn’t you have fun out there playing Kirball? It looked as if you did.”
He thought about it. “Reckon . . . I did,” he said, after a moment, feeling surprised. “I mean, I got on ’cause Caellan, y’ know, Dean of Collegium wanted me to. An’ yer Pa seemed t’ want me to. So I did, an’ it was kinda like another class fer me. But . . . aye, now ye say, I reckon it was fun.” He thought about it some more. “Y’know, I think I’d play it even if it wasn’t like a class.”
“Well, that’s why. And when the East and West meet, you’ll see it’s fun to watch, too.” She nodded decisively, and would have said more, except that they heard the door to the Archives open and footsteps coming toward them across the wooden floor. Two sets of footsteps. They both looked up to see Lena and a handsome man in Bardic Scarlet approaching them from out of the shadows at the door end of the Archives. Mags knew that face all too well.
Bard Marchand, Lena’s father.
Now that Mags had leisure to study him, he couldn’t say he liked the man any better. The Bard had a classically chiseled face of the sort you would expect to see on a heroic statue. He wore his dark hair a little long, and there was gray at both temples. His eyes were a common enough brown, with disconcertingly long lashes, but despite the long lashes there was nothing effeminate about him. He moved with the confidence of someone who expects everyone else to get out of his way, and he carried himself as if he expected to be the center of attention. He wasn’t as heavily muscled as a Herald or a fighter of some sort would be, but he was lean and fit.
Lena had a sort of tremulously hopeful look on her face. But the expression on Bard Marchand’s was a bit more difficult to read. It looked a little like avidity, which was a strange expression, considering the circumstances.
“Mags, this is my father, Bard Marchand; he wanted to meet and talk to you,” Lena said, and her anxious thoughts were so strong they spilled past Mags’ shields.
Please be nice to him, he finally noticed me!
Mags blinked a little to realize that there was something else going on with her as well . . . as the Healer had said, he got an inkling of the emotions that were driving her as well. Certainly not enough to be uncomfortable or intrusive for him, and he was sure he could shield them out if he wished to, but he knew very well how anxious she was even without reading her expression.
“Father,” she said, with a touch of desperation. “This is Trainee Mags.”
They both ignored Amily, which was uncharacteristically rude on Lena’s part.
Mags would cheerfully have snubbed the man—who clearly had no idea that this was the same Trainee he’d sent on a servant’s errand to make another servant of the King’s Own mere weeks ago. But he couldn’t spoil this for Lena.
On the other hand, he didn’t exactly have to be “himself” for the Bard, either. This was an excellent opportunity for some misdirection.
:Good idea, Mags.:
Dallen was irritated.
:Whatever he wants, make him work for it.:

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