“Burnt, sir,” he said softly, and slipped his bandage a little. It was dusk, and what looked passable by daylight was hideously convincing by twilight. “Accident.”
He felt the man’s involuntary recoil and had to suppress a smile of satisfaction. He pulled the bandage back up.
“I’m sorry for you, lad. You can set up here,” the man said, and Mags heard his footsteps going off.
Once again, Mags set to listening in on unguarded, errant thoughts. It was a lot like working in the mine, actually. A lot of tedious chipping and sifting through things you couldn’t use and didn’t want, hoping for a sparklie.
The Constable returned—this must have been a regular patrol for him—and paused. Through the eyes of a curious passer-by, Mags watched him lean down and felt something warm placed in his hand; a chance thought from the Constable himself told him what it was—a meat pie!
“Oh, thankee, sir!” he said, his voice warm with very real gratitude. It had been a very long time since that half pie this morning, and this was what some of the inns called a “Drover’s Pie,” twice the size of the normal ones, with meat in one half and apple in the other. “Been a good bit since brekky.”
“Eh, inns on the Row feed Guards and Constables free,” the man said with a trace of embarrassment. “They give us too much, and I thought you could use it.”
“A kindness still be a kindness, sir,” Mags replied. “Ye took thought, aye? Many wouldn’t. Thankee.”
The man was pleased, if still embarrassed, and moved off on his rounds.
Mags savored the aroma of the pie; it was a good one. He bit into it, by purest chance getting the meat end, and slowly chewed and swallowed. It was a very good pie, made all the better by the fact of the Constable’s kindness.
:Damn,:
Dallen muttered sleepily.
:What?:
:I’m not there to get the apple end.:
Mags almost laughed.
He stayed there until long after dark, “listening,” waiting, patient. A few more coins dropped into his bowl, he got some tantalizing hints about his quarry when someone asked about the increased patrols and the inn servants talked about horde of Guard and Heralds that had descended on an inn further down the road.
:Dallen, did th’ foreigners leave anythin’ behind when they scarpered off?:
:Nothing but the Lunatic,:
Dallen replied.
:Otherwise the place was scoured clean.:
So whatever it was that—damn it, he had to give his quarry a name.
Temper, he decided. For the man certainly was in a towering temper.
. . . whatever it was that Temper had left behind, it hadn’t been at the last inn. And he learned that the Constables and the Guard had been to every inn on the row with descriptions of the foreigners, asking if they had stayed there. They had, of course. But again, they had left nothing behind. In fact, they were careful not to leave so much as a stray hair or a nail paring behind, which had struck the innkeeper whose thoughts Mags was watching as being odd.
He got nothing more after that—well, nothing pertinent, although he did learn that at astonishing number of married men brought clandestine lovers to these places . . . As the night weathered on, and the inn common rooms began to empty out, he caught the thoughts of the Constable again. The man was approaching, a bit reluctantly . . . hmm. Mags wondered what he was about to say.
“If you were to curl up farther back in that nook to sleep,” the Constable said, standing over him, “You’d be out of the way and I wouldn’t need to ask you to leave for the night.”
Mags chuckled. “Thankee sir, but I got a safer place. Time fer me t’ be gettin’ on then?”
“I’m afraid so,” the man said apologetically, as Mags got to his feet with the help of his staff, and picked up his bowl. “We’re not supposed to allow people to sleep on the street. Rules are rules.”
“Rules’re there fer a reason, sir. Reckon it keeps them like me safe, too. Be fair easy fer someone to decide he didn’t care for the look’a me an’ give me a kick or three. Goo’night t’ ye.”
“And to you,” the Constable replied, relieved that Mags had made no fuss. “And good luck.”
Mags made his way down the street, a little hampered by the fact that there weren’t a lot of people about whose eyes he could use. But as soon as he was well out of sight of the Constable, he ducked into a darkened doorway, and with relief, peeled the wax off his eyes.
With wax and bandage tucked away safe, and his bowl and staff under his arm, he made for the part of town where he had found his cozy sleeping spot at a quite brisk pace, energized by the unexpected bonus of that pie. On the way he had the good fortune of running into a street vendor who was just packing up, who was happy to sell him the remainder of his stock for the handful of small coins Mags had been given today. Though the skinny sausages and tiny, bite-sized pies the man handed over were beginning to dry out, and had been made of the cheapest possible scraps and innards in the first place, nevertheless Mags had not scrupled to eat a half pie dropped in the dirt this morning, and he wasn’t going to cavil at eating these now.
He got a drink at a public fountain and horse trough in a square on the way to his goal, after devouring the sausages (since the pies would keep better). There was a line of workmen having a bit of a wash-up at another public horse trough, and he took advantage of the opportunity to do the same.
By now, inns were closing their doors, and he was in a good position to scramble up to his chimney pots without being noticed as drunks who were disinclined to pay for a spot on the floor to sleep off their liquor were turned out into the street. With the staff tied to his back and the bowl inside his shirt, he made it up before the local Constable came by on his round.
He tucked his pies right up against the chimney-pots to keep them warm and settled in.
:Anythin’ from anybody?:
he asked Dallen.
:Nikolas is testing you in part,:
Dallen replied dryly.
:As you suspected. But there is reason to think there is someone up here who is in contact with our quarry. Whether it is someone at Court, a servant, or even a Guard . . . we can’t tell. And whether the person is in collusion or being duped . . . we can’t tell that, either.:
:’Till I actually find something, don’t matter,:
he replied.
:They’re moving me back to Companion’s stable tomorrow,:
Dallen continued.
:Healers’ only has one stall for Companions, so, there it is. I’ve been politely asked to vacate and agreed. I’m allowed to stand on my own a very little bit, and the rest of the time I can lie down, so . . . time to give the stall back in case someone worse than me is brought in. It will be nice to be in my own stall again. And they will still keep working on me.:
:Wisht I was there,:
Mags replied wistfully.
:Well, cain’t be helped.:
:And I wish bones healed faster.:
Mags hesitated, then asked the question that had been haunting him.
:Bear said—:
:I am quite aware of what Bear said,:
Dallen replied dryly.
:Allow me to point out that Bear has never healed anything but a horse, and cannot possibly know what to expect from a Companion. I am healing fine, and my legs will be just as strong as before. You and I will be playing Kirball as soon as you get back up here. Or . . . all right, maybe not quite that soon, but certainly before Midsummer.:
Mags heaved a sigh of intense relief.
:Companions are not often crippled, except by age,:
Dallen continued.
:Bear couldn’t know that, of course. It’s—well, for the same reason we stay white. So rest easy, Chosen,:
he added fondly.
:We’ll soon be Kirball champions again.:
:Ha!:
Mags replied, happily curling up to sleep.
:Ye mean you will! I’m jest the baggage in yer saddle!:
:Hmm.:
Mags got the sense that Dallen had taken his medicines again, and was about to drowse off.
:I won’t deny that the mares have been very attentive. Very . . . atten . . . tive.:
Mags chuckled quietly, and drifted off to sleep.
17
E
VERY day, Mags set up in one of five places where he thought that the foreigners might be hiding. It wasn’t at all difficult to get himself established; he had learned something about the beggars just by things Dallen warned him to be careful about. Now that he was out here, he learned a lot more by catching their surface thoughts. Mostly what he figured he needed to do was set himself up in such a way that he didn’t annoy them. They could be surprisingly competitive, so he needed to make sure they saw him as nothing like a threat. He hadn’t realized that part until he came to set up among them during the day; he had been lucky his first night, setting up quite by accident in a quiet spot that none of them wanted. Now he had to be more careful.
And after dark, he prowled some of the darker corners of Haven, keeping to the shadows, just in case, against his own judgment, the foreigners might have taken shelter among the poor and the criminal. But by day, and even into the night until the inns closed their doors to anyone not paying to stay the night, he haunted his five districts, moving once around noon and rotating them so that he never visited the same one twice in a row.
The Constables of the five areas he frequented got to know him—he called himself “Trey”—and looked out for him, which was good, because he wasn’t an aggressive beggar. Most beggars called out their sad stories to passers-by, and made a great display of their infirmities. Mags, obviously, did not, because the one thing he did not want to do was to draw attention to himself. As a consequence, his takings were fairly meager. On the other hand, he never once got into a fight with one of the other beggars. Usually those fights were verbal, but not always. Besides, he couldn’t afford either the attraction or the distraction that a fight would cause.
The Constables always saw to it that he had a decent midday meal at least, but things would have been very lean indeed if he had not resorted to a combination of theft and scavenging.
Now, it would have been dissembling to say that he only stole from those who deserved getting stolen from—but he really was in a good position to determine those who did deserve a bad turn, and most of the time he managed to be no more than an inconvenience or an embarrassment. And one thing was absolutely true: he never stole from anyone who couldn’t afford it.
And at any rate, it was never anything worse than snatching a bit of food—usually by nipping in through a hall window at an inn and helping himself to meals left at the doors of people who had hired the room for reasons other than a place to sleep. In short, he stole from men entertaining women who were not their wives in private and very expensive rooms. He never took money, although the opportunity presented itself, nor other property, though that came within reach of his fingers even more often than money. He had discovered he had a positive talent for scampering about on rooftops, which, considering how much of his life had been spent underground, was supremely ironic.
It wasn’t at all difficult. There were never more than a handful of these “special” rooms in an inn, and all were on the top floor, just below the servants’ attic rooms. All he had to do was wait until a post-assignation meal had been left discretley at the door, swing in through a hall window, stuff his shirt full, and scramble out again. It never took him more than a few moments. And to be honest, these little feasts were so extravagant he doubted that much was missed.
He did not use that talent for roof exploration in the poorer quarters, however. There were plenty of souls who lived there that were far better at it than he was, and most of those people had sharp tempers and sharper knives. No, he kept to the ground, to the shadows there, finding places he could hide and listen.
It wasn’t pleasant. The alleys here were only cleaned by rain, and it was a good thing he had a strong stomach.
Although he caught a few, brief whispers of Temper, somewhere off in the distance and never for long enough to get an idea as to direction, never again did he feel the full force of Temper’s thoughts, except in sleep. He slowly came to understand that as he had suspected, these actually were Temper’s nightmares, not his.
And that was where things took a very odd turn indeed. Waking, the man was tough, ruthless, and utterly immoral. In his dreams, he was the victim. The man spent every night fleeing from or fighting with something he knew would destroy—had destroyed—everything he cared about. It had been Mags’ own memories that had colored what he had gotten from Temper, and turned the dreams more personal. In his dreams, he didn’t know what the thing was he fled from or fought. Temper, however, knew very well what, or who, it was. But since it was a dream, Mags had no way of controlling it, to see the situation through Temper’s eyes, so the shadowy hunter remained a mystery.
It got even stranger once he realized that. He began to suspect that Temper was no mere hapless victim, but that he had given himself into the situation willingly. That he had sacrificed the very things he loved for the sake of power. And strangest of all, Mags got the impression that the very thing he fought was the thing he served.