Redoubt (13 page)

Fortunately, the arrival of Bear and Lena saved her from having to answer and him
from the consequences of that answer.

When they came in, hand in hand, looking triumphant but exhausted, they were swarmed.
Mags didn’t even
try
to get near them, and finally someone took charge of the chaos.

A horn blast from one of the Bardic Trainees (why had he brought a
horn
to dinner?) brought momentary silence, and into that silence came a bellow in a quite
familiar voice.

“Everyone just
shut up,”
shouted Gennie. In the ensuing quiet there was only the shuffling of feet. “Good.
Bear, Lena, would you mind telling us all what the
hell
you were thinking, running off like that? And what happened today when you got back?”

They looked at each other. Everyone looked at them. Finally Bear coughed. “We were
thinking, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than get permission,” he said, quoting Mags
and Dallen directly. “You all know what my father keeps trying to do. Lena and I,
well, we don’t want anyone else, never have. Where I come from, people younger than
me get married off all the time—probably that’s the same for most of you, too. Father
Poul down in Haven’s spent the last couple of days pretty much talking us to death,
and he reckoned we knew what we were doing, so he married us today, we came up and
’fessed up to the Deans. And that’s it, really.”

“Well, other than that I won’t be Lena Marchand anymore, I’ll be Lena Tyrall,” said
Lena when he had finished. “And when I go into Scarlets, I’ll be
Bard
Tyrall. Which . . . is kind of important to me, even if it doesn’t mean anything
to anyone else.”

But there were nods, especially from the Bardic Trainees. Mags didn’t quite get it,
but after some whispered explanation from Amily, he began to understand. After all,
there already was a “Bard Marchand,” Lena’s now-disgraced father. Even if he had not
fallen into disgrace, she would still be forced to compete with him as the “other”
Bard Marchand. Not all of his compositions had been stolen from his protégés, and
he had a formidable body of work that hers would always be compared to.

Now, she wasn’t competing with him, and except for those who knew who her father was
already (not many, relatively speaking), she was not going to be compared more with
him than with any other Bard. And now, no one would be associating her name with infamy.
This probably would have been less than successful if she had changed her name after
she had attained the title of “Bard,” because her Masterwork would have been, perforce,
done under her old name.

“As for what happened when we got back, Father Poul came with us, and . . . let’s
just say we went through the last couple of days all over again.” Bear sighed, and
he squeezed Lena’s hand. “Deans of all
three
Collegia, and the heads of all three Circles.
And
the King’s Own
and
Prince Sedric and Princess Lydia. But it’s all right. They reckon we didn’t run off
and do something stupid, we’ll be living in my quarters still, and we’re still Trainees.
And let me just say, if that’s how they question a couple of folks who just went off
an’ got married, I wouldn’t want to be caught stealin’ so much as a pocket pie.”

That got a laugh. Bear’s fellow trainees had been zealously guarding some dinner for
him and Lena, and the two of them were allowed to eat in relative peace, while smaller
groups asked them questions. Mags and Amily waited until pretty much everyone else
had been satisfied, and Mags brought them over some custard tarts and a pitcher of
tea after most of the mob had cleared out.

“Thanks for keeping quiet,” Bear said, when they sat down across from him and Lena.
“Nikolas was kinda irritated you hadn’t talked to him, but—” he shrugged. “—even he
admitted he’d’ve tried to stop us if he’d known.”

Mags did
not
say “I told you so” to Amily. He didn’t need Dallen telling him what a bad idea
that
was.

“Ye know, this ain’t the end of trouble,” he said instead.

“Oh, we know,” Lena replied, since Bear had a mouthful of tart. “We fully expect the
fury of hell itself to descend when Bear’s father finds out.” She smiled slyly. “But
let’s just say we have a very unexpected weapon on our side.”

4

W
ith all of the wedding business out of the way, Nikolas decided that it was time to
reopen the shop down in Haven. He had no doubt that with all of the visitors that
had been packed into Haven, it had been a glorious time for thieves, and if there
is one thing that thieves require, it is someone who can turn what they stole into
money. Nikolas, in the persona of Willy Weasel, already had the reputation for taking
in unusual objects no one else would touch because his mute “nephew” could evaluate
stones, allowing him to pry them out of settings and sell them without the concern
of a piece being recognized. “Unusual jewelry” was how they had caught the assassins
before. There was always the hope that the men had neither realized this nor reported
it, and this would be an effective way of uncovering more of them.

At this point, Nikolas had decided that it was time for Willy to show some evidence
of prosperity in the form of employees. Where Nikolas had found these fellows, Mags
had not been able to guess, but they certainly looked villainous enough. When Nikolas
had taken him down to the shop before the wedding, he’d blinked at the sight of them;
big, grizzled, scowling, they were twins for some of the mine guards.

“Are ye sure you can trust ’em?” he’d asked Nikolas, aghast. That was when Nikolas
had laughed and told him that they were actor friends of his, retired now from their
profession, but more than willing to put in “short performances” at night at the shop.

That had eased Mags’ mind a great deal. Nikolas had never once made a mistake with
his actors, and Mags very much doubted he had this time, either.

They knew exactly what to say when something that looked important came in the shop
door. “Willy” would not give them the authority to buy more than the most trivial
of goods, however, nor purchase information, and no one would be surprised at that.
Anyone with any sense would probably figure that “Willy” kept most of the shop money
locked up somewhere and only doled out the little they needed to run the place in
his absence. This meant anyone with anything of note to sell would have to wait until
Willy and his nephew turned up.

This was a profound relief to Mags; it meant he and Nikolas only needed to put in
an appearance for a few candlemarks every few days and not spend every night down
at the shop. That had been exhausting, even with all of Mags’ instructors doing their
best to accommodate his schedule.

It also meant that instead of waiting for those potential clues to come in, he and
Nikolas could have them turning up when
they
wanted. So if there was any appearance of danger, well . . . they could arrange for
the danger to have a terrible surprise.

Mags didn’t expect any suspicion to arise from this change in the shop schedule. It
was entirely within the realm of believability that the Weasel had managed to make
a big score. No one would be in the least surprised at the Weasel delegating the running
of his shop, if he had managed to come into money. The Weasel was known for his sharp
dealings, not for being so miserly that he begrudged the spending of so much as a
pin more than he needed to. Nikolas had carefully manufactured a persona of a man
who did not begrudge himself small luxuries or indulgences.

Being able to do something other than stand behind the protected counter of his own
shop every night was one of those things every shopkeeper hoped for, one day.

Mags was not altogether certain he was looking forward to their first foray down in
Haven again, however. He had the feeling that Nikolas had a few things to say to him
about Lena and Bear.

* * *

“I have a few things I would like to discuss with you about Lena and Bear, Mags.”

The shop was quiet, which was not at all surprising. The first lot of people with
something valuable to get rid of had
almost
been lining up at the door, waiting for the Weasel. Almost, because they had trickled
in slowly over the first couple of candlemarks, probably scouting first to make sure
no one was lying in wait, hoping to ambush a fellow thief while he was carrying something
good.

And the wedding had, indeed, brought a wealth of small, valuable items into Haven,
if what had been spread out for the Weasel’s perusal was anything to judge by. Nothing
that would impress a highborn, of course; no one who came to the Weasel was
that
good or lucky a thief. But there was a lot of real silver and real semiprecious or
poorly cut precious gems.

When anything had gems in it, the Weasel passed it over to his mute “nephew” for grading.
Mags passed a practiced eye over it, graded the stones, scribbled the grade on a bit
of slate and passed both back. The Weasel never paid jewelry value, of course, only
metal and stone—because if he really had been a pawnbroker and a fence, he would never
have kept any of it intact; he would pry the stones out, melt the piece down, and
dispose of the things that way.

In fact the pieces were going to the City Constables; if there were recognizable theft
claims on any of it, the jewelry would go back to its owners. If not, it would be
held for a year, then disposed of, and the proceeds would go to the families of Constables
who had died to help them out.

But now the shop was quiet, he didn’t have to pretend to be mute. And Nikolas, who
hadn’t had a chance to speak with him privately before this—exactly as Mags had wanted
it—now was going to get his chance.

Now I’m for it.

“I understand, I think, why you didn’t consult with me about their plans,” Nikolas
said slowly. “I’m . . . annoyed, however. Did it occur to you just to say ‘I have
something I would like you to keep in confidence, and if you can’t do that, just say
so’? The King’s Own keeps many secrets, even from the King.”

“Uh . . .” Mags replied, feeling stupid. “No.”

Nikolas nodded. “All right, then. Now I am a bit less annoyed. I might very well have
said
no, depending on what Rolan and Dallen said to me, but at least then we would have
known where we stood, I would have known that you younglings were up to something
private, and I would have looked less foolish when Bear and Lena turned up married.”

“Well . . . Dallen said ’e didn’t think I should tell nobody about it,” Mags ventured.
“’Cause Bear hadn’t given me leave.”

“But you didn’t ask Bear for leave?” Nikolas was pitiless.

“I reckoned if he wanted t’give me leave, he would’ve.” It was weak, and it sounded
weak, and he knew it.

“Hmm.” Nikolas wasn’t convinced.

:I didn’t see any way it could cause any harm at this point in time.:

Mags knew exactly what Dallen meant. “Dallen says he didn’ think
right this moment
them gettin’ married’d cause problems,” he relayed, then elaborated. “Lena’s Pa’s
in disgrace. Bear’s Pa’s in bad with the Healer’s Circle an’ the Collegium, on account
of how he was actin’. He’s in worse, ’cause he sent Cuburn t’spy on Bear in the first
place, and Cuburn near got Amily killed in the second. So right now, pretty much anythin’
that might spite him is all right with everybody. But . . . ye just never know ’round
here. By Midwinter, maybe somehow Bear’s Pa manages t’ save somebody important, an’
all of a sudden he ain’t in bad no more, ’cause nobody dares counter his backer. Or
maybe Bear makes some mistake, an’ everybody decides maybe his Pa was stupid, but
right.” He shrugged. “Y’see? Right this moment might be th’ only time they could do
it without stirrin’ up trouble for more people than just themselves.”

Slowly, Nikolas nodded. “So you did think this through.”

“As much’s I could, since it ain’t my call t’make. ’Twas Bear an’ Lena’s, an’ that’s
that.” That seemed to him to be the real argument here.

Nikolas pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “All
right. I still don’t like it. As the King’s Own, I am still slightly offended that
the person I am teaching and responsible for did not come to me with this information.
However,
you are correct in that at this point in time, the information really was of no importance
to anyone except Bear and Lena, and there were no possible ramifications.”

Mags let out the breath he had been holding in.

But Nikolas wasn’t finished. “Nevertheless. Mags—
and
Dallen—you both forget that I am privy to absolutely everything regarding this Kingdom,
and it was entirely likely that I would know something that would reveal that yes,
there
were
possible ramifications. I do not wish to have to repeat this lecture again.
Ever.”

“Yessir,” Mags said immediately.

:Hmph.:
That was all Dallen said. Mags very much feared that his Companion was not impressed.

“Now, of everything that came in tonight, what was the thing that didn’t fit?” Nikolas
asked.

Mags shook his head, and Nikolas held out his hand. In it were three rectangular pieces
of finely finished metal. They looked bronze; they also looked as if they should have
been pendants, except there were no holes in them for stringing on a necklace.

All three were of the same design: flowers, or what appeared to be flowers, on one
side, and some sort of cursive pattern on the other.

Mags cocked his head to the side. “They ain’t all that valuable.”

“Not in and of themselves, no.” Nikolas turned them over in his hand with a finger.
“The thing is, they aren’t anything I have ever seen before. I think this is writing,
but it’s no language either I or Rolan is familiar with. It’s not the same language
as the one book our mysterious assassins left behind is written in. So I am sorely
puzzled. Are they coins? I’ve never seen a rectangular coin, it’s possible. Are they
talismans? There don’t appear to be any images of gods. Are they gaming pieces? If
so, whoever owned them must be very wealthy, and you would
think
that a wealthy person who has lost some pieces to his game would be going to jewelers
to have them replaced so he can continue to play—and believe me, if that had happened,
I would have been told about it. The jewelers in Haven know
very
well to come to one of the Guard or a Guard agent, or a Constable if something turns
up that they just don’t recognize.”

Mags nodded. He’d actually relayed a few of those messages, which had all but one
turned out to be false alarms—some bits and pieces from the Shin’a’in and from Rethwellan.
The one that had not been a false alarm had sorely puzzled them all until someone
found a half-obliterated hallmark on it, and had realized the piece was a botched
attempt at melting down a more intricate object, and what had been a delicate tracery
of leaves and vines had ended up looking like an unknown script.

But these pieces were clean, not shiny, but still, with no wear and very little patina
on them. Even though Mags could not have told what sort of flowers were on the front—if
it was the front—he had no doubt that they would be perfectly recognizable to someone
who knew their type.

Nikolas closed his hand on them. “They’ll go to the Guard Archivist. If there’s a
record of anything like this, he’ll have it.” He put the pieces in a secure pocket
of his belt pouch. “I’d like you to run the rest of this over to the Constables,”
he continued, handing over a heavy, if tidy little bundle. “Get back here as soon
as you can. The lull won’t last forever, just until the most cautious of our clients
decide that it is late enough they can take the chance on catching the Weasel before
he goes home for the night.”

Mags took the bundle and secured it inside his tunic, in a pocket he’d sewn there
himself, with heavy, double-stitched seams. Then he pulled down the ladder that accessed
the attic and the roof and scrambled up it, pulling it up after himself once he reached
the top.

Obviously, he was
not
going to travel on the open streets with this much silver on him. And equally obviously,
he had no intention of allowing anyone to see that the Weasel’s nephew was visiting
the Constables.

As he came out on the roof and sniffed, he thought he caught a hint of ripening hay
in the air. It was possible; there were hayfields just outside of Haven’s walls. Well
if the last hay harvest had begun, then the grain harvests would not be far behind,
and that meant autumn was definitely on the way.

:Ah, Kirball matches without fainting from the heat. I favor that.:

Mags grinned as he paced across the roof tiles and poised at the edge, then made the
leap to the next roof to land as softly as a cat.
:I’m with ye there, but I’m not lookin’ forward t’ roof-runnin’ in the cold.:

:Then let’s hope you don’t have to,:
came the entirely practical answer.

The good thing about this part of Haven was that the houses were crowded so closely
together that even when crossing streets he still didn’t have to descend to the ground.
And he knew his way to the Constable’s station so well that he could easily have made
the run half asleep. It took him a quarter candlemark, and it wouldn’t have taken
him that long if he hadn’t had to wait a few moments for a patrol of Constables to
pass.
They
wouldn’t know who the shadow flitting over the rooftops was, and they would raise
the alarm. Then
he
would have to lose them. They’d probably recognize him if they caught him, but then
they would have to go through the charade of taking him in, and . . . well it could
turn into an all-night debacle before he got turned loose, and he was really hoping
to be back in bed a bit after midnight.

Better not to be seen.

He got to the Constabulary roof, found his special access hatch, and tripped the hidden
catch. Once he was down in their attic storage, he could breathe easier.

There was a proper set of stairs down into the readying room, and he came down them
just as the patrol he had spotted came in to get rid of their gear and get a little
rest before going out again.