Mercedes Lackey: Changes

She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “I’m probably just not good enough,” she said shakily. “Not like Farris.”

He drew a complete blank at the name. “Farris? Who be Farris?”

She left off pretending to play, and fished out a handkerchief. “Farris Grevner. He’s new. He’s Father’s protege. They gave him three solos.”

Mags felt his temper flaring and threatening to escape the leash he had put on it. If Mags had had Bard Marchand in front of him at that moment, he’d have flown at him and broken his nose for him. It was bad enough that half the time Lena’s father seemed to have forgotten that she even existed, and the other half used her to get to people he deemed important—like Mags himself, back when he’d saved Bear from that assassin and when he’d been the first “star” of a Kirball team. But to take on a protege? When his own daughter was right here and would have cut off her own hand to get some approval from him?

Then to give the boy three solos in the concert and Lena none?

It was beyond belief.

“Father can’t show me any favoritism,” she said, her voice sounding wretched. “I understand that. Everyone knows I’m his daughter, and he can’t treat me differently than anyone else. It’s not right—”

“ ’S also not right t’give his Trainee three solos,” Mags replied, voice thick with indignation. “Tha’s th’ same sorta favoritism!”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” she exclaimed tearfully. “One, three, the only thing that matters to me is that I didn’t get any!”

Mags patted her hand helplessly. There wasn’t much he could say or do at this point. It was too late to ask to be included in a small group; even her best friends wouldn’t do that without at least a little time to rehearse. All he could do was to let her cry on his shoulder and remind her that even if it had been meant as a slight, she was still going to get to enjoy the last day of the festival without getting all of a knot over her piece.

And to rein in his own temper, tight. He had to think of something to distract her. He wouldn’t leave her to sink in misery.

Another of those welcome breezes sprang up, cooling his head and helping him to cool his temper.

“Jest go give yerself a wash,” he suggested. Then, as he wished that Bear was here, something else occurred to him. One sure way to distract her would be to give her something else to think about. “One’a Bear’s relations turned up. Dallen says ’tis his older brother. He got ambushed by some’a th’ other Healers ’fore he could make a pother, but you gotta know he’s gonna chew on Bear afore he goes home.”

“That’s true,” Lena replied, looking faintly alarmed and drying her tears on her sleeve.

“Well, reckon Bear’s gonna need some coolin’ an’ a friendly face, an’ I misdoubt th’ one ’e’ll wanta see is mine.” He put a little force into his words, and she nodded. He was thinking furiously now, trying to figure out if Marchand had done this to his daughter out of anything other than sheer lack of caring about what she thought or what happened to her. And what if it wasn’t Marchand at all? What if this new pet of his was behind it all?

“An’ look ye, if some’un did mean ye t’get hurt by this, well, if they see ye cryin’, ye jest gi’ ’em what they want. Eh? So don’t.” He made her look at him. “Mebbe ’tis Farris. Mebbe ’e wants ye t’feel like ’e’s better nor ye. Mebbe ’e wants t’lord it over ye. Eh? Mebbe ’e’s the mean-natured kind. We already know ye got all three Bardic Gifts. Mebbe ’e on’y got two. Or mebbe ’e ain’t mean-natured, but ’e’s feelin’ pressed, ’cause yer th’ one with the Marchand name and ye got all three Gifts an’ ev’one knows it. So ’e pressed fer all th’ attention. So. No matter what, ’e don’t deserve no reward of makin’ ye feel shamed an’ bad.”

She blinked, and looked at him in a way that suggested she was shocked. Certainly that had never occurred to her.

Well, a’course it didn’t. She never had t’fight fer nothin’ till she got here. While this sort of thing was very different from the daily, frantic scrabble for food and shelter and even the tiniest bit of comfort that Mags had endured for most of his childhood as a mine-slave, the motives were much the same, and he recognized them for what they were.

“Now, best fer ye t’do is sit down an’ have yerself a hard think,” he told her firmly. “Lookit how good this is fer ye. Ye got no pressure. Ye want t’ play fer folks, well, ye kin sit down jest ’bout anywhere an’ do it, like ye bin. An’ enjoy it wi’out havin’ t’ match up wi’ any’un else. So there. Git a wash. Make yersel’ pretty. Go take a nice corner an’ git a liddle audience. Make ’em happy. Be happy. Then come git dinner wi’ me an’ the rest and hev all yer favorites ’cause yer stomach ain’t in a knot, thinkin’ ’bout the concert.” He smiled wickedly. “An’ then—once yer fulla strawberry tart an’ cream, bacon-an’-egg pie, cake— then ye go by Farris. Betcha ’e’ll be green as grass, thinkin’ ’bout that concert an’ three solos, an’ ’e won’t hev been able t’eat. An’ ye smile at ’im, and wish ’im luck and mean it.”

She blinked at him. “But—why would I do that?“

“Why? Ye mean it, ’cause ye’re a good person. An’ ’cause if this ain’t his doin’, an’ ’e’s scared ’alf t’death over it, ’tis th’ right thing t’do.” He nodded as her eyes widened. “Aye, think on that. An’ if it is ’is doin’, an’ ’e’s full of spite an’ meanness, well, it’ll put ’im in knots. ’E won’t be thinkin’ yer a nice person. ’E’ll be thinkin’ whut ’e’d be doin’ in yer shoes. ’E’ll be mortal certain ye got somethin’ goin’, some way t’mess ’im up when ’e gets up there. ’E’ll be sweatin’ then, lookin’ ev’ which way fer trouble that ain’t gonna come. An’ the more it don’t come, the more ’e’ll look fer it. ’E’s th’ new lad ’round ’ere, an’ ’e knows ye’ll hev got allies—if ’e’s mean, ’e won’t hev no friends, but ’e’ll allus be getting’ allies, t’ pertect ’imself. Flunkies. Suck-ups. ’E’ll be lookin’ fer yers. An’ in a way it’s kinda worse fer ’im ’cause ye’re a pretty girl, an’ ye kin use thet t’get boys t’do thin’s for ye.”

“But I—” She looked shocked.

He interrupted her. “I know ye wouldn’, but if ’e’s mean, ’e won’t e’en be able t’ think like ye, an’ it’d be the first thin’ ’e’d think of. So... ye go be sweet an’ nice t’im, an no matter which way, ye win. If’n ’e’s nice, ye git a new friend, an’ ’e’ll be grateful, an’ ye’ll feel good ’cause ye was nice. If’n ’e’s mean, ye’ll make ’im miserable, an’ ye kin still feel good, ’cause ye was nice an’ showed ye was better nor ’im. An’ look ye—ye gotta keep bein’ nice. Cause if ’e’s mean, ye cain’t let ’im win by makin’ ye miserable nor as mean as ’im. See?”

She nodded slowly. “I do see. You’re right, Mags.” She laughed a little. “And that is why you are a Herald Trainee, and I’m not.”

He snorted, but secretly he felt a little pleased. It felt as if this was the first time he had actually put it all together—what he was supposed to do and how he was supposed to do it. The being a Herald, that is.

And for the first time, he didn’t need Dallen to tell him he was right, because it all felt right.

“Shoo,” he said, with a chuckle. “I ’spect t’ see ye out there wi’ a smile an’ a audience. Bear’s prolly safe ’nough till after dinner. So ye stick wi’ ’im. ’e gits called, ye foller, so’s ye kin be there after. Aye?”