Mercedes Lackey - Intrigues

:Huh,: Mags said. :Still—:

:Indeed. Still. He did stop riots three times. And he did manage to save an innocent man from a mob. And he did hold an entire troupe of brigands spellbound until help could come, twice. But. The thing about Projective Empathy is that it is a very good tool to ensure that the wielder is safe.: Dallen’s mind-voice was more than a bit sarcastic. :If things start to go badly, you can just narrow your focus down to convincing your opponents that you are their new best friend.:

:So it ain’t like throwin’ yerself inta harm’s way, then.:

Mags could feel Dallen’s snort. :The average Guardsman sees more danger in a single incident than Marchand did in all six of his encounters together. Oh, I am not going to say he wasn’t brave, but it is easier to be brave when you know you have a gigantic shield to hide behind if you have to.:

Mags plodded down the hallway and pushed open the door at the end that led into the Palace proper. :So people think he’s a big damn hero, an’ he’s an amazin’ Bard with a lotta Gifts. An’ he reckons now he’s back at the Palace, ’twere time ev’body realizes he’s the Second Comin’ of Stefan, an’ acts like ’tis a privilege t’ breathe th’ same air as him?:

:In a nutshell. And again, I must be fair, part of this is a desire to see Bardic Collegium regarded with the same respect and value as Herald’s and Healer’s,: Dallen said reluctantly. :You’ve heard Lita on that subject.:

It was Mags’ turn to snort. :But most on it is there ain’t ’nough space for him an’ his ego t’ be in th’ same room at th’ same time.:

There was an astonished pause, then a flood of mental laughter. :Oh my. Oh my. I’m relaying that to the others. Mags, every once in a while you do have a way with words!:

:Tell that t’me language teacher,: he replied ruefully, then he was at the door of Herald Nikolas’ small suite, and there was no time for chat.

MAGS was a little nonplussed. Although he had known he was going to escape a sort of interrogation about what he had heard, he had fully expected Nikolas to say something about the Bard, if only to assure his protege that Marchand was not going to come looking for Mags in reprisal. And he had been morally certain that Nikolas was going to ask for Mags’ own thoughts on the matter, and correct them if Mags had come to the wrong conclusion. But aside from asking how Lena was, Nikolas appeared to have dismissed Bard Marchand from his mind entirely. It was odd. It seemed as if the Bard was obsessed with proving he was every bit the King’s Own’s equal, but the Herald was utterly indifferent to the supposed rivalry.

Back at the mine, rivalries like this generally ended badly, when they weren’t dealt with firmly by a superior authority.

Take the Pieters siblings, just as an example. The boys all seemed to have been born quarreling with each other and jockeying for position. They were always at each others’ throats, trying to gain ascendancy in their father’s eyes, and it was only the knowledge that their father would have the hide of anyone who interfered in what made the mine profitable that kept them confined to informing on each other or trying to make sure that the blame for anything that went wrong fell squarely on shoulders other than their own.

Well, things were different here, and he was always reminding himself of that. Maybe—probably—the Bard would confine himself to petty annoyances that Nikolas could just shrug off.

“I will say this much, that man does not deserve to have a child,” Nikolas said darkly. “It is heinous enough that he clearly spends so little time with his family that he cannot even recognize his own daughter on sight—but the fact that she is one of the more promising Trainees and he isn’t even aware of it is just—” Nikolas shook his head. “I have no words.”

Mags nodded. Nikolas actually had a daughter of his own, a bit older than Lena. Amily was one of Mags’ few friends, and Mags knew how much the two cherished each other.

“I dunno,” he replied. “I ain’t exactly real good at knowin’ what families supposed to be like.”

Nikolas coughed apologetically. “Well... the reason I asked you here tonight is because I would like you to take some of your training outside the Collegia and do a bit of outright spying for me. You remember what I said about people ignoring a young lad like yourself.”

Mags nodded. “Yessir.” This was sounding very interesting indeed. He hadn’t had any sort of overt assignment from Nikolas since the disappearance of the foreign envoys. Granted, he and Bear had spent some time recovering from nearly being killed, but they really hadn’t needed more than a fortnight for that. The lessons had resumed in Nikolas’ quarters after that respite, but they hadn’t taken place quite as often, and truth to tell, Mags had been a little disappointed.

These had been lessons in how to be unobtrusive, and in how to observe. Interestingly enough, the lessons in “how to be unobtrusive” were not always about being quiet. Nikolas had shown him how to gauge the mood of people around him, what the King’s Own had called “reading the room.” He’d learned to tell when being somewhat boisterous would be more useful than being quiet, and how to counterfeit looking careless and utterly oblivious to what was going on around him.

Or rather, he had just begun those sorts of lessons. He knew very well that he was a long, long way from mastering them.

On the other hand, these were things he could practice on his own, and really should. He couldn’t expect the King’s Own Herald, who was, after all, the very literal right-hand man of the King himself, to spend hours tutoring him through simple practice. That would be as rude as—as what Bard Marchand had done.

But there were a lot of times when he wondered if Nikolas had decided he wasn’t worth wasting any more effort on.

“I’ve been watching you, and you’re coming along well. Well enough I think that for something simple like this, you can handle it on your own.” Nikolas smiled a little as Mags sat straight up, eagerly. “I’m counting on your youth, your appearance, and the fact that our quarry is the sort of man who regards servants as furniture.”

Mags grinned a little. “There’s a mort’ o them, sir.”

“True enough. Well, here is the situation. Councilor Chamjey is up to something, and I should like to find out what it is. He has gotten a virtual flood of messages lately, far more than is normal for him at this time of year. He has missed several Council meetings, and been late or left early for others.” Nikolas coughed. “Chamjey is not exactly subtle, or he wouldn’t have made such a series of fundamental mistakes.”

Mags tilted his head to one side. “That don’t seem all that suspicious-like t’me, beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I mean, could be anythin’ from plannin’ a party t’ surprise ’is lady, t’ jest making a really good deal he don’ want anyone t’ know ’bout. I mean, he’s a merchanter, right?”

Nikolas nodded. “That’s correct. And all of that would be in keeping with a merchant working some sort of shrewd bargain. The problem is two-fold. The first is that Chamjey is probably the one person least suited to being a Councilor on the Council; most of the others will at least make an attempt at altruism, and at thinking for the greater good of Valdemar. Chamjey has never let the greater good get in the way of his own personal interests in all of the time I have known him. The second part of the problem is that Chamjey has a habit of boasting about deals he has in the making to some of his colleagues, usually in the form of oblique hints. There has been nothing this time, although Soren says he has been incredibly smug of late. So both Soren and I are concerned. We want to know what he’s up to. It might be nothing. But if there is anything going on that is counter to the interest of the kingdom as a whole, not only do we want to know what it is, we can use that to dismiss Chamjey, or demand his resignation, and have someone more honest put in his place.”