Mercedes Lackey - Intrigues

Lydia blinked solemnly at him. “I think you’re probably underestimating yourself, but—” She shrugged. “Well, maybe not, maybe you’re right. So how is poor Lena?”

He refrained from rolling his eyes. “I dun know why she’s so upset. Weren’t like she ever saw her pa, or he saw her.”

Lydia wound up the last of the wool deftly. “I’d say ask Amily. She has a father that’s just as famous, so maybe she can explain it.”

With his hands now freed he could scratch his head. “Reckon I will,” he said. “And thankee, Lydia.”

She grinned at him. “You made a very good winding spool, and a much more entertaining one than my usual. Good luck with this job, and I hope you impress Herald Nikolas.”

He laughed, and took himself off to the stables where Dallen was waiting. :So what d’ye think?: he asked, as he saddled his Companion. :I’m thinkin’ that followin’ this feller ain’t gonna be too easy. Leastwise, not up here.:

:I tend to agree. We need to do something other than the usual. Move the blanket a little higher on my withers, please.:

Mags got the distinct impression that Dallen was waiting for him to come up with... something. Something creative. Something that wasn’t... usual.

He sensed Soren’s head groom approaching from behind and reached back without thinking about it for Dallen’s bitless bridle. “Thenkee, Roben,” he said, and that was when it struck him.

He always knew where someone was, if he knew that person. Was that some aspect of his Mindspeaking Gift?

:Yes it is,: Dallen said promptly. :You don’t have to know what someone is saying to recognize his voice. He could be in another room and all you need to hear is the cadence to know it’s him. It’s the same with Mindspeech. You don’t have to know what they are thinking to know it’s them. So... :

If he knew someone... he would know what they “sounded” like... so . . .

He swung himself up into Dallen’s saddle. :So, it’d be all right if I followed Chamjey by that? So long as I didn’t actually listen in on what he’s a-thinkin’?:

Dallen tossed his head in the way that told Mags he was pleased. :Exactly so. So?:

:So I reckon I’d better find a reason t’ lurk around ’im and get t’ know ’im.:

They headed up the road to the Palace and Collegia. :How convenient that you’ll get your chance today,: Dallen told him, with a hint of amusement. :There is a Council meeting going on right now, and it is going to go long, according to Rolan, Chamjey is showing no signs of wanting to slip away. And I expect if you were to put on a page’s uniform and go serve wine for a candlemark or so, no one would object.:

Mags groaned. As if he didn’t already have enough to do. Oh well. Best get it over with.

Evidently there had been a great deal of silent communication among Nikolas, Rolan, and Dallen, because when he arrived back at the Collegium, there was a page waiting with an impudent grin and a spare set of pages’ livery in approximately his size.

He then spent the most boring pair of candlemarks in his life, standing with the other two pages while the circle of old men droned on and on about—well, it involved a lot of maths. Trade things, it seemed. Fortunately he was not there to understand what was going on, he was there to get himself familiar with the feel of Chamjey’s mind.

Chamjey himself would have been utterly ordinary if it hadn’t been for the flamboyance of his dress. And that was the oddest thing. Because judging by that “feel,” Chamjey was using that very flamboyance as a kind of... mask? No, a distraction. He was using it to make the other Councilors underestimate him. Not that he was brilliant by any means, but he was shrewd. He knew exactly what he was doing.

The outside was a plainish man, average in height, weight, and facial features, with thinning hair and a bit of a belly, who appeared to be desperately trying to make himself look more important, attractive and wealthy with his rather too elaborate clothing.

The inside was a shrewd calculator, who never did anything without studying it from as many angles as possible. If Chamjey had been an animal, he would have been a crow. Not highly intelligent, but clever. Very clever.

And very much on the lookout for himself and no one else. When the set of pages that Mags was with was relieved of duty by another trio, he wandered off to his room to try and make up for missing two candlemarks worth of study time, wondering if he had somehow stumbled onto something not even the King’s Own was aware of.

Strange.

:What’s strange?: Dallen asked.

Mags leaned idly against the side of a building and waited while his quarry, all unaware, approached him. This was a relatively busy corner, where young men with nothing better to do—or who hoped to pick up an odd, easy job or two—loitered in the shadow of an inn. He was wearing the same set of mismatched cast-offs from various Guardsmen that he had arrived at the Collegium wearing—although, now that he had a bit more weight and height, they fit him a great deal better.

:Clothes. Funny how they make ye feel. Yon fancy stuff I have, tha’ I wore t’ Midwinter... feel like there’s allus someone watchin’ me, an’ I gotta be extra careful and quiet like so’s I don’t make mistakes. Like if I open m’mouth I’ll get found out an’ kicked out, even when it was just Master Soren what invited me in the first place.:

:I can see that,: Dallen replied.

:Reg’lar Trainee uniform, I feel like I gotta just try hard all the time, not waste a drip of a candlemark, better measure up, no slackin’, no slouchin’. Like... like I gotta live up t’ the Grays, belike. This... : He chuckled to himself. :This, y’know, I dun feel like there’s all that pressure.:

:An amusing observation. Is that why your posture is so poor?:

Dallen was—somewhere. Somewhere that Chamjey wouldn’t see him from the street at any rate, and somewhere that a Companion alone would not excite much interest. Nowhere near Mags. Probably waiting in an inn-yard somewhere nearby, one where Heralds or Trainees might leave a Companion while they went on an errand. Companions were not exactly unobtrusive after all—horse-sized, horse-shaped, brilliantly white with silver hooves and blue eyes—you couldn’t mistake them for anything else, and their white coats literally would not “take” dyes. So having a Companion visible on this street, when he was already nervous, would immediately put Chamjey on alert.

But one more lounging youth leaning against a wall and watching several other wastrels at a game of dice wouldn’t alert him to anything. Except, perhaps, an irritated observation about wastrel youth and wasting time.

:Nay. Just blendin’ in.: Mags had picked this spot very deliberately. It was the first place where Chamjey would be able to choose a direction once he came down off the street that led to his manor. So Mags was going to wait here, see what direction it was that Chanjey chose, then ride forward on Dallen, getting ahead of him, to the next spot where the same choice was likely to happen. Chamjey would never see anyone following him because no one would be following him. It was all about staying within range of that faint “feel” of the man. As long as he did that, he would know exactly where Chamjey went.

And in this case, as he leaned over the game intently, Chamjey reached the intersection and went west without even a glance at Mags and the gamers.

After he was gone, Mags sauntered off, looking as if he was going nowhere in particular. But he met Dallen in the alley behind the building; making sure no one had seen either of them, he hopped up into the saddle, and off they went.