Mercedes Lackey - Intrigues

Ah, but here Mags had the advantage. He knew this part of Haven much better than Temper did. Now he could run ahead, while Temper only skulked—

Or so he thought.

To his chagrin and incredulity, he sensed Temper straighten, take a folded, sealed packet out of a pocket, and with that in his hand, stride confidently up the middle of the road. He was a man with a message to deliver, and no one was going to look at him twice. No, Mags would have to skulk; not even in the darkness was he going to pass as someone who belonged up here, as ragged and filthy as he was.

At least he knew the area; he knew who had dogs, who had private guards, whether or not those guards were vigilant. So he followed Temper just out of sight, keeping walls and other obstructions between himself and the foreign agent, so that if Temper heard the sound of Mags’ bare feet on the pavement, he’d see nothing if he turned to look.

He didn’t seem to hear anything, however, and Mags kept up a running, mostly inarticulate prayer that he wouldn’t.

Mags was very aware of the nearness of the Palace, the looming walls that surrounded it, and that they were drawing nearer to it with every moment. There was an open space, officially designated as a park, between the last of the Great Manors and the walls around the Palace and Collegia.

Here, the man paused; his mind closed to Mags’ as he searched intently for something. This was the back of the Palace, not far from Companions’ Field. There was nothing like a gate here; surely he wasn’t going to try and get over the wall!

Even as Mags watched, that was exactly what he did.

He raced across the open lawn, and if Mags hadn’t been watching him, he would never have seen him go. He took advantage of a cloud passing over the moon to run to the wall in that moving shadow.

Then, impossibly, he jumped for the wall and scuttled up it like a spider, disappearing over the top.

With a spasm of despair, Mags followed in his wake.

MAGS discovered why Temper had chosen that particular spot to go over the wall. A massive vine of some sort had grown up along it—it had rightfully been killed, but someone had carelessly left the main stem embedded in the wall. It was just as good as a ladder.

That must have been how he and his cohorts had fled the Palace in the first place, after the blizzard. Whoever had left this thing here was going to get the sack at least—

But that would be later. Right now—

Mags tumbled over the top of the wall and rolled to land. Temper had a good lead on him now. They were right at the edge of Companion’s Field. From Temper’s fleeting thoughts, he had a good many paces lead over Mags at this point. Mags hurried to narrow that lead, and spotted the man—the shadow, rather, if he hadn’t been watching Temper’s thoughts, he wouldn’t have known it was a man—hiding in the shadow of the end of the stable that contained Mags’ own room. Mags took cover himself, and waited for Temper to make the next move.

But if ’e goes straight fer the Guard Archives, I kin get t’ th’ stable, an’ get one’a the other Companions t’ wake up ’is Herald and—

And that was when it all went horribly wrong.

Temper was in sight of the Companion’s stable. His mind flashed over with that unholy glee and excitement, and the image of what he was going to do to distract everyone from his raid on the Archives branded itself into Mags’ mind.

He was going to barricade the doors, and set fire to the Companions’ Stable.

Horror washed over Mags. Oh, the others would be able to get out—they could batter the wooden doors down, and no Companion was going to be as terrified by fire as a horse. But Dallen couldn’t. Dallen was drugged and the next thing to immobile. He would be trapped in there while the stable burned around him. The moment the others broke the doors down, flaming debris would fly inside, setting fire to all that straw and hay—

He’d be trapped, helpless.

Terror ripped through Mags like a lightning strike; there was no time to spare, no time to use Mindspeech to wake the people he knew, no time to do anything except rouse everyone his thoughts could reach, and fast. Except he didn’t know how to do that the way that, say, Rolan did it. He could “shout,” but only to the limited number of people he knew. So he did what he had been told, over and over again, never to do.

He dropped his shields. All of them, even the ones that had been up and protecting him before he even knew there was such a thing as a Gift, before he really knew there was much of a world outside the mine. Everything went down, so that he, in turn, could reach everyone.

And as the dozens, hundreds of minds up here rushed in on him, battering him from all sides, he screamed his warning into them. Even into the mind of Temper, who was frozen in place for a moment as the image of what he had intended to do came flooding back at him, laden with a burden of warning, panic, and terror.

The response came back to Mags, redoubled. All those minds, some shocked awake, all taken by surprise, all jolted by his panic and responding with panic of their own. What! What! WHAT!!

Feeling as if he was in the center of a cave-in, Mags struggled to get his shields back up. Struggled, and failed. It felt as if his head was going to break into a million pieces; a hundred images flashed in front of him, and he couldn’t tell which belonged to him. Voices in his mind babbled, shouted, at him, and he couldn’t understand any of them. His brain burned and it was all he could do to stand erect and he felt his very hold on sanity slipping.

But Dallen was in danger.

Dallen was in danger.

Scarcely able to see for the conflicting images in his head, stumbling and disoriented, nevertheless, he rushed for Temper. Dallen was in danger. That was all that mattered; he had to get to Temper before Temper could move.

He reached the man just as Temper recovered from the mental blow, and somewhere under the battering of a thousand confused thoughts, he knew that he had never done anything this stupid before . . .

He lurched at Temper with his hands out, staggering like a drunk, barely able to control his own body enough to run at the man. He— and a hundred others through his eyes —saw Temper pull his dagger and slash at him with it. Temper was moving slowly though, very slowly, not like— a hundred others saw/felt the memory of Temper’s kill —when he murdered that poor thief.

Temper recoiled, his mind reflexively lashing out. Mags stumbled and fell, which is what saved him from Temper’s first slash.

Enraged, afire with uncontrolled anger, Temper came at him again, just as— a myriad of confused minds tried to shove him away —Mags managed to get to his feet. Temper slashed at him again—not the controlled and calculated movement of a skilled knife-fighter, but the flailing of someone who barely knew which end of the knife to hold.

It didn’t matter. The knife scored a painful slash across Mags’ ribs.

The pain was what saved him, momentarily at least.

As the blade burned across his chest, that same pain made his shields snap back up.

He gasped with mingled agony and relief as his mind cleared. Unfortunately, so did Temper’s. The man’s stance changed immediately, and he snapped into a knife-fighter’s crouch. Mag knew in an instant that he was in trouble. The best he could hope for would be to stay out of reach.

Which, as Temper’s arm lashed out, was not looking likely; he moved faster than anyone that Mags had ever seen. Mags managed to evade him, but barely, and Temper was right on top of him before he had any right to be.