Mercedes Lackey - Intrigues

Her father? But the man hadn’t recognized her! Surely Lena’s father couldn’t have failed to recognize his own daughter. . . .

He glanced back at the vacated corridor ruefully. Lena certainly seemed to believe he could be capable of that. Her shock had been real... but there hadn’t been any surprise. Just bitter unhappiness.

He thumped the wall, frustrated. Here he was, stuck between two duties, torn between going after his friend and taking the note in his hand to Herald Nikolas.

Or , a rebellious part of him said, hang the note and go have dinner, and take the note when you’re done... Bards be damned . He sighed at that thought. But this was supposed to be about something for the king. And if he didn’t deliver it in a timely manner, that just would show that he was too stupid to be trusted with more important matters. Definitely more trouble than he needed to have hounding him.

With a second sigh to match the first, he turned away from Lena’s direction and considered where Herald Nikolas could be found. He eyed the entrance to the dining hall, listened to his stomach growl at the wonderful smells coming from it, and then almost kicked himself for missing the obvious.

:Dallen? Could yer fin’ out from Rolan where Nikolas is?: and then a moment later, for politeness’ sake, he added, :Please?:

A wry chuckle came back. :And bother his high and mightiness? Since he seems to be just fine with talking to you as well, why don’t you just ask him yourself, hmm?:

Mags was rapidly feeling irritated enough by this entire mess to do just that, but he mentally counted to three and tried again. :Dallen, I can’ do games reet now. I got a note from a Bard t’ take, an’ Lena says yon Bard’s her pa, an’ he didn’t recognize ’er an’ she’s mortal upset an’ ran off. An’ it’s beef night. So you know that’s upset.:

:Ah. In that case... : There was a pause. :He’s coming to you. Stay where you are.:

Well that was easy enough; Mags relaxed a little. Perhaps Nikolas would be able to explain what was going on. At any rate, it meant he wasn’t going to have to run all over half the Palace and Collegia to try and find the man.

The King’s Own Herald appeared at the end of the hallway shortly, recognizable by his silver-trimmed Whites, and Mags trotted down the long polished expanse to meet him, holding out the note. There was a look of faint annoyance on Nikolas’ face, and once again, Mags felt himself shrinking back in guilt. Ah bother. I went an’ interrupted him in something’, an’ now—

“Wretched Bards,” Nikolas muttered, taking the note. “Think that they stand in one place and the sun rises and sets just to illuminate them properly. Thank you, Mags, you should never have been bothered with this.” He read it quickly, after flashing Mags a hint of an apologetic smile. And as he read, his brow furrowed again with exasperation. “Just as I thought. There is nothing here that I needed to be bothered about. He could just as well—and more appropriately—have gone to the Steward with this nonsense.”

Nikolas looked as if he very much wanted to crumple up the note and throw it away. He wasn’t angry, at least not that Mags could see, but he was clearly very much annoyed.

“I dun understand, sir,” Mags said, humbly.

Nikolas shook his head, and grimaced. “It’s a kind of status game Marchand plays every time he turns up at Court. He just wants an excuse to make the King’s Own jump through his ornamental hoops. Conceited popinjay that he is—he wouldn’t get away with this kind of behavior if he were less Gifted, I can tell you that.”

Mags was still puzzled. “Does havin’ a lotta Gifts make that much on a difference in how folks’re treated?” he asked.

“It shouldn’t, but it does.” Nikolas rolled up the note with exaggerated care and slid it back and forth between his fingers. “Then there is the ‘artistic temperament’ that Bards are supposed to have that Marchand milks like a prize heifer and which has thus far spared him from censure. Lita has been much too indulgent with him. And I am strongly considering seeing to it that steps are taken to give him a reprimand.”

“ ’E ain’t Gifted ’nough to tell when his own youngling’s standin’ in front of him,” Mags replied, feeling much relieved that Nikolas wasn’t annoyed at him. “ ’E looked at Lena like she was a stranger. Didn’t e’en notice how upset she was.”

“Of course he didn’t notice. He’d have to remove some of his attention from himself for a moment,” Nikolas replied crossly. “Never mind. I’ll get this dealt with, and I will make sure it is the last time Marchand does anything like this again, one way or another. Mags, you properly did exactly what you were told to do. Now I want you to get some dinner, then go to the kitchen on my authority and have someone make up a dinner basket for Lena. You take it to her room; if she won’t let you in, and she might not, find the proctor for her floor and tell her what happened and leave it with her. Meanwhile I’ll send a servant with a message for Lita, and she’ll deal with Bard Tobias Marchand and Lena too.”

Mags sighed with relief. Good. He wasn’t in trouble, and Lena was going to get sorted out. And he was going to get some dinner after all, and maybe a chance to get into that new book he’d found, if Lena was still too upset to come out of her room. She probably would be. Over the course of the past several moons, there was one thing he had noticed. Though girls at the mine had mostly been indistinguishable from the boys so far as how they behaved was concerned, girls here had a whole different set of behaviors from boys. One of them was to go lock themselves in their rooms for candlemarks or even days when sufficiently upset. When they did that, only other girls could get near them.

Nikolas wasn’t done, though. “Also, when you’re done with Lena, I want you to come up to my rooms. I have a little task for you.”

Well, so much for the book. Oh well. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be trivial. Strange as it seemed, Mags was the King’s Own’s private information source, and even sometimes a sort of spy. Books could wait. “Yessir,” he said, and waited to see if there was anything else Nikolas wanted him for.

“Well, don’t dawdle or you won’t get anything but the crusty ends of the beef!” Nikolas said, tapping him on the top of the head with the rolled-up message. “Get!”

The kitchen was buzzing with gossip when he went to get the dinner basket. From the sound of things, the arrival of Bard Marchand was going to be a nine days wonder. Everyone was agog at his presence back in Haven, and all that anyone could talk about was how brilliant and how handsome he was. Mags sat on a stool out of the way and waited for one of the undercooks to put that meal basket together and listened.

Notice no one’s talkin’’bout how nice he is, Mags thought sourly. To his right, serving maids helped collect the leftovers and sort them into what was going back into the larder, and what was going out to charity. Nothing was wasted in the King’s kitchens.

“Do ye think we’ll get a chance t’ hear him, like?” one of the serving maids sighed, her eyes all dreamy-sparkly as she deftly combined the remains of three pies into one pan.

One of the undercooks rapped her on the top of the head with a spoon. “He’s not for the likes of you, gu-url,” she growled. “So you can pull that little thought right out of your head. The most you be like to hear is a snatch of song while you be servin’ the wine, an’ if you go all moony and spill the wine, it’ll be the pots an’ pans for you for the rest of the year.”