Nice, he thought sourly.
“This here purty filly’s Amily,” he said, since Marchand was still ignoring the other person in the room as utterly unimportant. Time to display the fact that he, at least, had some manners. “She be Herald Nikolas’ daughter.”
A flicker of recognition passed across the Bard’s face, and a flicker of chagrin as he must have realized that Amily was too important a personage to continue to ignore, especially after that dressing-down he’d gotten from Master Bard Lita. “Ah,” the Bard said, turning toward her and beaming the full force of his personality at her as he scooped up her hand and kissed the fingertips. “Enchanted. I had no idea my old friend Nikolas had such a lovely daughter.” It was easy to see how the Bard charmed his admirers; although this wasn’t— quite—the application of his Gift, the Bard had a full measure of charisma and clearly was used to employing it with great precision.
Amily flushed, but only Mags knew it was not with pleasure. “I prefer to stay quietly out of the public eye, Bard Marchand,” she said with an edge to her voice under the sweetness. “I’ve no taste for court maneuverings, and I suppose you would say I am something of a bookworm. Father indulges my taste for solitude.”
“What kin we be a-doin’ fer ye, Bard Marchand?” Mags said, letting his voice take on tones of faintly servile admiration. The man lived on flattery, it seemed, so... give him what he wanted and see what came of it. “ ’M jest a Trainee, cain’t think what brung ye up here, ’less ye wanta know stuff’s in Archives.”
“Oh, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to give me your view of the events of this winter, and the discovery of those vile miscreants in Haven a few days ago, Trainee?” Marchand continued, turning back to Mags with a coaxing manner. “I understand you had a firsthand view of them during their stay at the Palace, and were instrumental in discovering that they were still in Haven.” He smiled. “It’s all fodder for work, of course. And while I am sure that you have already told others of my calling all about those events, a Bard is doing less than his duty if he fails to get the tale directly from those who lived it. The Dean of your Collegium himself advised that I speak directly to you when I enquired of the matter.”
For a moment Mags wondered if that last was a lie. He wouldn’t put anything past Marchand, if Marchand wanted something badly enough, including lying about whether Herald Caelan had actually sent him.
But... no, probably not. He might be self centered, but he wasn’t stupid, and it would be ridiculously easy for Mags to catch him in a lie, even if Mags was as dull as he was pretending to be. It was very likely he’d be caught out, in fact; Mags would certainly say something about it to Caelan the next time he saw the Dean. After all, Bard Marchand was wildly popular and wildly famous, and it would be natural for Mags to be flattered that he had been singled out, and just as natural to thank the Dean for the opportunity to meet the Bard.
Well, natural in Marchand’s eyes, anyway.
:Humph. Indeed. He thinks the world is always watching him.:
:I’d like t’ be watching th’ back of him as he leaves, right now.:
The fastest way to be rid of him would be to tell him the bare, unvarnished truth in as few words as possible; use that veneer of stupid stolidity to Mags’ advantage. Someone as dense as Mags wanted to seem would have little or no imagination, and might be so overwhelmed by the “honor” of Marchand’s attention that he could only manage to get out simple sentences.
So that was what Mags did; keeping the tale spare, staring without comprehension when Marchand asked him things like “But what did you think of that?” or “But how did you feel?”
“Don’t rightly know, Bard,” would usually be his reply, as he would let a puzzled expression creep across his face.
This set him down in Marchand’s mind as a singularly unimaginative, stolid country bumpkin, which suited Mags perfectly.
But it was painfully clear as the questioning continued, that Marchand also considered him to be, if not an actual “hero,” certainly a proto-hero, and one with a great deal of potential. Precisely what Mags did not want him to think. Marchand kept dropping flattering little comments about how brave he was for one so young, and how he surely had a bright future ahead of him. There was no doubt in Mags’ mind that Marchand was not going to be satisfied with this single encounter. He was trying to cultivate Mags.
And Mags kept saying things like “Eh, ’twas all Dallen,” and “I didn’ git a chance t’ think, belike.” And it didn’t seem to help.
:I’ll say this for him, his instincts are very good when it comes to spotting those who are likely to make good songfodder,: Dallen admitted reluctantly. :And even better for spotting those who can help him enlarge his own fame.:
And when the conversation shifted to the new game of Kirball, it was obvious that Marchand’s interest was not feigned—though he seemed less interested in the game itself than in the players. Mags was a Kirball champion, at least for now, which also made him a desirable—acquaintance?
:No,: Dallen said sourly. :Acquisition. Marchand acquires people. People he thinks other people will want to know. I am afraid he has decided that you are a very desirable target, probably more for Kirball than for the business with the foreigners. The latter could have been due to mere happenstance, you being in the right place at exactly the right time, then acting like a Herald should. The former is something that is going to be popular, and if Marchand knows nothing else, he is superb at riding waves of popularity. Watch out, or he’ll invite you to—:
“I am going to stage a small concert for just a few friends,” the Bard said smoothly. “I’m sure you’d like to attend, and I am equally sure my friends would enjoy discussing this new game with you. I’m going to hold it tomorrow night, after the Court dinner.”
Mags was about to open his mouth to come up with some excuse why he couldn’t attend, when the Bard’s next words stopped him dead.
“Lena is going to sing as well, aren’t you, my dear?” the Bard said, as Lena nodded. “It’s so important for a young Bardic student to get early exposure to audiences other than their friends and teachers. Good training for what is to come. There is nothing so important to a Bard as being able to gauge his audience within a few moments, ascertain what their mood is, and at need, what direction to steer that mood.”
Lena looked so thrilled that she was going to be performing in the same venue as her father that Mags could not bear to mar that happiness in any way.
And Marchand surely knew that. He might not know that Mags had helped to steady Lena during her first contest, but he absolutely knew that Mags was one of Lena’s best friends and steadfast supporters, and that Mags would never abandon her to face a room full of strangers on her own.
“We’ll be glad to come, Amily an’ me,” Mags said then, deciding that if he was going to be blackmailed into this, he was going to make Marchand pay for it another way. Snub Amily, ye smug peacock, I dare ye! “Amily missed Lena’s contest; she’ll be a mort glad t’ hear ’er sing now!”
Marchand was clearly taken aback, but there was no way now that he could just come out and say “but I only invited you” without looking unforgivably rude. “Good, then,” he replied, plastering a smile on his face. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing both of you. Right after Court dinner; it will be one of the rooms off the Great Hall. Lena can come and fetch you, so you don’t get lost in the Palace.”
Nice. Treat Lena like a servant, like ye treated me.
:Giving Lena no preparation time for her performance,: commented Dallen.