Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (10 page)

Then Jakyr asked about the injuries to the mine workers. And the dangerous question, “How did people die?”

That was when Mags got frightened all over again. This was dangerous, dangerous stuff. Everyone knew what would happen if you told such things, and Pieters found out about it. You'd end up in a “cave-in” yourself. And Mags had suspected more than once that the Pieters boys had a very special punishment for those who really transgressed. He had the feeling that the ones that woke their worst ire were sealed into those played-out shafts—broken, scarcely able to move, but still alive. Though of course, they didn't stay that way, not for long. The question would be whether they ran out of air first or whether they died of their injuries before then.

He could
see
it in his mind's eye. He could see himself in the absolute dark, gasping out his last breaths. Pieters would find a way. He knew it. His insides went cold and knotted up, his hands began to shake, and he wanted to go and curl up in a corner behind something and hide.

“I cain't—” he whispered, tears starting into his eyes, his voice choked off into nothing by the fear. “I cain't. When Master Cole finds out who 'twas told—”

“Master Cole cannot reach you, Mags.” It was the stranger who spoke, voice tight with rage and mind so full of the same anger that his thoughts were lost under a red wash. “Master Cole can never touch you again. Now don't you want to make sure the rest of the children get that same protection?”

:Mags, this is not a premonition you see, it is only your fear. Don't let Pieters keep you a prisoner!:
Dallen's voice rang with conviction in Mags' mind. Mags quivered with fear, but deep in his heart, he knew the stranger was right, and so was Dallen.

The stranger's reaction had told him so. He knew now that no one should have been treated as he and the others had been. He knew that Cole Pieters deserved to be punished. He couldn't leave the others there, not now that he knew Master Cole was an evil, bad man. And what he had said so far might not be enough to win them free.

But it was hard, hard, hard. He had to fight past the fear of Master Cole that made his throat close up, fight past the knotting of his gut and the hunching of his shoulders against the blows he knew
must
come for breaching the silence.

And then, in a whisper, he told everything he knew.

To the best of his ability, he drew a map of the mine and showed where the bodies were. As far as he could, he detailed what they had
really
died of. And when it was over, he was shaking, his clothing was soaked with nervous sweat, and he felt as weak and drained as if he had run for days.

When they let him go, he had barely enough energy left to drag himself to the bathing room and pour himself a bath. He stank of fear and sweat and—suddenly he was feeling fastidious, being around all these cleanly people. He didn't want anyone to think he didn't know better. Not now. And besides, he was so wet through, and so drained, that he was shivering with chill as well as reaction. His stomach was still in knots, and he still kept wanting to hide. It took forever to fill the bath, his hands were shaking so that the buckets sloshed.

So he stripped and soaked in the hot bath, trying not to think of anything, until his shivering, internal and external, stopped. He lay back against the rear of the tub, his mind emptying, steam rising in his face.

Now, until this moment, Mags had accepted whatever Dallen told him unquestioningly. But this was too much to swallow. He knew very well he should be afraid. What was he? Nothing. Now, he was not very smart, and it was clear to him from everything that Dallen had been pouring into him that the way he and the other kiddies had been treated was
not
the way things were usually done. Yet Master Cole had gone on doing it. Mags was not very smart, and he was not at all wise in the ways that the world worked, but there was one thing he did know, and that was all about power. You either had it, or you didn't, or you had some, but not as much as someone else might. The Pieters boys had some, over the kiddies and the other mine workers, and they did whatever they wanted to the people below them. But Master Cole had power over
them
and did what he wanted to all of them.

Now this was a fact: Master Cole had treated the kiddies very badly indeed. Yet he had been able to do so for years and years and years, stretching far back beyond where Mags' memory started. So it stood to reason that somehow Master Cole had plenty of power that extended far beyond his own mine. Or, if he didn't, there was someone with a lot more power who was protecting him.

Now what Mags was telling Herald Jakyr and the stranger was going to turn Master Cole's mine upside down, maybe even shut it. That was going to make Cole Pieters very angry, certainly angry enough to kill. And if there was someone even
bigger
than Cole Pieters involved, it would surely make that person angry, too.

So what reason was there for Mags to
not
be afraid?

Dallen read all that swiftly from Mags' mind, as quickly as he reasoned it out himself. And for the first time, Dallen was silent.

Finally, he spoke.

:You are right, Chosen. You have reason to be afraid. But you have no reason to
keep
being afraid. No matter what happens, you can be sure that Herald Jakyr will not allow anyone to know who gave him this information. To be absolutely honest . . . Herald Jakyr can do some of the same things that you can, and many, many more that you cannot. He has the means to get this information by himself, once he gets back to the mine. I will warn him to be sure that Cole Pieters thinks he got it all by magic.:
There was a pause.
:There. He and Scribe Myrden are conferring now. The only people that will ever know where it all came from are the people in that room and the King himself.:

Mags thought about that for a moment.
:I s'pose . . .:
he thought, still dubious.

:If you ever trusted me, you should trust me now.:
Mags got the impression of a sigh.
:Mags, there will be many things that you should be afraid of. I am not telling you to never be afraid. But you must not let fear rule you. It should guide you, not govern you. And you should never allow it to stop you from doing what is right.:

He thought about that for a much longer moment.
:Helpin' the rest . . . that was right.:

He swallowed. This was all very well, but . . .

And at the moment, Dallen . . . did something. It was like opening a door in his mind. Except it was a door onto something enormous. Like stepping through the mouth of a cave and finding himself at the top of a very high place. For that moment, he saw, or sensed, rather, a vast web like the enormous web of a spider, except that all of the points in the web were people, and all of the strands connecting them were their Companions. And what one knew, sooner or later, the others knew. And what happened to one of them happened to all of them.

That was when he
understood.
Understood that, even though he would not always get along with some of the people who wore this white uniform, they would
always
protect him, as he, when he was older and stronger, would always fight to defend them. Understood that this was a bond that went deeper than blood and bone. He even understood now, what it was that had made Dallen pick him.

That door in his mind shut again, for it was rather too much for anyone to bear for long. But the sense of it stayed with him. That was when, elated and humbled all at the same time, he began to cry quietly. He had always known he was a very small and insignificant thing; he had been called “maggot” so often by the Pieters boys that he had come to think of himself as exactly that—a thing that was not even an insect. But now . . . now he had seen that he wasn't so insignificant, that he was a part of something huge, and that he would always be part of it, no matter that he would never feel quite worthy of it all.

This time Dallen did not soothe him, since this was not something anyone should be soothed out of. The tears were one part happiness, one part awe, and one part release, and he let them fall.

Finally, he found words at the end of his tears and the end of his wordlessness; he ducked his head under the hot water to wash the tears away and considered what still left his guts in a cold knot. There was still a fear in him, a new fear, and not of Cole Pieters nor what the man might do to him. Mags had made so many mistakes in his few years. And he was tracing a path through a wilderness he didn't understand. What if he made the most terrible mistake of all?

:What if I do something that makes you hate me?:
he thought fearfully.

:You won't,:
Dallen replied firmly.
:You can't, so long as you never close your mind to mine, so long as we make decisions together. Together we will find solutions. They may not be the best, but they won't be the worst, and if we make mistakes, we will make them together. Is that a bargain?:

He splashed more lukewarm water on his face to wash away the last of his tears.
:Sounds right to me.:

He was climbing out of the tub when Dallen hit him with
that
idea, and it left him stuck for a moment, half in and half out.
:But . . . but . . . but . . .:

Swiftly he dried himself off and put on his clothing, then went in search of one of the Guards who seemed able to get him the few things he had tentatively asked for.

“A coat for you, and harness up your Companion? Shouldna be a problem. I thought we give you a coat already—” The man looked at him quizzically. When Mags shook his head, he shrugged. “Well, that's easy remedied. If there's naught in stores—” He got up from the stool he had been sitting on to polish his boots, set his task aside, and steered Mags toward a part of the building where he'd not yet been. This, it turned out, was “stores,” which was where everything not in immediate use was tucked away. Unfortunately, there were no coats or cloaks in storage that were not so big they completely enveloped Mags and pooled on the floor.

Fortunately, there was a tailor.

In a remarkably short time, Mags was headed to the stable in a coat that was still too big for him, but which had had the sleeves and hem shortened by the simple expedient of cutting them off so he didn't fall over them, and which was held in with a belt improvised from a bridle strap. The tailor was doing a “proper job” of shortening another coat while Mags “made do” with this one, which, so the tailor averred, “Wasn't fit for anything but the ragbag.” Mags couldn't see what he was talking about to be honest. There seemed nothing whatsoever wrong with the coat to
him.
But then, it was the first time he'd ever had a coat, and certainly no one else seemed to be wearing one with as many patches on it as this one. He didn't see where they made a difference; certainly he was toasty warm in this thing.

He knew where the stable was already, for he had been to visit Dallen several times there. This time, when he pushed open the door tentatively, and stood blinking in the horse-and straw-scented gloom, he saw one of the Guards was already pulling tight the wide strap that held Dallen's saddle on his back.

He stood back uncertainly. The Guard didn't seem to know he was there.
:Now what do I do?:
he thought.

:You ask Tennit to help you onto my back.:
Dallen cast an amused glance at him out of one blue eye, and the Guard turned.

“Heyla,” the man said in a friendly enough tone. “Got this lad all tacked up and ready for ye. Are ye gonna be needin' a bit of help, then?”

Relieved that the man understood without Mags having to say anything, the boy nodded.

“Right ye are. So, ye come over here, yah? Then ye get yer left foot inta this thing, yah? 'S called a stirrup. Now ye grab that there—that there is the pommel of the saddle. If ye was alone, ye'd haul yerself up, but since I'm here, ye step inta my hands, ya?”

Awkwardly, Mags did so, gingerly putting his right foot into the man's interlaced hands. And suddenly, he found himself shoved right into the air, practically over Dallen, saddle and all, and it was only by hanging onto the pommel thing for dear life that he avoided going right over Dallen's back to fall in the straw on the other side of the Companion.

With a
thud,
he landed in the saddle and awkwardly fitted his right foot into the other stirrup.

The man fussed about with the stirrups for a moment, shortening the straps holding them to the saddle. Finally he was satisfied, as Mags sat there feeling unbalanced and precarious—and
very
far from the ground. “Right then, off ye go! Have a good ride!” He patted Dallen on the shoulder, and before Mags was ready, the Companion was moving.