Free Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) by Mercedes Lackey Page A

looked out the door, straight at Dallen.
    “This isn’t some prank is it?” she asked Dallen directly.
    Dallen shook his head vigorously, and gave her a long and penetrating look.
    “Something he’s doing—he needs to be in the inn—” She stopped. “Something . . . a Herald knows about this?”
    Dallen nodded just as hard.
    She seemed satisfied. “I won’t ask Herald business, and I’m more than willing to help.” She eyed Mags a moment. “Aye, those clothes will do; I expect that’s why you’re in them and not proper Grays. Tellie, go get the ash-collector kit.”
    The girl went behind the curtain again, and returned with a dusty, heavy canvas apron, a covered bucket, a dustpan and a small hand-broom. The woman helped Mags don the apron. “Now, it’s easy enough. Tellie will have the barrow out front for you. Just sweep the ashes into the pan, dump them into the bucket, when it’s full, take it downstairs to where you’ve left the barrow and dump the bucket in the barrow. No one will look twice at you. When you’ve got what you came for, just come straight back; the boy can do the rest of the job tomorrow.”
    Mags nodded, feeling a little astonished that this was going so smoothly.
    :She’s a law-abiding citizen of Haven, you silly boy. My presence and my confirmation tells her you have the authority to ask what you want from her for help.: Dallen’s mind-voice was amused. :My presence and the fact that I told her a Herald knows about this also assures her that what you want won’t be anything wrong, because I would kick you into the next city if you did abuse your authority.:
    “All right then, off you go. You look like you’re no stranger to hard work, so you should be able to pass as one of my boys.” She made little shooing motions with her hands. “Your Companion can stay here if you like.”
    “That’d be good, missus, thankee,” Mags managed to say. Dallen whickered. He carried the implements outside and there, as promised, a hand-barrow was waiting, but not one like he had ever seen before. This one, just like the bucket, had a cover. In fact, it looked less like a barrow and more like a crude chest with barrow handles and a wheel in front. He put his burden down inside, picked up the handles, and returned to the inn.
    He was intercepted by one of the grooms, who sent him around to a side door where he could leave the barrow. He made certain of Chamjey’s location and headed inside. He hoped that the meeting hadn’t gone on too long. He hoped he could find a place where he could hear it!
    Luck was still with him. He found a vacant room that shared the same chimney with the one Chamjey was in almost immediately; it was one of a long line of what looked to be private parlors. Getting down on his hands and knees, he removed the screen, the fire-dogs, the andirons, and the rest, and slowly began sweeping, listening as hard as he could.
    The chimney proved to be an excellent carrier of sound, and Mags spared a moment to be grateful to Dallen for thinking of this.
    “. . . and it gets better for us. That last late blizzard did for about half the lambs; it caught the shepherds right in the middle of lambing season,” someone was saying. “We haven’t even gotten into the rains, and those always take a toll as well. Right now all the herders are thinking about is to wonder how they’re going to survive without lamb to sell for meat until shearing time comes. And then, what with that wet-lung plague this past fall, they’ve all lost about ten percent of the adult flocks and the fleeces are going to be a bit dodgy this year, since a sick sheep makes a weak fleece. So they’ve been jumping at the chance to sell their wool as a future-speculation, while it’s still on the sheep’s back, and to sell lambs still trotting about and bleating.” There was glee in the man’s voice. “Buying up the fleece and lambs before they’re harvested, so to speak, is brilliant, Chamjey. The herders