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

head. “I have no words.”
    Mags nodded. Nikolas actually had a daughter of his own, a bit older than Lena. Amily was one of Mags’ few friends, and Mags knew how much the two cherished each other.
    “I dunno,” he replied. “I ain’t exactly real good at knowin’ what families supposed to be like.”
    Nikolas coughed apologetically. “Well . . . the reason I asked you here tonight is because I would like you to take some of your training outside the Collegia and do a bit of outright spying for me. You remember what I said about people ignoring a young lad like yourself.”
    Mags nodded. “Yessir.” This was sounding very interesting indeed. He hadn’t had any sort of overt assignment from Nikolas since the disappearance of the foreign envoys. Granted, he and Bear had spent some time recovering from nearly being killed, but they really hadn’t needed more than a fortnight for that. The lessons had resumed in Nikolas’ quarters after that respite, but they hadn’t taken place quite as often, and truth to tell, Mags had been a little disappointed.
    These had been lessons in how to be unobtrusive, and in how to observe. Interestingly enough, the lessons in “how to be unobtrusive” were not always about being quiet. Nikolas had shown him how to gauge the mood of people around him, what the King’s Own had called “reading the room.” He’d learned to tell when being somewhat boisterous would be more useful than being quiet, and how to counterfeit looking careless and utterly oblivious to what was going on around him.
    Or rather, he had just begun those sorts of lessons. He knew very well that he was a long, long way from mastering them.
    On the other hand, these were things he could practice on his own, and really should. He couldn’t expect the King’s Own Herald, who was, after all, the very literal right-hand man of the King himself, to spend hours tutoring him through simple practice. That would be as rude as—as what Bard Marchand had done.
    But there were a lot of times when he wondered if Nikolas had decided he wasn’t worth wasting any more effort on.
    “I’ve been watching you, and you’re coming along well. Well enough I think that for something simple like this, you can handle it on your own.” Nikolas smiled a little as Mags sat straight up, eagerly. “I’m counting on your youth, your appearance, and the fact that our quarry is the sort of man who regards servants as furniture.”
    Mags grinned a little. “There’s a mort’ o them, sir.”
    “True enough. Well, here is the situation. Councilor Chamjey is up to something, and I should like to find out what it is. He has gotten a virtual flood of messages lately, far more than is normal for him at this time of year. He has missed several Council meetings, and been late or left early for others.” Nikolas coughed. “Chamjey is not exactly subtle, or he wouldn’t have made such a series of fundamental mistakes.”
    Mags tilted his head to one side. “That don’t seem all that suspicious-like t’me, beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I mean, could be anythin’ from plannin’ a party t’ surprise ’is lady, t’ jest making a really good deal he don’ want anyone t’ know ’bout. I mean, he’s a merchanter, right?”
    Nikolas nodded. “That’s correct. And all of that would be in keeping with a merchant working some sort of shrewd bargain. The problem is two-fold. The first is that Chamjey is probably the one person least suited to being a Councilor on the Council; most of the others will at least make an attempt at altruism, and at thinking for the greater good of Valdemar. Chamjey has never let the greater good get in the way of his own personal interests in all of the time I have known him. The second part of the problem is that Chamjey has a habit of boasting about deals he has in the making to some of his colleagues, usually in the form of oblique hints. There has been nothing this time, although Soren says he has been