Brightly Burning (19 page)

The Captain tilted his head to the side. “I would have thought that was fairly simple. An unruly lot of adolescent troublemakers started a fire and it got away from them. That's what the Schoolmaster thinks.”

But Pol shook his head. “The Healers found marks of a beating and a caning on that boy who's still unconscious, and he was several years younger than all of the others. The rest were the same age, and very much larger and stronger than he is. They don't have a satisfactory explanation for why they were in that room, nor why they were there after hours, nor why they were with a boy they
should
have had no contact with. Taken with this Schoolmaster's story, I think there's a great deal that needs looking into, not only in the incident itself, but in the school.”

“What if the Schoolmaster himself caned the boy as punishment?” the Captain countered.

“Wouldn't he have mentioned it?” Pol replied. “Wouldn't he have pointed to that specific boy as a troublemaker? I should think that would be the first thing he would have said; it would have given a logical place for the investigation to start, and a logical perpetrator.”

“Hmm. And if the young one has influential parents?” The Captain now looked more interested than he had before. “Wouldn't that preclude any finger-pointing?”

“Please. Four boys, presumably with equally influential parents, are dead, and more are injured. I should think that under the circumstances the Schoolmaster would be grateful to have
one
boy he could blame.” Pol raised an eyebrow and the Captain nodded, once, slowly.

The Captain drummed his fingers on the desk for a little while, thinking. Pol waited, quite ready to sit there all afternoon if need be. But the Guardsman was not the sort of man to take very long in making up his mind. “All right. Can you take over the incident entirely?”

Pol nodded in agreement; that was what he had hoped the Captain would ask. Best that the Guard not get involved unless he needed them. It was beginning to sound as if this might involve stepping on some political toes.

With a faint hint of relief on his features, the Captain took a couple of papers out of a cubbyhole at his left and quickly scribbled something on them. He shoved them across the desk to Pol, who picked them up. The topmost was the initial report, with a note appended to the effect that Herald Pol was taking over the investigation.

“Thank you very much,” Pol said, gathering up the papers and standing up. “I hope I can get to the bottom of this for us all.”

The Captain smiled back and reached over the desk to shake Pol's hand. “The last thing I'm going to fight is to have a Herald come in and take over a case like this one,” he replied. “I wish you Heralds would come in and help out like this more often!”

Pol laughed. “I'll mention that around,” he promised, and left with the papers.

One of them proved to be just what he wanted most; a list of the pupils of the Guild School, their parents, and their addresses, what Forms they were in, and what classes within the Forms.

He searched until he found the class that the youngest boy—who he now knew was named Lavan Chitward—was in. That was where he would start. Stowing the papers in a pouch he slung over his shoulder, he stopped long enough at his room for his woolen cloak. It was cold out there, through the weather wise predicted the usual false summer around Sovvan.

Classes had been canceled for a week, so Pol knew that the children he wanted to talk to should be at home.
:Ready for that trip into the city?:
he called to Satiran, swinging his cloak over his shoulders.

:Already saddled,:
was the prompt reply.
:And waiting for you at the gate.:
With that came the mental picture, and Pol nodded his approval. Satiran had asked for and gotten the full formal rig-out, with barding, bridle bells, and all. The more impressive they looked, the less it was likely they would have to argue with possibly nervous parents.

He pulled on white doeskin gloves and held his cloak shut against a blast of chill wind as he left the barracks, walking briskly to the Herald's Gate in the wall that encircled the Palace-Guard-Collegia complex. He saw Satiran as soon as he got out of the sculpted trees of one of the formal gardens, a tiny, toylike white horse against the gray stone wall.

He picked up his pace and shortly caught the chime of Satiran's bells as the Companion shifted his weight from hoof to hoof to keep from stiffening in the chill.

“Business in town, Herald?” asked the Gate Guard. “Or just pleasure?”

“It's never ‘just' pleasure, I assure you,” Pol replied. “But, yes, I'm in charge of investigating that fire a few days ago. I'm Herald Pol, assigned to the Collegium.” It wouldn't hurt to have word spread; if any of the Guard had heard anything, they'd know who to come to with it.

“Yes, sir, I understand.” The Guard saluted, and opened the Gate for them; Pol mounted, and he and Satiran went out into the city with every step marked by the chiming of bells.

Streets in Haven were built in a mazelike spiral configuration, a leftover from the days when the city itself might expect enemy attack. The establishments closest to the Palace walls were the homes of the highborn, enormous manses with extensive gardens and galleries. Some were as old as the Palace itself, and had been rebuilt, added onto, or remodeled at least as many times as the Palace, with mixed results. Most of these were the property of some of the oldest families in Valdemar, with a rotating population that depended on what branch of the family wished to come to Court, who was superfluous on the home estate, who was serving as a representative, not only of the family, but of the district, and who wanted to get something accomplished that could only be attained at Court. A few were as rundown and imperiled by lean times as the families themselves. Two had, in Pol's time as a Herald, been acquired by new families and either extensively repaired or torn down altogether to make way for a new Great House in the most modern style.

A full circuit of the city brought him to the next level, where the homes owned or leased by lesser families were located. The houses here were half the size of those of the greater families, the gardens—

Well, there were no “gardens” attached to each house; there was a single pleasure garden for each, a small herb garden for the kitchen, and a courtyard just past the gates. There were, or so Pol had been told, even a few very wealthy private citizens living here with no inherited titles whatsoever to their names.

Round another circuit, and he was in the district of the wealthiest; merchants mostly, with a sprinkling of those who had inherited wealth and built it higher, and one or two adventurers who had discovered wealth or wedded it. This, however, was not where he was going. The offspring of these folk were either educated privately, by tutors, or if the child was exceptional, by the Collegia and the Master Artificers.

One more round brought him to the moderately wealthy; those who had attained Mastery in their Guilds and had their own flourishing trade or kept a workshop full of Journeymen and Apprentices. This was where he would find his first subjects; Owyn Kittlekine and his parents.

Finding their home was a simple matter of asking two or three of the servants being blown along the street by the harsh wind, off on errands. Master Kittlekine was a Leatherworker, as the gate of his house, with its sign of the stretched hide worked into the wood in bronze, proudly proclaimed. Pol rode straight up to the gate and knocked on it with the butt of his purely ornamental riding crop, without dismounting. Someone peeked through a peephole to one side of the gate, and an unnerved servant opened it hastily.

“M-m-master Herald, sir, there was no word, nothing—” the servant stammered.

“I know,” Pol said, simply, with gravity, but without too much of a stern demeanor. “I wish to speak with Owyn.”

“Owyn?” the servant squeaked. “But—but—but—the Master is not at home, and the Mistress is making calls—”

“It is very cold,” Pol interrupted, “and this is a matter of some urgency. It is Owyn with whom I wish to speak, and not the Master or Mistress of the house.”

The servant evidently decided that the wishes of a Herald overruled whatever orders he'd been given, and escorted Pol into the best parlor of the house while Satiran was taken into the hothouse that the Kittlekines had in place of a garden. There, he would at least be warm. In the parlor, with a good-sized fire to thaw him, Pol waited for someone to bring Owyn to him.

There were whisperings and the scuffling of feet behind him; word of a Herald in the house must have spread quickly. Pol pretended to be oblivious.

:Are you the new creature in the menagerie, Chosen?:
Satiran asked.
:I certainly am. I've got half a dozen servants out here gaping at me.:

:They're not being that obvious about it, but yes—ah, someone's bringing the boy!:
Pol heard two sets of footsteps, one lighter and quicker than the other, and stood with a swirl of his cape that he knew would be particularly effective.

A different servant, probably the housekeeper, had brought young Owyn to him. She curtsied with great diffidence and immediately absented herself, leaving Owyn alone and distinctly uncomfortable.

A bookworm,
Pol immediately assessed, looking at the ink-stained fingers, the slight stoop of the shoulders from bending over reading, and all the other little signs of the confirmed bibliophile.
And a ready target for a bully.
Young Owyn was small for his age, with large, dark eyes and curly dark hair. Pol approached Owyn, held out his hand with his warmest smile, and said, “I am Herald Pol, Master Owyn. I would like you to answer a few questions for me.”

“About what?” Owyn replied, suspicion warring with the fact that he had always been taught that Heralds were to be trusted utterly. The war was visible in his shifting expression, and Pol turned up the sympathy a trifle in his own expression.

“I would like to ask you a few things about Lavan Chitward, and about your school.” He still held Owyn's hand in a firm clasp; he used that now to draw Owyn forward and to one of the two inglenook seats at the hearth. There they could speak without any danger of being overheard.

Owyn sat nervously on the edge of the seat as Pol removed his cloak and hung it over the corner of his, then sat down. “Lavan was in my class and my Form,” he said, and didn't elaborate.

“I know.” Pol decided to treat the Healer's suppositions as fact and see what information that elicited. He didn't want to use the Truth Spell this early in the game, nor on such a young boy who hadn't, himself, done any wrong. “I know a great deal about what was going on, in fact. I know that Lavan was being bullied by the Sixth Form boys, I know that they had taken him down to that classroom to beat him, and I know he wasn't the only one, nor the first one, to be bullied and beaten. Was he?”

Owyn's eyes had grown rounder and larger with every word of this recitation, and when Pol concluded his statement, the youngster blurted out, “You Heralds really
do
read people's thoughts!”

:Ha!:
Satiran said triumphantly.

“No, we don't—not without permission, Owyn,” Pol replied gently. “Those were all deductions, but I need more facts, if I'm to be able to do anything about what has happened to Lavan, and the situation at your school. I hope that you can help me.”

That opened the floodgate. From what Owyn told him, Pol was very glad that he had gotten to the boy without the presence of the parents, who would either have dismissed what Owyn said completely or try to hush him up. The situation was even more out of hand than the Healer had guessed. The older boys, the biggest bullies, virtually ran the school in all matters except lessons. Pol took copious notes to turn over to the Council, who would probably keep the school intact, since it served a very useful purpose, but would put someone in charge who would see that the money collected from the parents went to the purposes for which it was intended rather than into the Master's purse.

The boy became quite emotional before his recitation was over; small wonder, considering the number of times he'd been humiliated and frightened into submission by what was, essentially, a gang of thugs. Pol hardly dared think what the younglings who had been physically abused would be like.

:Probably in tears,:
Satiran observed.
:My advice is to take Elenor with you when you interview them.:

Owyn was a keen observer and a good judge of character himself; Pol got a list of those who had been caned, who had been assaulted, and who had had mean-spirited pranks played on them to humiliate them, but he also got an assessment of who would be likely to talk freely and who would have to be supported and reassured.

“But I don't know anything about what happened to Lan,” Owyn said when he had finally run out of everything else he had to say. By this time, the boy was exhausted; venting so much emotion had worn him out, as well it should have! He slumped in his seat, but never took his eyes off Pol's face. “I was home by the time
they
found Lan in the classroom.” Once again, conflicting emotions warred on his face, and by now Pol thought he had a good idea what they were.

“You didn't want anyone hurt, but you can't help but feel glad that the worst of that lot is never going to bother you again, right?” he said into the uncomfortable silence.

The boy let out a huge sigh and nodded, looking horribly ashamed and yet defiant.

“Owyn, that's a perfectly natural way for you to feel. I think in your position, I would feel exactly the same way.” He sat up and rubbed his hands, easing a little stiffness in the joints. “How can you
not
feel that way? They certainly deserved punishment. One could almost say that they brought their fate on themselves.”