Closer to the Chest (10 page)

:How . . . convenient,:
said Rolan, echoing what Amily was thinking.

“After that, everyone was so nervous that we packed up and left that very day. The men with the carts even helped—and when we found we were being taken here, it seemed completely delightful. We thought, well, we'll have a pleasant fall here, and when winter comes we'll be back in our old home, and snug and warm and no longer drafty.” Mother Yllana frowned. “But winter came . . . and there was no word on when we were to return. So I went myself to see what the delay was, and here were all these
men,
repainting, putting up the things of this
Sethor,
and generally acting as if it was
their
Temple now.”

It was clear this unpleasant surprise was a wound that was still raw. The indignation in Mother Yllana's face was unmistakable, nor did Amily blame her. “I assume that you demanded to see the man in charge?” she asked.

“And I was
sloughed off
with some under-secretary, who presented me with contracts he
said
we had signed, and witnesses to swear to it! Except I have my wits, I do assure you and I had never signed
those
papers! Those papers said we had made an even exchange with the Sethor-priests, this farm for our old Temple.” She shook her head, bitterly. “Of course, I know exactly what they did. They got us to sign something else entirely, and those clever, clever scribes of theirs used our signatures as patterns to forge signatures on the new documents. We didn't have seals, of course, who would have
thought we'd need such a thing! And I could see how it would go—all those men, swearing that we had signed all the papers, and we had mistaken what we had signed, hinting that we were old and possibly losing our wits—”

“You could have brought it into the Courts and demanded the Truth Spell,” Amily pointed out. “You still could.”

But Mother Yllana shook her head. “They could claim immunity, by virtue of their religion. And we are not young, Herald. The strain on some of us would be hard, and for what? If I were not so angry at being deceived, I have to admit we got a decent bargain; this lovely little farm, so much better suited to our needs, for that drafty old ruin, falling down around our ears, and in a neighborhood that was not altogether . . . nice, anymore. No, I put it to the Sisters when I returned and explained what had happened, and we held a vote, and voted to make no fuss about it. We did have a man of law look over the deeds and the contract, and there is no deception in that we do own this place, without any question. It's just—”

“Being cheated,” Amily suggested. “It's the principle. And by
priests.”

“Exactly,” Mother Yllana sighed. “And it's hard on what is left of Ardana's worshippers.”

Amily took a deep breath. Now that she had a better idea of what was going on, she also had a better idea of what she could offer. “Do I have your permission to tell your story to the Prince?”

Mother Yllana's eyes widened. “Y-y-yes,” she stammered, obviously taken aback. “I—never intended—”

“You have been wronged, it's in the Prince's hands to put some of it to rights,” Amily replied firmly.
And it will do no harm at all to the Prince's reputation either.
“At the least, we can make it possible for your congregants to come here in ease and safety, and address the problem of the distance between the Chapter House and the Chapel.” She smiled. “It shouldn't take much. Supplying you with a mule, a cart and a driver, and
building a covered walkway should address both your problems. I'll suggest that to the Prince, if that meets with your approval.”

•   •   •

:Good thinking,:
Rolan told her, as they rode back up to the Palace.
:Now, walk me through your reasoning.:
Rolan did this a lot; he wanted her to articulate her logic to him before she had to defend it to the King—or anyone else for that matter.

:I can understand completely that they feel they were swindled, because they were. But it's also true that in most respects, where they are now is vastly superior to their old Temple. On the other hand they clearly wanted to avoid an actual confrontation with the Sethorites, if that's what they're called. And I don't blame them; the Sethorites are obviously too clever; the Sisters might end up losing the new Temple as well as the old.:

:Good analysis,:
Rolan told her approvingly.
:Why the Prince and not the King?:

:Because the King might feel he had to take official notice of it. The Prince can pass it off as charity to the Sisters.:

:Excellent. You're catching on to the nuances of this job. By the way, Prince Sedric is practicing with the Weaponsmaster. I told his Companion that you want to speak with him. I expect he'll be free about the time we get up there.:

In fact, as they rode up to the stable, Prince Sedric was waiting for them, lurking unobtrusively just inside the door. As he helped Amily unsaddle and rub Rolan down, Amily explained the situation.

“So I more or less promised them you'd give them a mule and a cart and arrange for a driver,” she continued. “That solves the last of their problems, really, which is how to get their congregants down out of Haven to services.”

The Prince nodded. Like his father, he was a handsome
man in the conventional sense, made more handsome in her opinion by the lurking good humor in his eyes. “I think that's easily done out of my charity allowance, and I don't think we've ever gifted the Sisters of Ardana. I can have the Stablemaster find one of the stable hands that's getting on; it will make an easy job for him to retire into, and everyone will be happy. Good solution, Amily. I'll get it all in motion.” His face darkened a little. “It doesn't speak well of the honor of those—what did you call them? Sethorites?”

Amily bit her lip. “I suspect from their point of view, they were perfectly honorable. They traded the Sisters a well-maintained property much more suited to them, and with enough land that they can be self-sufficient, for a place that was in considerable disrepair, in a poor neighborhood. The fact that they
tricked
the Sisters into it is probably of no importance to them, because . . . well, because I got the impression that they hold women to be only slightly more intelligent and important than a good breeding cow.”

The Prince looked at her shrewdly. “Something like Holderkin, then?”

She shrugged. “That's my impression. But you were there, and maybe I am doing them a disservice.”

The Prince shook his head. “No, my impression matches with yours. If we challenged them, they'd be astonished to learn we considered they had pulled a swindle. By their reasoning, they simply gave the simple-minded old things what they were too stupid to realize they needed.”

Amily made a rude noise.

The Prince smiled and gave a last brush to Rolan's satiny coat. “We'll make it right without making a fuss. Perhaps the Sethorites may come to regret their swindle, once winter sets in. If I am remembering the Temple correctly, it's a vast barn that is impossible to keep heated. The Sisters will be sitting by their cozy fires, while the Sethorites will be piling on every robe they own, and wondering when spring will come.”

Amily laughed. “From your mouth to the gods' own ears, my Prince,” she said.

•   •   •

Of all of his personas, Mags enjoyed that of “Magnus, Lord Chipman's cousin” the most. But then, that was because most of the time Magnus didn't need to watch his back for enemies, unlike Harkon, and Magnus didn't have a job to do—Magnus had all the leisure that Harkon and Mags himself did not. Magnus was
everyone's
friend; he had just enough money to pay his own way, without having enough to make other young highborn men jealous of him. He was just high enough in rank that he was invited everywhere, and not so high that anyone needed to worry that he might be courting their company with an eye toward poaching an advantageous marriage out from under them. Magnus didn't have an enemy in the world. He knew how to get the Weaponsmaster to find you a time for a lesson, he knew enough about horses to give you good advice, and enough about weapons to keep you from being cheated. He played at dice and cards without betting more than he could afford to lose, and when he lost, he laughed. He knew
all
the best taverns in Haven, and which houses of pleasure would offer a good time without fleecing their customers in some way or other. He was the perfect boon companion.

And just now, he was, to his astonishment, watching a young girl who, by Amily's description must be Lirelle, Lord Lional's younger daughter, as she crouched in the bushes under a window, furiously taking notes in a bound journal. She thought she couldn't be seen, since she was between the wall and the ornamental bushes, but Mags was hyper-vigilant about movement where none should be, and he had spotted her fairly easily.

While this was rather irregular behavior, it wasn't as bad as it could have been, as the window in question did not lead
into one of the many private apartments here at the Palace, but into a classroom—one of the ones at Herald's Collegium, to be precise.

He finally decided he had seen enough, and made his way between the wall of the Collegium and the bushes until he stood a few armlength's behind her. She was so intent on making notes she didn't even notice him until he cleared his throat.

She squeaked, started, and fell over.

“It's a great deal more comfortable inside than in the bushes, you know,” he said, as she scrambled to her feet, flushing with mixed embarrassment and anger. “I know who you are—you're Lord Lional's younger daughter—so you might as well tell me what you were doing here.” He winked at her. “Don't worry, I don't intend to tell anyone about this. I can't imagine you'd be making yourself so infernally uncomfortable if you didn't have a good reason.”

The anger faded, and she gaped at him for a moment. “Here, come along with me, milady,” he said, offering his hand. She took it, tentatively, ignoring the dead leaves clinging to her brown linen gown. “Let's go somewhere quiet. The library just off the Throne Room is generally empty this time of day, and cool. We can have a nice conversation uninterrupted. I'm Magnus, by the way. Lord Chipman's cousin.”

“I'm Lirelle,” she said, as they exited the bushes and she blushed as she looked down at her gown, realizing she probably looked like a hoyden. Mags looked politely away as she gave herself a hasty brushing, then led her into the Palace and straight to the Library.

As he had expected, the room was quite empty, except for one ancient gentleman, snoozing in the warm sunlight of one of the windows. Mags led the girl to a pair of chairs as far from the old fellow as possible, and waited for her to take her seat before taking his own. “Now, why, exactly, were you lurking outside a classroom?” he asked.

“It was a history lesson and I wanted to hear it,” she told him. Now that he had a good look at her, he rather liked what he saw: a young girl with intelligent eyes, a face full of personality, and no sign of sulkiness. “My tutor back home is useless. He won't teach me
anything
worthwhile!” That
could
have sounded petulant. It didn't. It sounded plaintive.

“And what
does
he teach you?” Mags asked.

“Poetry. Religious texts, all full of stupid homilies about obedience. Memorizing the family trees of the entire Kingdom. How to write letters.
Nothing
interesting or useful. We left him behind, but I'm horribly afraid they're going to send for him as soon as the house is ready—” She looked at him, and only now did she have a stormy expression of pure rebellion.

“You're right. Your tutor is an idiot. And I doubt that will be necessary,” Mags replied, and smiled. “Any highborn youngster here at Court can take classes at any of the three Collegia, as well as with the Weaponsmaster.”

“Anyone?”
she breathed, as if she was afraid by saying it aloud, he'd deny it, or amend it with something that would mean
she
was excluded.

“Boys, girls, anyone,” he promised. “I suppose even your lady-mother, if she were so inclined.” He looked about for writing materials, and got himself quill, ink, and a piece of the palimpsest-vellum from the next table over. “I'll just write Lord Semel a note, shall I? And then your parents can arrange whatever you like. The tutor can remain where he is and torment your younger siblings.”

He wrote out a brief, polite note, saying only that he had found Lirelle listening to a lesson and not specifying where or how, and wished to let his Lordship know that any or all of his sons and daughters could be enrolled in Collegium classes of their choice, and told him how that could be arranged. He ended it with “your humble servant,” signed it with a flourish, and waved it in the air until it was dry. “Here,” he said,
handing it to Lirelle. “Before I seal it, I want to make sure I haven't said anything out-of-turn, as it were.”

She read it over, as he waited, then handed it back to him with a pleased nod. He pulled off Magnus' seal-ring, and folded and sealed it on the spot, addressing the outside to “Lord Semel and Lady Tyria.” Then he handed it back to the girl.

“The sooner you give this to them, the sooner you'll find yourself in a class,” he said, with a smile.

She snatched it from his hand, remembered herself and did a little curtsey, then dashed off. He smiled to himself, and got up to have a look for any of the others of the Lional brood.

Helane wasn't hard to find, and he very much doubted that
she
would be interested in classes . . . although you never knew. At the moment, there was a group playing bowls and pins in the garden, and she was the center of a knot of eager young men. And although he had been warned, Mags felt himself feeling a little stunned at her beauty. She really
was
something exceptional. And she wasn't that vacant sort of beauty, who has nothing about her that distinguishes her except that—she was animated, and evidently holding her own in teasing and clever conversation. Even
he
felt as if he was being drawn into her orbit, and had to remind himself that this was not what he was here for.