Closer to the Chest (7 page)

She thought about making some sort of sharp answer, given that the Companion was playing “conscience” in the most patronizing manner possible, but then she reminded herself that this was relatively “new” to Rolan as well as to her. He hadn't had a female Chosen before. They didn't have
precisely
the sort of open, accessible communication he'd had with her father. And he surely knew just how badly she wanted to rattle that arrogant old Priest. He was just being cautious.

The King continued to make polite . . . but pointed . . . conversation. She could see what Kyril was doing; of course, the King had decades of practice at getting people to reveal far more than they thought they were revealing. Under the guise of idle interest, he was finding out just how big the group was, what their source of income was, and as much of their core beliefs as it was politic to discover. During all of this, she might have been part of the furnishings for all the attention the High Priest paid to her. It was
pointed.
The more she stood here, the more certain she became that this was not merely that he had some sort of vow against acknowledging the presence of a female. He was making it absolutely clear that she was utterly beneath his interest.

On the other hand . . . it might be irritating, but it means he's going to underestimate me.

That gave her a little more sense of satisfaction.
I think I'll see if Mags is willing to find out about these people for me.
If there was anything going on, she was sure Mags and his gang of streetwise children, or his system of informants, would ferret it out.

Finally the High Priest held up a hand to forestall any more questions. “I have taken up far too much of your time, Majesty,” he said, still as smooth and cold as polished stone. “I will take my leave. We thank you for welcoming us so graciously to your land and your city.”

And with that, he bowed himself out, leaving the room with his silent entourage for the entrance of the last of those scheduled for an audience today.

“Lord Semel Lional and family!” announced the page at the door, and suddenly the little Audience Chamber was . . . very full.

So full it took Amily a moment to sort everyone out, as Lord Lional made the introductions of his family to the King, the Prince, and by broad gestures, including Amily and her father as well. No snubbing here!

First, of course, Lord Lional; a handsome, vigorous man of late middle age, his hair still defiantly black, his eyes a warm brown, with a decided chin but a smiling mouth, a nose a little too big for perfection, and animated brows. Amily liked him immediately, and from the relaxed look of her father's eyes and shoulders, so did he. The King obviously knew him already, and it was clear he was delighted to see the man.

Lord Lional—indeed, his entire family—were dressed formally, in matching outfits made of excellent deep brown and cream linen, with ornamental embroidery and cutwork of deep golden yellow at the neckline and hems. Not in the first mode of fashion, the cut of the mens' tunics and the womens' gowns were almost a decade out of date. This made perfect sense, since Amily knew that Lord Lional had made a name for himself in the Northeast, far from Haven and the Court.

His wife, Lady Tyria, smiled often and warmly; she looked as if she might be distantly related to her husband—a cousin, perhaps—as they had similar features, although her nose was small and tip-tilted. Amily liked her just as much.

The four children all had raven hair and similar features, although it was a little difficult to see what the two youngest would grow to look like. Amily set them aside in her mind for the moment, and considered the two eldest.

The oldest boy—Hawken—was handsome enough to be popular with girls, but not so handsome that he was likely to be conceited. And, in fact, his expression suggested a personality much like his father's with just enough youthful rebellion to make him interesting. But the eldest girl!

Helane, was her name, and she was nothing short of stunning.

Everything about her was perfect—and it was none of that too-still, too-poised perfection of a girl who is
far
too aware of her beauty and reckoning to take advantage of it. She was animated; she was clearly excited to be here, a little intimidated at being in the presence of the King and Prince, but drinking in everything eagerly. As for her looks . . . Amily had rarely seen a face that could be described as “heart-shaped,” but hers certainly was. Her complexion was flawless, her cheeks the exact color of wild rose petals, and her rosebud of a mouth a slightly deeper hue. Her eyes were huge, meltingly brown, and guileless. Her raven-wing hair had been done in a style Amily had never seen before—braided into a single fat plait down her back, but with a black and cream linen covering bound over and around it. The plait nearly reached her knees; unbound, her hair surely would pool on the floor at her feet. Amily was fascinated; how long did it take to brush out? To wash? To
dry
? That was probably the reason for the cover, to keep that mane as clean as possible.

And her body was neither thin nor plump, but once again, perfect for a girl who surely was athletic and active. Even her
hands were perfect, graceful, long-fingered, each nail a perfectly polished pink.

The girl was called up to make her curtsey to the King; blushing, she did so, making a very good job of it, and staying down just long enough to make it clear that she was as graceful and poised as she was beautiful.

Truth to tell, she eclipsed the rest of her family; both Kyril and his son were giving her very appreciative looks, and Amily didn't blame them. For that matter, so was her father Nikolas!

I hope he's not getting ideas,
she thought, more amused than anything else.
I would not appreciate having a stepmother younger than I am.

It appeared that the two youngest children, a boy and a girl, were used to being cast in the shade by their enchanting older sister. They exchanged a slightly chagrined look. The boy shrugged, as if to say,
well what did you expect?
and the girl shook her head.

The oldest boy came up to make his bow, then the youngest siblings. Finally Amily learned the names of the youngest members of the family, Lirelle, and Loren.

“There is no need to wait on ceremony, Semel,” the King said when all the introductions had been made. “We have not met in person before, but we have exchanged enough correspondence we certainly know one another well enough to dispense with such stiffness. Brand!” he called to the page at the door. “Bring the stools out so my guests can sit in comfort.”

The page leapt to do so. There were square, padded stools set at intervals around the walls; they were seldom used, but it was clear that Kyril intended to have a good long chat with Lord Lional and his lady.

As they spoke, Amily quickly realized that Lord Lional was one of what Kyril called his “New Men.” Like her father, and like Mags, the King had his own web of informants spread across the Kingdom; the main difference being that none of
the correspondents were conducting their communications in secret. A highly prosperous tradesman here, a well placed highborn there, a Captain of the Guard, Bards, Healers . . . it all added up to a solid network of people who could be relied on to keep a finger on the pulse of the entire Kingdom. They all were in positions where they knew just about everything that was going on in their areas, and if they didn't know about something, they knew who to ask. The highborn among the “New Men” were not necessarily men who had newly been granted their titles and lands—although a fair number of them did fit that description. But they were all the King's age, or younger. “I have enough graybearded Councilors,” he was fond of saying. “When it comes to eyes and ears, the younger, the better.”

“How are we positioned at Halberd Hall?” the King asked immediately, once everyone had been settled in their seats. “Who have you left in charge?”

“My older brother is there. He knows as much as I know, and hears rather more,” Semel said. “He—” He laughed a little. “—he styles himself as
a country gent.
He wouldn't come to Court for any amount of money, and he never wanted the estate, only the managing of it.
Everyone
talks to him, and he talks to everyone. He's trusted by all to be fair and even-handed. I wouldn't make a move at the Hall without his advice—and a good dose of common sense:
now, you may be the Lord of Halberd Hall, but you're still my snot-nosed brother.
Nothing will get past him, and he will send me faithful reports. We're well served while I nose around for a husband for Helane and a wife for Hawken.”

The King looked over his head to the two oldest siblings. “And what do you have to say about this?” he asked.

Hawken shrugged, and answered for both of them. “There's no one at home either of us are interested in. And . . . father promised us a mort of gatherings and fetes. Best we get at home is feasts where old men sleep off their roasts after, and
country-dances and fairs.” Helane nodded. The King was satisfied, and turned his attention back to Semel.

“You'll have a lot of arranging in front of you in the next few years. Aren't there four more at home?” Lady Tyria laughed, blushed, and nodded, and Amily was astonished.
What did she do, pop one out every year?
It was a rude thought, but there was no one to hear it but Rolan.

:Some women thrive on being mothers, I suppose.:
But even Rolan sounded a little . . . dubious.

“You wrote and told me you had bought Count Renolf's town house?” Kyril continued, with a lifted brow. “I am glad to hear that he has finally given up on living there alone, but—”

Semel sighed. “Yes. But. I thought I had given him plenty of time to move out, but it appears that the Count has . . . more possessions than he thought he did. He's still in the process of moving out. And that is what really brings me here.”

Kyril broke out in a hearty laugh. “Don't tell me. You're all crammed into an inn, and you're hoping we can find room for you here in the Palace.”

The hopeful looks on the faces of all six of them made Kyril laugh again. “Brand, fetch the Steward,” he ordered. “And while you are out, send in some pages with refreshments.” He turned to Nikolas. “You and Amily might as well get comfortable. Semel and I have a lot to catch up on.”

•   •   •

It was well past lunch when his Lordship and family finally took their leave. The Steward did, indeed, have a vacant apartment in the Palace—not one that was very much sought after for permanent occupation as it was on the corner of the side of the building that got the least sun and most wind in winter, making it decidedly cold for six months of the year. But it had
three small bedrooms, an unusual amount of storage room, and a small but adequate sitting room. The family accepted it with gratitude, and made arrangements to have all their belongings and some of their furnishings moved to it as soon as it could be managed. “The servants are taken care of at the townhouse,” Semel said. “They are turning out to be extremely useful in getting the Count moved out.”

:The Count has been living all alone in that place with just a cook, a housekeeper, and his personal man. Small wonder he hasn't been moving quickly,:
Rolan observed.

“The Palace servants will take care of everything you need,” Kyril promised.

“It's just as well, it sounds as if there would be no room for them,” Tyria laughed.

I'll need to let Lady Dia know about these people,
she thought, as they continued talking.
For one thing, it is obvious that the King finds them useful, important, and agreeable. For another, someone is going to have to keep an eye on that eldest girl, or there could be a great deal of unruly head-butting among the young men.

:That sounds like a task for the Queen's Handmaidens,:
Roland observed.

:It certainly does,:
she replied.

Well, this was turning out to be not quite so dull a session after all. She very much liked His Lordship and his Lady. The four children seemed very interesting . . . she hoped they weren't going to prove to be “interesting” in the sense of “attracted trouble,” but they all seemed intelligent, and with any luck, whatever trouble they got themselves into they could also get themselves out of. She crossed two sets of fingers for luck on that thought, and settled in to listen carefully to what was shaping up to be a long conversation between Lord Semel and the
King.

T
his would be an entire day spent as Harkon, which was unusual for Mags, but the things he needed to do today were going to send him all over the city, and dropping out of character would be ill-advised. He had to be very, very careful how and when he made his switches from one persona to the other, and those switches were best done when he
knew
there was no chance of anyone following him. By day, there was no guarantee. He knew what
he
would do if he was following someone, and those were tricks he might have a hard time sussing out, if the person tailing him was as good as
he
was. There was only one sure-fire way to avoid being followed; wait until the streets were clear enough that he could thin his shields and pick out the thoughts of anyone close enough to actually have eyes on him.

So, once he left Aunty Minda's, he headed to the spot where Coot ran the messenger service. Coot had taken down the shutter and opened the place up for the day; he had a loft over the stall where he slept. There had already been a nice little
metal stove of the sort that Amily's protege Tuck had invented installed behind the counter, with a metal chimney to carry the smoke away. That had served the dual purpose of keeping the stallkeeper warm in winter and keeping his sausages hot. Now it made the stall cozy enough to sleep in comfortably even in the worst of winter. Coot was adding a second room on the back with Tuck's help, and paying him for the work, too; the big man might be a bit addled, but he was a genius with his hands. Last time Mags had checked, they'd put a pegged-wood floor, wall supports, and a roof extension in. Walls would be next, he supposed.

“Cap'n,” Coot said respectfully, with a two-fingered salute.

“Got anythin' t'report?” Mags asked, leaning against the counter. Wordlessly, Coot handed over three or four sheets of paper folded over in thirds and sealed with a blob of wax with a sprig of dried herb in it. Anyone trying to tamper with the seal would certainly break the delicate bit of plant material. Mags nodded, and tucked the paper into the front of his tunic. “How's the buildin' comin'?” he continued.

Coot sighed. “Not as fast's I'd like.”

Mags gave him a sidelong look. “A mort'f folk sleep out i' the yard or the roof or the like in summer. Ye got a roof—”

Coot reddened a little. “Aye but there be windows both sides.” He jerked his chin at the taverns to either side of his stall. And for a moment Mags couldn't understand what his problem was.

Then it dawned on him. “So th'pup's a dog now, eh? What's 'er name?”

“Tilde.” Coot reddened some more. Mags chuckled, feeling pleased. When he'd first started Aunty Minda's gang of littles, who would have thought that in so short a time, one of them would have found himself a girl?

“Watch out fer angry Pa, now,” he replied. “Ye ain't gonna do me no good wi' yer head bust in.”

“She ain't got no Pa, an' 'er Ma likes me. She's laundress
over t' Tuck's place.” Mags nodded with understanding. That would be how Coot met her, then, since he had to go over to escort poor Tuck back and forth from the job so Tuck didn't get lost. Tuck lived in what had been the stable of a large former brewery. The place was tenanted with laundresses, who rented one or more rooms to live in, and used what had been the brewing room as one communal laundry room.

Need to make some plans in case this turns out to be something more than two younglings in summer,
he made a note to himself. But he didn't say anything of the kind to Coot.
I'll wait and see if
he
comes up with plans on his own. Though he's managed the second room well enough by himself . . .

The runners from Minda's began straggling up at that point to take their places on the bench just under the counter, and an anxious-looking fellow who might well have been a shopowner on this street came hurrying up. “This is where I find a message-runner?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

Mags saluted Coot without another word and took his leave.

From here he went to visit several of his regular informants—all under the guise of errands run on behalf of the pawn shop. He left a handful of second- and third-rate gemstones at a jeweler, and was paid for them, and a quantity of the broken jewelry from which the gems had been pried at a silversmith. There it was carefully weighed and assayed before the smith paid him the value of it by weight. In both cases, notes were passed over along with the money.

At that point, he felt he deserved some lunch, and since he was near the river, he ambled over to a favorite stall of his for some fried fish, fried onions, and fried dough-balls, dished up with a hot sauce made with horseradish. This was
not
the sort of fare served up at the Collegium; served with a strong beer, it was food for a common worker. Maybe that was why he liked it.

He sat on a barrel by the stall in the sun, eating, watching
boats come in to the docks and get unloaded, and felt pretty well contented with his day so far.

That contentment followed him as he made his way between two rows of warehouses toward his next destination, a brothel called “Boatman's Rest,” another of his sources of information. The madame, an amusing old woman who claimed to have had five husbands and too many lovers to count, was as sharp as needle and never failed to deliver something useful. In the middle of the day these warehouses were packed with workers, so he kept his mental shields up tight.

The only warning he got was when he heard a scuffling of boots behind him.

He was hit from the rear by three men at once, all of them wielding heavy wooden cudgels.

One caught him across the ribs; his side exploded with pain, and he went down—but under control, shoulder-rolling to try and get out of the scrum and somewhere he could get his back up against a wall. His roll carried him as far as a stack of barrels, where he lurched to his feet again and pulled his sword just in time to parry a club coming down on his head. He made three slashing, sideways cuts with his sword to clear himself some space, and stood in a guarded crouch, facing his attackers.

There weren't three men. There were six. Six
at least,
there might have been more around the corner, in the narrow passage between buildings where they had been waiting to ambush him. He kept his expression blank, his side hurt in a way that told him his ribs were cracked, and it felt like his head had been hit, too, but he didn't intend to show them any sign of weakness.

For the moment, they seemed to be at an impasse. They must have expected the element of surprise to put him entirely at their mercy. He didn't straighten up; in this position his ribs didn't stab him with pain every time he breathed in. With two pain-free breaths he was able to put himself into the strange
state of mind that the Sleepgivers did; where he would still
feel
the pain, but it wouldn't matter. It would be something he registered, but could ignore. That wouldn't last, of course, he was nowhere near as good as the Sleepgivers were, especially his cousin, but as long as he didn't take too much more damage, he would be all right.

He eyed the six surrounding him. They eyed him back. None of them were wearing swords, but that didn't give him any feeling of confidence. Six men with heavy wooden clubs who knew what they were doing could easily overcome one with a sword.

Whoever sent them probably doesn't want to kill me. They want to send a message.
Well, message received. Harkon had become a nuisance, and someone bigger than Dog-Billy or Hatchet wanted him to understand that his depredations had attracted the attention of someone who wanted him to stop.

Dallen had certainly found a way to alert the Watch by now, and just as certainly he was on his way here. And it wasn't all that far from the docks to the inn where Dallen idled his time while Mags was being Harkon. But to have a Companion charge into this mob would certainly destroy the Harkon persona, so unless Mags was literally about to die, Dallen was not going to come dashing to the rescue. Nor would Mags want him to.

They were all still staring at one another; they were breathing heavily, but Mags was keeping himself as steady and calm as possible under the circumstances. Getting through this with minimal injury—until the Watch arrived—would take everything he had. Mags took the opportunity to slowly inch his free hand toward his dagger and ease it out of the sheathe. He thought about going for a throwing knife—but none of these brutes had brought a blade, and the last thing he wanted to do was supply them with one.

Just as he got the dagger securely in his hand, they decided to make a move. That was when he realized that not only had
they not made any plans if their quarry was able to defend himself—they also must never have fought together. Ever.

They all came at him in a sort of abortive rush. Three of them managed to tangle each other up and actually went down in a heap. Of the other three, only one actually reached him before he was able to dodge to the side and knock over the barrels. That one hit him a glancing blow on his dagger arm, while he thwacked the thug in the temple with the flat of his blade, sending him reeling into the tumble of barrels.

That gave him the chance to get his back to the wall, and he scuttled back until his heels hit it. Besides covering his back, being at the wall gave him partial protection on the right and left, and that was a distinct relief.

Sudden movement in the periphery of his vision made him glance to the left and right before turning his attention back to the thugs who had ambushed him. The noise of the (fortunately empty) barrels tumbling to the ground had brought men out of the warehouses; as he warily eyed his opponents, and they got themselves sorted out and on their feet again, more and more men came out. Soon both ends of the street were blocked with groups of workers. He knew better than to assume they were on his side, however. As far as these fellows were concerned, he was a roughly dressed, heavily armed stranger, and his attackers were roughly dressed thuggish strangers with clubs. Just because it was six-to-one, that didn't mean he was in the right and they were in the wrong. For all
they
knew he'd done something heinous and was getting his just deserts. Basically, they had come out to make sure there was nothing going on that involved where they worked, who they worked for, or anyone they knew. Now that they were aware none of the three conditions held, they were settling down for the free entertainment of a fight, at least until and unless the Watch showed up to break it up.

One of the thugs lunged at him; this time he grabbed the man's wrist as the club came down, and
pulled,
letting the
man's own momentum smack him headfirst into the wall, while another tried to take advantage of the fact that he was tangled up with the first thug. He
almost
got away unscathed, but a lucky hit on his already cracked ribs made him see stars for a moment, and took his breath away. He gritted his teeth and snarled at the same time, though, to keep from demonstrating any weakness.

It helped that they still were showing no signs of organization. And now there were only five of them; the one that had hit the wall was showing no signs of moving any time soon; he was sprawled bonelessly with his face mushed against the wall and the street, lying in what would have been an excruciatingly uncomfortable pose if he'd been conscious.

His neck's gonna be killin' him when he wakes up . . .

“I say we rush 'im!” growled one of the five left.

“Oh aye, cuz that worked
so
well th' last three times!” another snapped back. “Spread out, ye idjuts. We gotta get them stickers away from 'im fust!”

Oh hell. Now they're working together.

And that might have signaled the moment when he was going to have to resign himself to a nasty beating, except that from his left, one man shouted angrily, “Hey!
I know that bastid!
'E's th' one been messin' wi' me sister!”

Evidently the fellow's mates knew exactly what the speaker was talking about, because there was a roar of outrage that was echoed by the mob on Mags' right.

Now the thugs looked startled . . . and alarmed. They made some abortive movements as if they were going to try to escape.

But it was too late.
“Git 'em!”
someone shouted, and the mobs on either side charged toward the middle, snatching up whatever they could use as a weapon as they avalanched toward Mags' attackers.

He just squeezed himself flat against the wall and stayed out of the way. The five thugs went down fast, and there was
a lot of kicking and pummeling going on. Once or twice he got hit by accident, but for the most part, the men in this mob were intent on battering the thugs who were on the ground. So he just wedged himself against the wall, held his ribs and tried not to breathe heavily. His “detachment” had worn off with that second hit to his ribs.