Closer to the Heart (13 page)

“Majesty—” Amily interrupted, tentatively.

Both of them turned to look at her as if they had forgotten she was there. “Speak,” Kyril ordered her.

“The Seneschal has said that the money for these weapons did not come from the Treasury. Although he did not say so, I think he also means it did not come from taxes being held back; he knows to the half-copper-bit how much can be expected in a given year.” She took a steadying breath. This was where her intensive study of old records for all those years was proving its worth. “Money does not spring into being on
its own. But there is one place where it
does
come out of the ground. The mines.”

Kyril's gaze riveted her, and the Ambassador's eyes widened. “Go on,” Kyril urged.

“I am not going to speculate on motive,” she continued. “We can worry about motive later. But the gem mines would be the easiest place for money to come from that simply seems to appear out of nowhere, buying Valdemaran weapons. Not the gold and silver mines; I am certain that the assessors generally have a very good idea of what can be expected out of the mines producing precious metal. But Mags told me that the gem mines are . . . capricious. One can expect a steady output of average gems, but the unusually valuable ones cannot be predicted. It's not usually possible for the workers to tell if a large gem is an insanely valuable one, or so flawed it is only worth breaking into smaller ones. And all it would take would be for the mine owner to hide away gems of unusual value, smuggle them off to a third party, and have that third party sell them over the Border. The mines would be producing at the ‘normal' rate as far as the assessors were concerned. Gems are much more valuable than gold, impossible to trace, and easy to conceal.”

“Where did you find this paragon of a young woman, Kyril?” the Ambassador asked, startled into using the King's given name.

The King didn't rebuke him even with a look; he merely answered. “The same place we always do; the Companions find them. I take it you agree with her?”

“It is by far the most logical thing I have heard yet in this situation. But have you any way of proving it?” the Ambassador asked.

Instead of answering him directly, Kyril turned to Amily. “I am very, very, sorry, Herald. I am afraid you are going to have to postpone your wedding.”

“Because you are sending Mags back to the mining country,” she replied, thinking with relief how glad she was that Mags had foreseen this particular “disaster.” “Our duty is to Valdemar, and anything else comes second. We wouldn't have it any other way.”

“W
ell,” said Lord Jorthun, rubbing his hands together in glee.
“This
is something I didn't anticipate!”

Lord Jorthun and Lady Dia had been let in on the secret at the orders of the King. With the King's permission, Mags himself had brought the information to them, because he had a plan, but it was going to involve one of the new Queen's Handmaidens. Keira, to be precise.

Mags' dismay must have shown on his face, because Lady Dia turned to her husband with a slight frown. “My love, that is not at all kind. This is a serious situation.”

“It is not
yet
a serious situation; when it becomes one, believe me, I shall react with all due gravity,” Lord Jorthun replied. “For now, however, I am going to regard this as an opportunity. So, you say that Nikolas is going to trace the origin of the weapons themselves, and dear young Amily is going to pursue what faint leads there may be here in the city by means of your young rapscallion tribe and the new Handmaidens and
her own odd but useful Gift. And
you
are going to investigate the gem mines and take Keira with you as a distraction. She is to be a wealthy young widow, and you are her manservant. That allows her to tease any secrets that might be had out of young men, and you to go snooping about.”

“That was our plans, m'lord, aye,” Mags agreed.

Once again they were seated in the library; it seemed to be the room of choice for conferences that Lord Jorthun did not wish anyone to overhear.

“Excellent.” Once again he rubbed his hands in glee. “I shall go along as her doddering old father. That will give us three points of attack.”

Mags was, frankly, stunned by the—well he couldn't exactly call it an
offer,
since it was phrased as a
fait accompli.
But he could not deny that having Jorthun,
who had taught Nikolas all he knew,
and who was teaching Mags plenty of new tricks, would be invaluable on this trip. “I—don't know what to say,” he managed.

“Pish, don't say anything,” Lord Jorthun replied airily. “I can supply the coach and horses, the livery, Keira's wardrobe—well, that is mostly taken care of already—the traveling kit that no highborn lord or lady would
ever
travel without. And you are not going to procure those on short notice. I've been wanting to get out and do something again, and this will be perfect.”

“I hope you aren't running away from me,” Dia pouted, then dimpled and leaned over the arm of her chair to kiss her husband. “You've been itching to get back to the Game ever since I married you, and I can only thank the gods that at least you've chosen something that isn't likely to get you shot at or chased.”

“No, if anyone is going to get shot at or chased, it will be young Mags,” Jorthun said complacently. “I assume that your Companion will do what Rolan used to when Nikolas was incognito?”

:I'm going to ghost along with you, staying out of sight, while you ride a regular horse,:
Dallen said, helpfully.

“If you mean he'll come along but stay out of sight, then aye, sir,” Mags replied.

“Then we'll concoct some means of getting him fed. Fortunately things are beginning to green up nicely, so he'll have that.” Jorthun went to a table and got a stylus and palimpsest paper. He returned to his seat and began making notes. “For once, young Mags, you may leave the planning to someone else. We'll be ready to leave in two days.”

Mags left feeling a bit stunned. Lady Dia escorted him as far as the front door. “Jorthun has been craving action for . . . well, far too long. There was not a great deal he could do about those foreign assassins the Karsites had hired—it was obvious they were something outside of his expertise, and they were certainly beyond what he is physically capable of handling now.” She smiled as he gave her a quizzical glance. “Trust me, Mags, my husband knows exactly what he can do and how far he can trust his body. He won't undertake anything he can't finish.”

“So—this is like exactly the sort of thing he's been lookin' for?” Mags hazarded.

She nodded. “He wouldn't wish ill fortune on the Kingdom, but men who are used to being needed get in the habit of it, and it frets them when they feel they are sitting about uselessly.”

They paused at the door. Mags looked back in the direction of the library. “He's anythin' but useless, Dia. I didn't figure to get away before a sennight.”

“Well, make use of the time wisely,” she advised him. “We'll send you a message when all is ready.”

Dallen was waiting for him just outside; Jorthun's stablehands could read Companions almost as well as if
they
had Mindspeech.
:Amily wants to meet you down at Willy the
Weasel's so you can properly introduce her to your mob.:
Dallen tossed his head in amusement at his start.
:Don't worry, she's properly dressed for the area.:

Well, he had to wonder just what she thought was “properly dressed for the area . . .” It was after dark. And although any pack of thugs trying to rob or harm her was likely to end up a pack of thugs with broken heads, the point was not to draw attention to herself. But then again, she was Nikolas's daughter.

He left Dallen in the usual spot, and transformed himself into Harkon. He chose to travel conventionally rather than over rooftops, just in case he'd run into Amily on the way.

But it took him a few moments to recognize the young tough loitering under Willy the Weasel's street lamp. She looked
nothing
like a girl. And there were plenty of beardless boys in this part of Haven who could gut you before you could blink, so the fact that she wasn't sprouting chin-hair was no indication of whether or not she was dangerous. The rapier and dagger in well-worn sheathes at her side, however, were.

She tugged on her hat brim. “Harkon,” she said, pitching her voice low enough it could have passed for a young man's tenor.

“Yer early,” he said, deciding to err on the side of caution by not giving her a name, in case she'd dropped one out here already. “C'mon then. Let's get yer innerduced.”

He unlocked the next door, and the two of them walked into Aunty Minda's warm and welcoming space.

• • •

“That went better than I expected it to,” Amily commented in a voice just above a whisper, as the two of them made their way back to where their Companions were—for Amily had used the same inn stabling that Mags had used; he just hadn't
noticed Rolan since he had been in something of a hurry to get to Amily before—if—trouble did.

“They're good lads,” said Mags. “An' it ain't like they don' take orders from a woman now.”

They were walking quickly, but so was nearly everyone else on the street.
Finally
there was a sense that Spring was in the air. Mags hated leaving Amily . . . but on the other hand, he wanted to get into gem country as quickly as he could before the Spring rains started. It was going to take a week to get where they wanted to go by coach, even in good conditions on firm roads. It could take half a moon to get there if they got bogged down.

“Well, I expected some resistance. I'm glad there wasn't any.” She trudged on. “I have the sinking feeling this is going to be difficult.”

“Gotta be,” Mags agreed. “Some'un's runnin' a tricksy deal here. Wouldn' surprise me none iffin there's layers and layers. We gotter unravel 'em somehow. Rolan tell ye what Jorthun tol' me?”

She didn't get a chance to answer him. They had reached the stable. Carefully checking to make sure no one was watching, they slipped inside, then into the hidden storage room where Mags kept his disguises.

“Yes,” she said, as they quickly changed, though it was a tight fit for two in the little room. “And I'm not happy, but what can we do? Not happy about how short a time we have left, that is,” she amended as they took turns pulling each others' tunics down into place. “I'm actually rather relieved Jorthun is going.”

“Ye thin' I need a chaperone,” he teased, and opened the door just enough for her to squeeze through it.

“I think he has an awful lot to teach you,” she corrected, then left him long enough to get Rolan and saddle him.

“No argument fr'm me on thet score,” he said, as they both
mounted up and headed up the Hill. “Wish't ye was comin' wi' me.”

“Wish you were staying here,” she replied. “But neither of us is going to get our wishes. So let's get up the Hill as fast as we can, so we can make the most of the time we have.”

• • •

The livery was unexpectedly comfortable. Mags had anticipated something stiff, perhaps scratchy, too warm or too light for comfort. Instead, what he'd gotten was a variation on the Palace livery, made with an eye to the fact that people were going to be working long, hard hours wearing it. Dark brown, heavy canvas trews that had been softened somehow so they were as easy on the skin as good linen. A white linen shirt with a high collar. And a selection of tunics in either brown wool or brown canvas with the design of a lozenge divided in four quarters, two white, two green, embroidered on the breast. He had no idea whose device this was, but Jorthun assured him that no one was going to either recognize it, nor contest Keira's right to it, where they were going.

The same device was on both sides of the coach. Now that was a bit of outright cleverness; Jorthun had shown him how any device at all could be bolted to it and taken off at will. It made him wonder just how many times in Jorthun's past he'd been on missions for the King that had required a change of identity.
Has to be pretty often if he's still got something like this coach about.

They set off before dawn, in part so that no one of any consequence would see the strange device bolted onto Jorthun's coach, rolling out of Jorthun's gates. It was Mags' first time in a coach. He wasn't entirely sure he liked it. The interior
looked
comfortable enough, all padded plush and fitted out with all sorts of little luxuries. But it rocked and rolled
from side to side and bounced up and down in a way that didn't give him any chance to appreciate those luxuries. And in addition, he and Coot were sitting with their backs to the horses—the least comfortable of the two bench-seats in the thing—since they were the servants here.

It had been bad enough as they'd gone slowly through the streets of Haven—but as soon as they made the open road, the driver had picked up speed, and Mags began to regret breakfast.

“Here,” Jorthun said, leaning forward and handing him a little metal box. He took it, and opened it carefully. His nose was hit with the scent of fresh mint, and he immediately felt a little better. He took one of the hard, square lozenges, and stuck it under his tongue.

“Thenkee, sir,” he said, handing the box back. Jorthun tucked it into one of the many pockets crafted into the sides of the coach.

He hadn't been able to get a good look around the object that would essentially be their home for the next week or so, because it had been so dark. But now the sun had crested the horizon, and he gave the interior a thorough inspection.

The exterior of the coach was dark brown trimmed in lighter brown. The interior matched. The entire interior of the coach had been upholstered and padded; the covering was a soft wool plush, and from the way they were being bounced around, it was obvious
why
every inch but the floor and ceiling was padded. They were sitting so closely together their knees touched. There was a single window in the door of the coach; there were lanterns on either side of the interior of the coach but Mags could not imagine anyone being foolhardy enough to
light
them while the coach was moving. There were a great many of the aforementioned storage pockets in the walls.

He glanced at Coot, who had scooted himself to the edge of
the seat and was watching the countryside scroll by with huge eyes. It took him a moment to realize why.

Coot had never been out of the city.

Coot was wearing the same livery Mags was; Jorthun had advised him to pick out one of his “lads” to bring along as an all-purpose errand boy—and lookout, in case he needed to do anything that required breaking and entering. That seemed an entirely sensible idea to Mags, and Coot had been eager to go.

“Be—be there bears, sor?” Coot wavered, seeing Jorthun's eyes on him.

“Not so near the city,” Jorthun replied, soothingly. “Nor wolves. In fact, you are far more likely to be bitten by a farm dog than by a wolf.” Coot relaxed a little, and turned his attention back to the window. Jorthun amused himself by answering all of the boy's questions about the things that they passed. Keira dozed; she'd been up quite late, making the last minute adjustments to her new wardrobe. Though how she could sleep in this rocking, rolling coach Mags had no idea.

When they stopped for luncheon, Mags was more than glad to get out and was not at all happy about the fact that he was going to have to get back in again. Coot was now full of all manner of useful information about life in the country, which he was clearly storing in his mind with the alacrity of a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. He knew his role and snapped to it, however, as the coach came to a stop. He was the first out the door, got the stepstool in place, and was waiting at one side to assist “Mi'lor' an' Mi'lady” down as Mags did the same on the other. Jorthun and Keira went inside the inn; a servant was sent out with hot ale and pocket pies for Coot, Mags, and the coachman—who was as stolid as a statue of wood, and just about as talkative.