Closer to the Heart (23 page)

“Well, as it happens, we have the remedy for you, at least until Landen can play again in a moon or so,” Jorthun continued. “If you have no objection, Keira and I would like to offer the services of our man Harkon, who has played fourth rider on the Collegium Green team at Haven for the last two years.”

Seldom had Mags ever felt the surface thoughts of a group turn round about so quickly. The initial reaction to
services of our man Harkon
had been negative, a sort of
how dare he offer a servant!
feeling shared by the young men on the two teams and their families, alike. Evidently, while it was perfectly all right for a servant to play one of the foot positions . . . it was
not
acceptable for a servant to be in the mounted role.

But all that reversed when Jorthun said
played fourth rider on the Collegium Green team at Haven.
The thoughts of the family members were a bit vague, more along the lines of “if he's good enough for the Collegium, I suppose we can accept him.” But the young players?
Far
more enthusiastic. In fact, several of them started toward him. The thoughts spilling out of their heads were of admiration and desire to find out
what he knew
and
what he could teach.

That was especially true of Merdeth Hara and Malcon Laon, the two young men who had actually
seen
the Collegium teams play. Mags was extremely glad at that moment that he had not used the name of “Mags” here. Even if they had been concentrating on the Trainees who'd been playing, and not the foot or the horse, they
certainly
would have heard tales of “Herald Mags” who had been such a wicked good Kirball champion.

It was Keira's turn to speak, since now people were beginning to talk, and it took a woman's high voice to carry over the crowd noise. “Father and I mean to say, if this suits you, we will be happy to do without Harkon so he can help you bring back your beloved pastime until your real player can come back to his team! Take your time and think about it, and let us know. Now please, enjoy yourselves.”

It was absolutely clear to Mags that no one was going to need to “think about it.” Medoes Kiren, the captain of the team with the missing man, was already most of the way across the room, and when he reached Mags, he held out his hand in an entirely egalitarian manner.

“Harkon is it?” he said, as Mags clasped his hand. “Well met, my good man. This is no end delightful! We'll be very pleased to take your services—”

“Master Medoes, I want ye t'know, I do know m'place,” Mags said, earnestly. “Off the field, I be just Harkon, Lord Jorthun's man.”

“But on the field, I damned well hope you'll be a demon on horseback,” replied Medoes Kiren, as the rest of the riders gathered around and nodded eagerly. “Thing is, Harkon, it's a damned dull life for us fellows, out here in the back of nowhere. Then along came Kirball, and well! It was as good as a war without anyone dying!”

Mags allowed himself a little bit of a smile. “I kin see thet, Master Medoes. Well, I 'spect all ye young masters are right quick an' clever an' smart, 'cause ye don' last long on the field iffin ye ain't. So if I knows summat that ye don't, be sure I'll give ye the knack of it. When kin we start a-practicin'?”

“By the gods, Harkon, you are a fine fellow! A toast, lads!” Medoes exclaimed, holding up his glass, as his friends did the same “A toast to Harkon, who has saved us!”

Mags dropped his head and did his best to look bashful, which was what these young men would think proper in a servant being so singled out for attention by his “betters.”

They all drank down their wine and Mags refilled their glasses. “As to when, why tomorrow!” said Medoes. His eyes shone with pleasure. “We'll all send over some horses, so you can take your pick, right, fellows? That way you'll have trained beasts, that will only need to get used to you and we can start really playing right away!”

A murmur of assent from the young men of both teams followed that.

“Make sure you get six. We don't want you handicapped by having to play with an exhausted mount,” Medoes continued. “Do you prefer tall horses, or ponies?”

:Ponies, Mags,:
Dallen said immediately.
:I can handle their tempers, and ponies are better in the scrum as you know.:

“Ponies, sirs,” Mags said, this time bringing his chin up and looking them all in the eyes. “I be a scrummer, sirs, an' I ain't never backed down from a good mash.”

“I like you more and more by the moment,” Medoes exclaimed, his color high and his eyes sparkling—and Mags sensed very little of that was due to the wine. This fellow was utterly
passionate
about the game. He almost lived for it.

:They are all second, third, and fourth sons with very little to do except try and find good girls to marry, and wait for their fathers to find them some job or other in the family business,:
Dallen told him.
:You've seen the like at Court. Except there is a great deal of mischief the young men at Court can get up to as you found out. There's not a lot that these lads can do out here that wouldn't be found out before the day was over. That leaves them with hunting—and you can't hunt in the spring—and fishing—and you have to have the temperament to fish—cards and dice—and none of them dares lose much or their fathers would have their heads. Horse racing, well, that's possible, but they are too well bred to race the horses themselves, it isn't much fun to watch someone else ride your horse, and again, if they lost money, their fathers would be furious. They'd probably be happier if they were poorer. But now they have Kirball. Small wonder they live for it.:

Mags could certainly see that. It made perfect sense.

He continued to serve the guests all evening, making certain that the young men did not monopolize his time asking about plays he had made and plays he had seen. This was a
very careful dance on his part; one false move, one slip that made it appear that he was not the born servant he was pretending to be, and he risked their mission here. Harkon, of all of them, was the one who dared have no questions asked about him.

When the last of the guests finally cleared out—it was the Medoes lad, who urgently reminded him that he was going to get about a dozen ponies arriving in the morning to sort through—he felt as exhausted as if he'd done a roof-run across most of Haven.

“The advantage of hiring this room is that the inn servants will take care of the ruins, Harkon,” Jorthun said, as Mags made an abortive move to pick up a goblet. “I feel strongly in need of a nightcap and my bed. These festive evenings wear me completely out.”

“Aye, m'lord,” said Mags and held the door open for him.

“I'll join you in that nightcap, Father,” said Keira, and followed him out, leaving Mags and Coot (who was yawning and trying to hide it) to bring up the rear.

When the door was closed on the rest of the inn, Jorthun got himself a glass of spirits of wine—something he seldom indulged in—and poured one for each of them. Even Coot, although he gave Coot only about half a tiny glass.

“Well, that came off better than I could have hoped,” said Jorthun, sitting himself down and sipping his glass. “It's always a tricky thing when you barge into an established order and propose to shake it up, even a trifle.”

“Aye that,” Mags agreed, and threw himself into a window seat, taking care not to spill the precious liquor in his glass. He savored a few drops. “I was mortal glad of my particular Mindgift. At leastwise, I could read th' crowd.”

“Well, we took a chance on a roll of the dice, and they came out in our favor,” Keira replied. “How do you reckon tomorrow will be?”

“Easy sailin',” Mags told them, feeling much more confident now that the worst was over. “Dallen had a few thins t'tell me 'bout this lot.”

He explained in a few words what Dallen had imparted to
him,
and Lord Jorthun and Keira both nodded in agreement. “So now, Dallen reckons, long's I don' get uppity, I got 'em like puppies followin' the pack-leader.”

“To you and Dallen and the morrow, then,” said Jorthun, raising his glass high. “And may the odds continue to favor us.”

“Amen to that,” Mags said fervently, and downed his glass.

T
he stableyard of the inn was crowded, but not with the horses of incoming and outgoing patrons. There was a string of ponies, and about a dozen handlers, lined up on the hard-packed earth of the yard. There were also a lot of onlookers, enough that you could reasonably call them an audience. Mags could sense Dallen's presence somewhere nearby; hiding, although it never ceased to amaze him how something as
obvious
as a big, snow-white horse could manage to hide. That was good, he was going to need every bit of Dallen's help he could get. He really wished Amily was here now. Her Gift of reading animals would have helped tremendously.

:Just put one hand on each pony's shoulder, and let me see what I can see,:
Dallen told him soothingly.
:I'm confident we can get six good mounts out of this lot. They sent you good ponies, Chosen. None of them are too old, nor too young, none have been injured, and none of them have vicious
temperaments. I think they're all mine-pony stock, which is good for us. Mine-ponies need patience.:

Well, Dallen would know. During Kirball matches, while
he
communicated with the other members of the team, and read the surface thoughts of their opponents during a match, Dallen was the one who kept track of the horses. He was the one who always knew if the ball was under the hooves of the ordinary horses during a scrum, and whether a mount was getting nervy about being crowded up against the fence.

Eighteen ponies were lined up in the inn yard, with more people loitering about than Mags had cared to count, watching him make his selections. He walked out into the yard, ignoring the impromptu audience, and surveyed the ponies slowly. Physically, they were pretty much of a piece; their colors varied about as much as rocks did, their coats were coarse, and they were strongly muscled. None of them wasted energy fidgeting, which was a good sign; you didn't want your horse wearing himself out before the game even started. They all seemed patient. Without looking in their mouths, he couldn't tell how old they were, but if he'd been sent good prospects, and it looked as if he had, they were all somewhere between five and ten. It was going to be Dallen's job to pick out the ones that had the
feel
for the game.

Until he had come on this journey, he had ridden a horse—as opposed to a Companion—no more than two or three times in his entire life. He had never been allowed nearer the mine-ponies than sleeping under their barn. He had always assumed, based on the behavior of the poor abused mine-ponies that they were stolid, dull things, capable only of going where they were led. It had never occurred to him before he joined the Kirball team that mere horses could have likes and dislikes and the temperament for something, but it was true. Now he knew better. He'd watched his non-Trainee friends schooling,
training, and choosing their Kirball horses, and the outstanding ones had been utterly brilliant. There were horses that played because they were well trained, and horses that actually enjoyed what they were doing out there.

He put his hand on the shoulder of the first, a dun-colored gelding, who didn't startle or even twitch, just flicked his ears in Mags' direction. Then the pony turned his head slightly, and looked Mags in the eye, then snorted with what sounded like satisfaction and went back to watching the others.

:Him,:
Dallen said, almost instantly.
:He'll be perfect. That snort was because I pictured you during the game. He doesn't want to be hitched to a cart, he wants to compete. He's played before, and the only reason he's been sent to you is because I think his rider likes taller beasts.:

“This one,” Mags said, and the pony was led away, and Mags passed on to the next. He got a piebald one next, then another dun with black socks and a black mane, then a cream, and a black.

For a moment, as he was choosing his final mount, he was afraid he'd have to settle for five instead of six—but the very last pony in the string, a cheerful little bay who nuzzled him as soon as he set his hand on the pony's shoulder, proved to be as satisfactory to Dallen as the first had been. There was a murmur of satisfaction from the crowd, quite as if
they
had been mentally picking the same beasts as Mags was, and then they all dispersed. The innkeeper had graciously volunteered stalls for the ponies without being asked, so once they were put up, Mags went to pay them each a visit. He knew from talking to the riders on the Collegium teams that it was important to actually get to know your mounts before you asked them to engage in something as potentially violent and dangerous as Kirball.

Unlike his friends who had not been Trainees, Mags had an edge.

He stepped into the stall of the first one he'd picked, the dusty dun.
:This is Jess,:
Dallen told him.
:He likes the spot where his bit of a blaze is to be rubbed, not scratched. Right now he is wondering if you know how to rub correctly, and if you might have a bit of sweet about you.:

“Well, Jess,” Mags said, rubbing the indicated spot. “You an' me are gonna be partners fer a bit. Dallen tells me yer keen on th' game. Thet kinda makes two of us.” The pony sighed and leaned a little into the rubbing, but kept one eye on him. Not wary, just interested. What was coming next from this new human?

Of course, he knew very well that what Jess heard was
babble Jess babble babble babble.
That was fine, the important thing was that Jess be used to him, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands, and that the pony associate all of these things with someone to be relied on and trusted, with comfort, with steadiness. Horses valued reliability and steadiness. Horses valued trust. When Jess's eyes started to half-close, Mags picked up a brush and began running it, and his hands, over every thumb length of the pony's body, pausing to carefully pick up and gently set down hooves, and get itchy spots with the brush as Dallen instructed him. Then, to finish—as Dallen also instructed him—he breathed softly into both of Jess's nostrils, then gave him a piece of carrot.
:You give him the most intimate part of your scent,:
said Dallen.
:Your breath. They breathe into each others' noses, when they trust each other. When you do the same, that speaks to their hearts.:

He did the same for all six of the ponies, as the stablemaster watched him. The stablemaster was working around him, puttering in the stalls, checking bits of harness and tack, trying not to
look
as if he was watching, but he was. Mags sensed surface thoughts of skepticism first, then a little surprise, then great satisfaction, and when he was finished with all six ponies and had left the last one's stall, the stablemaster came
straight up the aisle to him, with his hand stuck out. Mags took it, as the stablemaster coughed.

“Wouldna thought it, city man,” he said, as he enthusiastically pumped Mags' hand. “Wouldna thought it. I figgered ye was jest like them rich boys, get some 'un t' find ye a good horse, an ride it 'thout knowin' it. Ye knows yer way 'round a horse, ye do. That there was well done, an' proper done. I be Jess, like yon pony.”

“Harkon. Thenkee, Jess,” Mags said, releasing the man's hand. He gave the stablemaster a slow, quiet smile.
Looks like I have an ally.
“I'm a-gonna trust m'limbs if not m'life on these liddle fellers. Allus did reckon thet if yer gonna do thet with horse
or
pony, best ye get t'know each other.”

“Aye t'thet. But where'd ye larn thet gypsy trick'a breathin' on 'em?” Jess scratched his head in puzzlement. “Thought I was the only man round hereabouts that knowed thet.”

“From gypsies. I ain't allus bin a city-feller.” Mags grinned now, and offered Jess a long, slow wink. “Spent almost a year-turnin' in a caravan.”
True. Just not with gypsies.

The stablemaster sighed with what sounded like envy. Mags was just a little surprised. All the other times he had seen the stablemaster, the burly man had seemed as stolid and unimaginative as any of the cart horses he used for the heavy deliveries to the inn. “Times I wishet I'd gone an' run off with them gypsies thet made me th' offer when I was a lad.”

“Oh, well now, the road's a hard-luck life, which's why I ain't on it now,” Mags told him, leaning back against a support and crossing his arms over his chest. “Looks free an' easy, but there's them as'll run ye off afore ye kin ast fer a night in meadow, an' ridin' along the road's a nice thing when yer belly's full an' it's Spring, but it ain't so nice when yer belly's empty an' yer got snow up t'the horse's belly.”

The stablemaster put his index finger to the side of his
nose, then pointed at Mags, a little gesture that Mags had only ever seen in this part of the world, and meant “You couldn't be more right.” Mags had seen the stablemaster use a lot of those gestures with his stable-boys, possibly because he didn't like to speak loudly and startle his charges. One of the cats that made the stable their home came walking along a stall partition at that moment, and the man absently reached out and petted her. She purred so loudly Mags could hear her from where he stood.

“I'll come by around dusk, an' palaver with 'em a little again,” Mags told him. “If thet ain't no trouble.”

“No trouble 'tall. Make free,” the stablemaster told him, gave the cat one last long scratch, and finally sauntered off to his work. Mags aimed his feet in the direction of the inn, stopping at the horse pump to clean up a bit, as he smelled decidedly “horsey.”
Well, that makes life a little easier. If I have to go sneaking about, the stablemaster's now less likely to stop me or ask me questions.

This morning he had been instructed to take Lord Jorthun's boots down to just outside the kitchen today, and clean and polish them.
All
the boots, which was three pair, and would take him a good long time to do properly. This, of course, was an excuse to let people approach him and talk to him while he cleaned boots. So he sat down on a borrowed stool next to the kitchen door, and went to work. Shortly, one of the kitchen girls brought him a mug of water. Then one of the stable-boys offered to get him cleaner rags. As he worked, they'd come to him on some excuse, by ones or twos so they wouldn't get accused of loitering, and talk.

They
wanted to talk about Kirball, of course.
He
asked about life in Attlebury, about the guests here, about local gossip, about anything he could think of that would teach him more about this town. And in the course of it, he insinuated
questions about how some of the mines were doing, concentrating on ones he thought had the potential to give up some really outstanding stones.

Dallen listened through Mags' ears as the afternoon wore on, and he worked on those boots until they were as soft and supple as gloves, with the soft shine of satin.
:I'm gettin' the distinct impression that pretty much every mine that's doin' well has a lad in the Kirball riders,:
he said, finally, as he packed up the boots and his polishing kit and headed back to Lord Jorthun's suite.

:Well, that only makes sense,:
Dallen pointed out.
:Who else can afford to keep eight or ten horses for one young man? It would have to be families that were doing very well for themselves.:

He tapped lightly on Lord Jorthun's door but got no answer, and left the boots outside, lined up, just as a proper servant would.
:At least that helps us. I'm thinking Keira was dead right here. We've got all our targets in one place, an' distracted. If I didn' know better, I'd say she had a Gift.:

:She does. The Gift of being a shrewd observer,:
Dallen replied, as Mags went to his own room to get a bit of a better wash-up at the basin there.
:I'm very glad she is on our side. She's nearly as sharp as Amily and Lady Dia.:

And that made him feel more than a little melancholy . . . because if there was one single person he would have wanted here, it was Amily, who had the knack of seeing things he missed, just as he had the knack of seeing what she missed. Together they were four times the Heralds that they were separately.

And just at the moment,
he
didn't have any progress to report.

I hope she's seeing more of this puzzle than me right now.

• • •

Music played distantly while courtiers stood about the Great Hall in small knots and talked, or, more likely, gossiped. Amily, in Formal Whites, stood at ease a little away from where the King was deep in a discussion of his own.

Before her stood . . . an inconvenient and importunate young idiot, who thought very highly of himself.

“Thank you, Lord Dalten, but my place is at the King's side,” Amily said firmly to the third of a succession of useless young highborn who seemed to take Mags' absence as the signal to come and pester her with invitations to . . . well, ostensibly to “listen to a Bard in the next room,” “join the dancers,” and “come for a walk in the gardens.” Kyril was taking no notice of them. He left her to deal with these idiots who should have known better on her own, as it should be. He was not there to rescue her; if anything she was there to rescue him, whether from someone he didn't want to speak with or from an assassination attempt. Though mostly, she was there to provide him with information, should he need it. Right now he didn't need it, as he was engaged with Master Soren, and there were things carefully
not being said
that were allowing Master Soren to read between the lines, so to speak.