Closer to the Heart (7 page)

He had come in his Herald Whites, so that Tuck would not be afraid; he had every right as a Herald to be here, of course, especially after yesterday. It would not seem at all out of the ordinary for him to see how Linden and Tuck were doing.

Us Heralds is nosy like that.

:It's our job to be nosy like that,:
Dallen reminded him.

Dallen was with him this time, pacing along beside him, and the moment the two of them entered the former stableyard, Dallen was the center of attention. The children swarmed him, as children always did. What child could resist a snow-white, silver-hooved, blue-eyed horse? And even their mothers, busy hanging laundry on lines that crisscrossed the yard, with barely enough space to move between them, paused in their work to cast looks of wonder and admiration.

“Afternoon, ladies,” Mags said, affably. “Jest checkin' in on that feller Tuck. I mean t'make sure he didn' take no hurt from thet bully, Cobber Pellen.”

Well, he'd intended to find out just what the neighborhood thought of Pellen, and those simple words unleashed a torrent. Evidently it wasn't only Tuck's stable he'd wanted; he'd intended to take over the whole building. At least half of these women had a story of how Cobber had “come calling,” intending to find out what they were paying in rent and what the terms of their leases were. As Mags had surmised, this neighborhood was one of hardworking poor folk. It had immediately been clear to these folks that Cobber intended to acquire the place and evict them all. “Startin' wi' Daisy's shed,” said the most talkative of the lot, whose empty laundry basket showed why she was willing to stand and chat after the others had unloaded their complaints and tales of woe into his willing ears. “I guess 'e found out poor Tuck owned it outright and reckoned t'set up some sorta tavern an' make as much trouble as 'e could fer us.”

Mags thought that over. “Aye, I kin see thet,” he agreed. “Keeps th' place open all hours, drunks i' th' yard, thievery—mos' of ye are laundry-women, aye?”

“Aye. Well an' wash-house inside, where th' brew-kettles useter be,” his informant told him. “Well with good, sweet water was used fer the brewin'. 'Bout twenny years agone, we all clubbed t'gether, made a wash-house outen it. Landlord
was all fer it. Made sure there was niver a room wi'out a tenant.”

Mags nodded. Taking in wash was a good, stable job, and although it was a hard one, it was one that ensured that the woman in question could always pay her rent. But that begged the question—if this landlord owned the former brewery, how had Tuck's mother gotten hold of the shed?

:That's a question for another day,:
Dallen advised.
:Start asking too much, and you'll raise suspicions.:

“So, Cobber sets up a tavern, an' pretty soon there goes yer business. All of ye lose yer rooms, landlord's got no choice but t'take what 'e kin get, an' that'd be Cobber.” He tilted his head to the side, inviting comment, and the woman grimaced and nodded.

“But not this time,” she said firmly, and patted him on the shoulder. “Now git, do yer duty an' be off tendin' t'more 'portant things than th' likes of us.”

“Nothin's more 'portant than th' likes of ye,” he countered, and skirted the edge of the yard to stay out of the way of the flapping laundry, and got to the door of the shed and knocked. The door cracked, and Linden peered out of it.

“Herald Mags!” she said, opening the door for him in the sight of the others. “Thenkee fer comin' t'see 'bout Tuck.” She reached out and tugged on his arm and he let her draw him inside.

She shut the door, and looked up at him, her face pink with excitement. Tuck was bent over his workbench, deep in creation, humming tunelessly to himself. “When ye said ye was gonna send us ev'thin' we needed, I didn' think twould be—” Words failed her, and instead, she flung herself at him and hugged him tightly. “Yer a angel, Herald! Yer a right angel!”

He patted her shoulder. “Nah, nah, Tuck'll be earnin' it, an' right quick. I got a mort'a things already I wanter get him t'make up fer me. But I cain't keep sendin' boys with parcels.
So here—” He detached her and put the heavy purse in her hands. Her eyes widened. “This'll keep ye awhile. I want yer t'meet me at Weasel's shop arter dark in three days. We'll work out there how I kin send ye stuff 'thout anybody the wiser. Meanwhile, I want a set'a lockpicks. Thet'll be the fust job fer Tuck, an' I want him t'take 'is time over 'em.”

Linden nodded. “Iffen 'e says 'e's done wit' 'em, an' there's time t'spare, want 'nother set?”

Since a set of really good lockpicks would probably make Nikolas's eyes light up like candles, Mags nodded. “Thet'll do fer now. I figger yer better at 'splainin' thins to 'im than I'd be, so I'll 'splain to ye the next thin' I need at Weasels.” He cast a glance over at Tuck's hunched back. There was no sign of fear or tension now. “'Ow's 'e doin'?”

“I tol' 'im you was gonna make sure Cobber couldn' be mean t'im no more. I ain't niver lied t'im, an' 'e b'lieves me.”

“Well, Cobber
ain't,”
Mags said firmly. “Them was some purt' serious charges, an' once word got aroun' 'e was in gaol, other folk started comin' in an' layin' charges. So 'e's a-gonna go be workin' a prison-farm for a good piece, an' when 'e gets out, I 'spect 'e'll hev other worries than Tuck.”

Linden chuckled and rubbed her hands together with glee. He looked her over with approval. Some of what he had sent over was a bundle of used clothing. Gone were the ragged skirts, worn in layers so that the holes could be compensated for. She had a nicely darned, thick woolen tunic that came down past her knees, a pair of faded moleskin trews, and the sort of knitted “boots” with leather soles that would fit many sizes of feet. The wild mop of hair had not
quite
been tamed, but it also didn't look as if it had a life and a mind of its own anymore. She noted his glance, and grinned, held out her arms and turned in place. “Lookit me! I'm respect'ble!”

“No such bad thin' t'be,” he replied. “Now, come say 'lo
t'my Companion, or the ladies out there'll thin' there's somethin' wrong wi'ye, an' then I'll be on m'way.”

She scampered off and hid the pouch of coins under a floorboard, then followed him out of the shed. Tuck took no more heed of them than if they'd been a couple of moths.

Dallen was accepting the adoration of the children with his usual aplomb, but Mags caught his chuckle when Linden stopped dead, staring at him with her mouth falling open. Mags nudged her gently with an elbow to wake her up.

“I—ain't niver seen one on 'em, close up,” she admitted, and took a couple of steps nearer. “Kin I touch 'im?”

“All ye want,” Mags assured her.

And as she joined the children, looking into Dallen's blue eyes and stroking his silken mane with an expression of bliss, Mags was very aware that while
he
might be Linden's benefactor and hero, it was Dallen whom she had given her wholehearted worship to.

:As it should be,:
noted Dallen.
:This is the proper order of things.:

:Quiet, horse.:

T
hree nights later, the three of them—Mags, Amily, and her father—shared a quiet meal together in his rooms. They didn't do that nearly often enough to suit all three of them, but in this case, it was part wedding feast, and part planning session. Nikolas was very interested to hear about Tuck and Tuck's genius in crafting things, and his eyes did, indeed, light up at the sight of Mags' gift, the better of the two excellent sets of lockpicks. Tuck had taken less than two days to make both sets; Mags had tried them both and he was extremely impressed.

“If I have to run off, and actually have a place you can send things to, I'll let you know through Dallen,” Nikolas said, as they feasted on food straight from the King's table. “As long as I am still here, I'd like to put in another request. I would really like a set of that climbing gear you're having him make you. Especially if the two of you can make a grappling-hook-arrow actually work.”

Nikolas was looking very good these days; fully recovered from the ordeal that had nearly killed him. Nikolas was—purposefully—very difficult to describe, so ordinary as to blend into any crowd. It had taken years for him to get his appearance that way. Even in Herald Whites he was utterly forgettable. In any ordinary clothing, from rags to velvets, it was unlikely anyone would remember him long enough to describe him. Mags actually suspected some sort of minor Gift at work; Nikolas
was
a very strong Mindspeaker, and that would be a Gift that could easily go hand-in-hand with Mindspeaking.

At any rate, Nikolas was looking good. Healthy and a little impatient for something to go wrong so he could investigate it.

I just hope whatever it is has nothing to do with me and Amily.

:From your mind to the ears of the gods,:
Dallen replied fervently.

“I have no notion, no more does Linden,” Mags admitted. “But if
she
can figger out how to explain it to him, like as not, if it can be made, he can do it. And I borrowed one of Amily's corsets, Linden's gonna get him t'make thin knives t'fit where the busks'd be.”

Nikolas's sitting room served as their dining room; he had pressed the table he used for a desk into service as their dining table, and three of his mismatched sitting room chairs were arranged around it. There was just enough room. It was still too cold to seem like spring, so a fine fire burned in the fireplace.

Nikolas nodded in approval, then chuckled, as he passed Mags the salt. “What a strange lot we are. Any other father would be reacting in horror to the notion of such a thing, and here I am, trying to think of something
else
lethal that could get fitted into a corset!”

“Well, I like to have my lethality hidden, thank you, and where better than in my underthings?” Amily countered, snatching the last roll from the basket in the center of the table. Mags passed her the butter dish.

“I'd like you just's lethal
out
of your underthings, wife,” Mags retorted. “An' I like you lethal in whatever ye choose to be wearin', or not. The more lethal you be, the better I like it!”

“Just as long as you look like the most harmless thing on earth,” Nikolas reminded them. “Both of you. It's always better, not just for us, but for the entire Kingdom, if those like you and me and Mags are not what we seem.”

“Speaking of not what we seem. . . .” Amily bit her lip, and Mags knew why. She was still very conflicted over this idea of hers, this little army of female informants. It was not the problem of placing them where they would be expected to tattle on their hosts—because obviously, the placement would only be with those that Nikolas and the King deemed . . . problematic. The problem was that potentially she was putting them in danger. She didn't think twice about putting herself in danger—but she was balking at the notion of doing so to someone else.

“The King, the Seneschal, and I all spent all of last night discussing your idea,” Nikolas told her. “I do understand why you feel some misgivings over it. But it seems to me that as long as each of these young ladies is very carefully briefed on
every
possible repercussion, and is given a route of escape if the situation becomes unpleasant or intolerable or even dangerous, don't
they
deserve the right to decide whether or not they wish to serve the King, and just how far they are prepared to go in order to do so?” He caught her hand in his and looked deeply into her eyes. “Are we to assume these young ladies are less brave, and less intelligent, than those who join the Guard? Are we to assume they can't
be
that brave and intelligent? Remember, they can always decline, which is more than fighters in the Guard can do.” He shrugged. “Mind, the
comparison with the Guard isn't exact. Things are quite clear-cut when the Guard is sent in, and the opposite will be true of your young ladies. But still . . . it's a valid comparison so far as bravery is concerned.”

Amily gave her father a long, measuring look. Mags held his peace; he agreed with Nikolas. Why, every single one of Amily's friends before she had been Chosen had been spies—of a sort. Granted they reported straight to their parents, who in their turn went to the King, but how was that different from this? Finally she let out her breath in a long sigh. “Of course not,” she replied. “You're right. And since you seem to be in agreement on this, I'll talk to Dia in the morning and we'll get things in motion.” She sat back in her chair. “I get the feeling that Miana already has some acquaintances in mind. If you have any families in which you think my ladies should be placed, I'd like a list at your earliest convenience.”

Mags noted with approval that, once she had made up her mind, Amily was quite prepared to follow through. He took a few bites of baked apple, and then cleared his throat. “I got me an ideer,” he said, as Amily and her father looked over at him. “I dunno if this'd suit ye, but it seems t'me that Dia might could have an open hand in this. An' that'd take any suspicion that th' King was behind it right off, on account of Dia does things like this all th' time.”

Amily turned toward him and smiled. “I am all ears.”

He put down his fork, and noted that the wind had picked up outside. He sighed mentally. It was going to be a long, cold walk to their quarters. But then, getting warmed up afterward would be worth it. “Dia kin set up a kinda school fer handmaidens. What
she
gets outa it is she gets a buncha ladies she kin hand out some of her work to—like weddin' an' festival stuff. What
they
gets outa it, is they get a nice place t'live an' access t'all the best families an' gatherin's an' all. An' anybody Dia'd trained, well, the people we wanta get 'em placed
with, they'd think first of all—Lady Dia!—that'd be a status thin', t'get yer handmaid trained by her. They'll prolly compete with each other to get them girls. And second, they'd all git t'know each other, an' they'd know how t'get in touch with each other in case'a trouble. Whaddya think?”

“Great good gods, Mags, I like it!” Nikolas exclaimed, his brown eyes lighting up with unabashed enthusiasm. “No one would ever suspect Dia of spycraft. The Crown can fund it all, and no one will ever know.”

“Dia's got the room,” Amily mused. “She's always complaining that her husband's manor house is
a great mausoleum we have to keep three-fourths closed up, lest the echoes from the empty rooms drown out our actual conversation.
I'll ask her about it! And with the Crown footing any additional expense of taking on a dozen young ladies, not even her husband will object.” She smiled a little. “Not that he would. He complains about the place being too quiet himself, and I think he would enjoy a lot of feminine company around him.”

“Then you two should see him tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” Nikolas decreed. “I'll go with you.”

Something about the way Nikolas said that, made Mags take sudden notice. There was something going on here. . . .

Mags gave his mentor a look that said,
And just what is it you aren't telling us?
But Nikolas was keeping his mouth firmly closed, though there was a faint gleam in his eye. . . .

Well, Nikolas didn't usually keep secrets from Mags, and those he did, generally were not his to tell.

:You got any notions?:
he asked Dallen.

:I expect you'll find out tomorrow afternoon,:
came the bland response, which only cemented Mags' suspicions into certainty. Nikolas was keeping a secret. And not just from him, but from Amily.

And tomorrow afternoon they were going to find out what it was.

• • •

They had ridden in through a pair of beautiful wrought-iron gates and had been met by three grooms in Lord Jorthun's special crimson livery. The grooms escorted—not led—them and the Companions through a lovely little paved courtyard, past the main entrance, and to Lord Jorthun's magnificent stone stables. There, they displayed the accommodations that the Companions were to enjoy, and Mags was impressed. There were special stalls just for Companions in Lord Steveral Jorthun's stables. Stalls with mangers full of sweet hay and water-buckets that looked freshly scrubbed until they shone. And grooms—plural—that knew exactly how to treat Companions.

:With the admiration and deference due to us, of course,:
Dallen said smugly as he, Rolan, and Evory were escorted—once again, not
led—
away. It was clear the Companions were about to be treated better than many humans.

:Naturally, horse,:
Mags replied, following the footman who had come to greet them at the stable door. He looked up at the manor house. A
real
stone-built manor house, not one of the “town-houses” the highborn usually had, even up here on the Hill. It wasn't the size of the Palace, but it was certainly big enough, and it was small wonder that Dia joked about it being a mausoleum. It was four stories tall, plus an attic, and probably cellar-rooms as well, within its own grounds and gardens, and it must have taken a staff of at least eighty to a hundred just to keep it all going, whether it was full of visitors or not. He knew Dia held a great many gatherings, and Lord Jorthun often played host to several contingents of relatives during Court season—and you couldn't exactly put staff members in a closet and take them out again when they were needed. Lord Jorthun never left Haven anymore, and so perforce his manor house was fully staffed, all year around.

Mags had never been here before. Lord Jorthun was an old friend of the King, and the King's father before him, and there had never been any need for Mags to pay the highborn a visit in any official—or other—capacity. In fact, until now, he hadn't realized there actually
were
any manors this size on the Hill. Most of the highborn contented themselves with a town-house, for the very good reason that a manor this big required so much staff, and even a skeleton staff, with most of the house closed up, would be a minimum of twenty servants.

This place looked as if it might even date all the way back to the Founding. If that was the case, then it had probably been meant to serve more than one highborn family—or one really enormous extended family.

They were almost at the front portico when another footman opened the door, and a very tall, very erect, very fit man with silvery hair, dressed in Court finery of black and gray velvet with silver ornaments, stepped out into the sunlight.

“Ah, you have arrived!” It was Lord Jorthun himself who intercepted them at the front door, his distinctive and powerful voice carrying out into the courtyard. He took a half dozen strong steps toward them. “Thank you, Jem, that will be all,” he said, as he took Amily's hand and bowed over it.

Mags had only ever seen this powerful member of the highborn at a distance, on the rare occasions he came to a gathering at Court himself, rather than sending his wife as his delegate. He was even more impressive near at hand. He was one of the tallest men Mags had ever seen—he towered over Nikolas by a good head. His dark eyes suggested that the mane of silver hair he boasted had once been jet black. Beneath a silver beard and moustache, his features were those of an heroic statue. And the way he carried himself told Mags his excuses for staying away from Court events because he was “fatigued” were a fabrication; this was a fit man, and despite his years, still perfectly capable of anything he put his mind to.

“So this is our King's Own, my little Dia's childhood friend. Well met at last, my dear,” he said, in a voice that was rich and deep. “I have known your father for many, many years, of course. In fact, I knew him before he was King's Own.” A genuine smile crossed his face. “You are a credit to your family.” Amily blushed, but kept her composure.

“I am very pleased to meet you at last too, sir,” she said. She was about to say more, but he released her hand and waved them in ahead of him, through a pair of doors of ornately carved, light-colored wood. These led straight into an entrance hall; the walls and support pillars were of a pale stone, but the staircase rising from it was of the same intricately carved wood as the doors, as was the padded bench where the footman and the hallboys—two of them—waited patiently to be needed. Lord Jorthun led them through an open doorway to the left, into what looked like a version of a Great Hall, with a massive fireplace, a great deal of seating, and a gallery running around all four walls. Clear light came from skylights in the roof above; Mags guessed that the rooms off the gallery were probably guest rooms, but he was only guessing. Whoever had planned and built this building had intended to showcase the pale beige stone it was made of; the only places where the stone of the walls was covered was where the magnificent decorative tapestries had been hung. Mags didn't get much chance to look at this room, however, as their host whisked them through it and into a much smaller room beyond.