“And without a doubt, the ones that think that admire him for it.” Jakyr reached for a pocket pie he had left warming on a stone next to the fire, as Mags cut a last slice of bread and piled ham and pickled onions on top of it, before Amily could pack the loaf and ham away.
“An’ if any of ’em hinted at it, he’d go all shocked like.” Mags took a big bite of his concoction. “Well, t’ get back t’ this letter, there’s some about how his gal is already workin’ on a baby. There’s a lotta stuff just meant fer me, remindin’ me of stuff that should be in my head now. ’E said ’e waited a decent bit afore arrangin’ t’hand the letter off to someone that’d give it to a Shin’a’in horsetrader ’e’s got contact with.” He shook his head with admiration. “Wish’t I knew how ’e managed that. I didn’ know th’ Shin’a’in went that far.”
Jakyr shrugged. “You never know what a Shin’a’in is likely to do. They’ll go vast distances to ensure that a horse is properly placed—and equally vast distances to take one back if they discover it hasn’t been.”
Mags could only shake his head. “I dunno. I ain’t run across any, jest some of their hand-work. All I know’s what I read, which ain’t much. Anyway, he says the horsetrader was t’ pass it off to whoever’s goin’ north to Valdemar, and ’e’s put you, Jakyr, as the one t’get the letter, ’cause ain’t nobody down there knows who you are.”
“There is a lot more to that letter than that,” Jakyr pointed out. “You’re barely half through it.”
Mags had to chuckle again. “Well . . . I gotta say, other than remindin’ me of stuff I shoulda got from his mem’ries that ’e says I might well need, the rest of it is . . . Bey’s woman has got him tied in knots. Well, like my pa was for my ma, if the stories he tol’ me are right. The rest of the letter is him goin’ on about her. He says she pretty much hung the moon an’ the stars. An’ she’s no little flower either; he says ‘she’s better at close-quarters combat than I am!’ Which, you’ll reckon, means real damn good.”
“If she wants to keep her own children alive, I suspect she had better be,” Lita observed shrewdly.
“He says here, ’e told her the truth ’bout me. Huh.” Mag scratched his head, puzzled. “Wonder why.”
“Possibly because this way she knows, for certain, that he trusts her. And possibly because it reassures her that no unexpected competition is going to show up. Probably both,” Jakyr mused. He finished his pocket pie and poured hot water from the pot over the fire into the teapot. “Well! Who wants the Waystation? Because whoever wants to use it should probably open it up and give it a good airing before the sun goes down.”
“We’ll take it, Jakyr,” said Amily, as she stowed the last of the food in a basket. “The wagon will probably be more comfortable, and we have younger bones.” She motioned to Mags to stay where he was, and got up to take down the bar and open the door. She walked with strength, and a just barely perceptible limp, now. But Mags was not about to let her do all the work by herself. The rest of the letter could wait. Lita stowed the leftovers in the caravan while they worked, and Jakyr fetched more water and took care of the Companions and vanners for the night.
Mags joined Amily, opening up the shutters, then the windows themselves, then fetching one of the featherbeds and some bedding as Lita passed them to him from the caravan. He made up a small fire in the fireplace, then fetched in water while Amily swept the place out; he’d have done the sweeping, but she snatched the broom out of his hand. With a laugh, he left her to it while he got the water.
Since they were officially off-circuit, they didn’t have to stay at Waystations, but Lita got unexpectedly . . . prim . . . when they were at inns. She would insist on sharing a room with Amily, leaving him to share with Jakyr, which was not the way he would have preferred things. He reasoned that she was just trying to preserve Amily’s reputation (or perhaps her own!) but it was rather annoying to say the least. So when Jakyr started suggesting, right after two such incidents, that they might just as well use the Waystations, he had agreed immediately, and Amily had sided with the two men. Whoever felt most like doing the work of turning the Station out slept in it; more often than not it was Amily and Mags. The wagon was more comfortable for sleeping, as Amily had said, but it was stuffier, and a bit claustrophobic even with Bear and Lena gone. In any event, it was certainly pleasant to have the privacy, no matter which of the two places they spent the night.
By the time they had everything arranged to their satisfaction, Lita and Jakyr were already in the caravan, and there were lights burning inside, making the little windows around the top glow. There was still enough twilight to see by, but just barely, and the breeze was turning cool enough to close up the Waystation windows again. Mags made sure the campfire was out, and returned to the Station, where Amily had lit a lantern and arranged the bedding on the floor in front of the fire.
“We’ll be home this time tomorrow,” she said, as he stripped down and joined her in the blankets. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Well . . . we haven’t had to be anyone but Mags and Amily while we’ve been gone,” she said, and sighed.
He realized immediately what she meant. “You’ll be th’ daughter of the King’s Own. I’ll be—well, not too many people are s’pposed to know I’m ’is student, but I will be that lad what almost got kilt a couple’a times, an’ yer lad what intends t’ marry ye.” He held her close for a moment, but then moved just far enough away that he could look into her eyes. She looked worried. “An’ that’ll be th’ problem, aye?”
“Among others. I suppose it is just as well that I wasn’t Chosen after all.” She made a face. “Because then people would be expecting me to be the next King’s Own on top of all of that.”
Mags could think of something he would much rather be doing right now than discussing all of this, but . . . We ain’t gonna do that until we talk about all of this. “Aight,” he said, and let her relax and put her head on his chest. “So, you been part’f alla this fer a lot longer’n me. Lay it all out fer me.”
She was quiet, very quiet, which meant she was thinking hard. He watched the flames in the fireplace and listened to them crackle; caught the nearby hoot of an owl. Funny how almost gettin’ killed makes a feller enjoy just . . . quiet times . . .
“Well, taking one thing at a time,” Amily finally said, “There’s Father, all by himself. Without coming out and being . . .” he felt her cheek grow warm against his chest “. . . blunt about it, I made it as clear as I could in letters what we were to each other. He didn’t seem surprised.”
“He’d be pretty stupid if he was,” Mags said dryly, “And your Da don’t strike me as bein’ stupid.” He was a little surprised, though. He’d thought it was the sort of thing she would have wanted to say face to face. “Is thet somethin’ thet was better left fer writin’, though?”
She had to chuckle a little at that. “Well, when I’m telling him something I intend to do anyway, whether he likes it or not, I’ve always preferred to write to him about it, even when we were living in the same set of rooms.”
“Are you gonna do that with me?” Mags asked after a moment. “’Cause if it’s all the same to you, I’d druther ye didn’t. I like talkin’ things over.”
“You are not my father, the King’s Own, and the King’s spy,” she pointed out. “Well, you’re the King’s spy but—”
“But not the King’s Own, who’s gonna have one set’f thoughts as jest Nikolas, one set as yer Da, and one set as th’ King’s Own,” Mags filled in for her. “I reckon ye’ve been balancin’ thet fer all yer life, so ye know best.”
“Not always, but . . . well, I also didn’t want him to get it from Bear and Lena’s letters, or Jakyr’s, or Lita’s.” She sighed. “Which, sooner or later, he probably would. I don’t know he was reading their letters to their friends before their friends got them, but i
n his position, he certainly could have been. Plus, I am sure at least Jakyr and possibly Lita had been ordered to report directly back to him.”
Ugh. I can understand that but . . . oh, that’s a little uneasy-makin’. Am I gonna be readin’ peoples’ mail? Why that seemed more intrusive than merely knowing their secrets, he couldn’t have told. Maybe it was because reading their mail seemed a lot like deliberately reading their thoughts. He could do that, too, but . . . it was wrong to do so, unless he was under direct orders. Well, probably the same went for mail-reading.
“I reckon I’m jest as glad I weren’t ordered to report back t’him,” he replied, deciding that, yes, if he had to, he would throttle down the feeling that he was doing something embarrassing and read other peoples’ mail, if ordered. Such orders would only be coming from the King or Nikolas after all, and if he couldn’t trust them, who could he trust? “Since ye didn’ say anythin’ I reckon he was all right with us?”
“He had to take the chance that his mail would be intercepted and read—not that I saw any signs of tampering—so he was a bit oblique, but yes.” She sighed again. “So that hurdle was jumped moons ago. Father the King’s Own, however . . . requires things of his daughter. I wasn’t going to bring all this up until later.”
He shrugged, ever so slightly, enough for her to feel it, not so much it would disturb her comfort. “Might’s well git it over.”
“Well, we were talking about getting married right away, and . . . he basically said that we were going to have to give people time to get used to the idea. And we were talking about doing the same thing that Bear and Lena did, and he made it very clear that no, we were going to have to—”
“Oh no,” he groaned. “Dammit, a big show was the last thing—”
“Well, we’re going to have to put one on,” she said. And she didn’t sound nearly as unhappy about it as Mags was.
:Of course she isn’t, you dolt,: Dallen scolded him. :She’s been the little brown mouse in the corner all her life. Watching her friends in the wealthy and highborn get to sparkle and shine in lovely gowns, and be made much of, like the chief actresses in a popular play. And now, she will get to sparkle and shine and be made much of, herself.:
:But I make much of her!: he protested.
“You’re talking with Dallen, aren’t you?” she asked. To his relief, she sounded amused.
“Uh. Yes?”
She giggled. “Don’t let me interrupt you. When you get quiet like that, I know he’s giving you a piece of his mind.”
“Uh . . . right . . .”
:Oh yes. And only you and her father ever have. How did it feel to be the Kirball champion?:
:Uh . . . what?: Where had that come from?
:How did it feel to be the Kirball champion? You liked it, didn’t you? You liked people looking at you with admiration?:
All right, now he saw what Dallen was getting at but—seriously? :It was a stupid game? All right, maybe not a stupid game, I mean, we was learning about war and tactics and all but everybody else figgered it fer a game and—:
:And nothing. You enjoyed being made much of, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You didn’t let it go to your head. This is just exactly the same thing. Everyone wants that, at least once in their lives. You see?:
And that was when he knew exactly what he should say. “Know what? I reckon that’ll be fun.”
She went very still. “You really mean that?”
He took a deep breath, and thought about how everyone looked forward to the Fairs and Festivals . . . and this would just be one more sort of Festival, right? Smaller, mostly for friends . . . aye, well, alla th’ Collegia, pretty much but . . . friends, sure . . . and why not? “Aye,” he said. “Who don’t like a party?” His arms tightened around her. “It’ll be great! Shoot, it’d be a damn shame t’throw away a good reason fer a shindig!”
She squirmed around in his arms and kissed him so enthusiastically he thought that the conversation was over for a few moments . . . but then she broke it off, breathlessly. “You don’t mind that we’ll have to—you know—wait for a while?”
“I—uh—what?” It took him a long moment to drag his mind back to the fact that she wasn’t done yet. Does Bey have to go through things like this? Do all fellers?
“I don’t mean . . . not be together.” She flushed. “I mean, betrothed couples . . . it’s done all the time but . . . there’s supposed to be . . .”
“Huh?” Fortunately, there was something working in his head, because a moment later, a fragment from somewhere, Dallen, maybe, managed to shove itself into the front of his brain. “Oh . . . right. We cain’t just do what we talked about, right. So there’s gotta be a buncha formal stuff.” He freed an arm so he could scratch his head in puzzlement. “I mean, I ain’t so up on what we need t’do. On’y weddin’s I ever saw was the Prince an’ Princess, an’ Bear and Lena’s, on’y I never actually saw thet—”
“Father will probably tell us,” she pointed out, and then relaxed and giggled a little. “Father will probably talk to whoever it is that figures out what sort of Court etiquette has to be satisfied and hand us our orders. If he hasn’t got a handful of detailed instructions waiting for us now!”
Mags sighed. “He prolly does . . . on t’other hand, that’ll make it easier. Like a dance, I reckon. Jest foller the steps, an’ there ye are.”
Too bad I ain’t so good at dancin’.
He really, truly, did not want to think about what a complication this was going to bring to a situation that was already complicated. Because he was going to be going into Whites, which meant he’d be a Herald, which meant, instead of being a student, he’d actually have a job to do. A job he would be expected to turn up for. Heralds didn’t just laze about. And Heralds couldn’t go missing from their jobs, either. So his continued training, and his work, of being a clandestine agent, would have to be juggled along with the job.
At least Amily knew all about that sort of juggling, having watched her father do it for her entire life.
But further thought along those lines was shoved to the side. Amily had gone back to kissing him, and he was perfectly prepared to abandon thinking in favor of feeling, at least for a while.
—
Amily woke at dawn; she always woke at dawn. She had been relieved to discover that Mags was an early-riser too. This morning, though, she could tell he wasn’t awake yet, and the makeshift bed was, for once, so comfortable she didn’t feel like shifting yet. So she just curled up “spooned” against him, and considered their homecoming.
On the one hand, it was annoying that, once again, being the daughter of the King’s Own was going to interfere with her life. On the other hand, she had long ago gotten over the notion that life was somehow supposed to be fair, and as things interfering with her life went, this one wasn’t too bad. She wasn’t one of the girls who’d dreamed about having an impressive wedding, nor really, had any of her friends been the sort who did, but she knew plenty of girls who came to Court, matchmaking parents in tow, who had apparently thought about nothing else for their entire lives. She had really just wanted to get married the way Lena and Bear had; quickly, quietly and privately.
But once again, it seemed that was the sort of thing that the daughter of the King’s Own just didn’t do. At least Mags was all right with that. And since both of them had good, stout senses of humor, and neither of them was likely to get at all stressed over things going wrong—which, they inevitably would—it would probably be a lot of fun. It would be a very good excuse to gather the friends together who had scattered across the face of Valdemar.
Anyway, according to her Father, it wouldn’t, and couldn’t, happen right away. So they wouldn’t have to think about it for a while, and there would be time to make sure all the things that would go wrong got sorted out.
And somewhere, somehow, in all of that, she had to figure
out this Gift she’d developed. I wonder if it started when he began Mindspeaking at me. Mags had a very rare Gift of Mindspeech. He could speak to and be heard by anyone at all, whether they had the Gift or not. I wonder if . . . if when something like that happens, it can knock loose any Gift you might have and set it going, like a stuck wheel. Gifts were one thing she hadn’t studied.
Mags was very still when he slept; he hardly moved at all. Maybe that was a habit left over from his horrible childhood, when he and all the rest of the orphans had slept together in a heap all winter long for warmth. Being squirmy probably got you exiled to the edge of the pile. She thought about getting up, but before she could make her mind up about it, she sensed he had gone from sleep to waking.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” he said. “Reckon soonest started, soonest done, aye?”
“Aye,” she agreed, and put away her thoughts, for now, in favor of doing.
—
And so, for the third time in his life, Mags rode into Haven.
This time, he wasn’t riding into the unknown. This time, he was not bringing more trouble with him.
This time, it really felt as if he was coming home.
The sight of Haven from afar, the irregular pool of buildings around the rise on which the Palace and Collegia were built, no longer struck him with awe or trepidation. They called it “the Hill,” but from here, he could see it wasn’t a hill, not as such. It was a gentle slope up to a higher level of the plain on which Haven stood. The river bisected the Palace grounds, separating the Palace and Collegia from Companion’s Field, and then tumbled boisterously down to the town, and meandered through it and away.
Beyond the skirts of the city were farms spreading out all around, some with groves of fruit or nut trees, all of them with windbreaks of lines of trees planted along the hedges that marked the divisions into fields. There was no wild forest this near to Haven. But there were trees in plenty, and all of them were in autumn colors, though those colors were fading fast, and already some of the leaves were falling. Thrifty farmers were harvesting those leaves to heap up over their winter-hardy crops to protect them from the frost and winter cold. Mags wasn’t anywhere near familiar enough with farming to know what crops could be kept—stored, really—right in the fields well into winter, but he knew there were some. Winter squashes, parsnips, and cabbages, he was certain of, because they made their appearance looking tasty and fresh all winter long in the markets. Out there in the fields, as they passed, there were farmers working, making mounds of leaves, brittle, aged straw and hay too old to use for fodder, weighing them down with a light layer of sand. They waved if they happened to look up and notice the Companions, but mostly they were too intent on their work to look up even for a moment. It wasn’t as if the sight of Heralds and Companions was a novelty to anyone, this close to Haven.
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 2
