She considered all of that. :So . . . he’ll leave only when he has to see something in person, for himself?:
:Or when his operative asks for help. Which could be risky for anyone but a Herald—there is always the chance that the operative has turned.: Rolan didn’t trouble to explain, and indeed, Amily could think of any number of ways that a Herald could determine something had gone wrong with such a situation . . . not the least of which, for Mags, who was such a very powerful Mindspeaker, it was vanishingly unlikely that anyone would be able to fool him for long.
:But . . . : She stopped herself before she began a plaint about how she couldn’t possibly do what her father had done as King’s Own. She already knew the answer to that. Or, answers, rather. Her father was right here to advise her. This was the same problem every new Monarch’s Own faced, and somehow they all managed without having their predecessor there to help. And for once, she had all the advantages. Not only did she know the Court very, very well, she knew the history of Valdemar very well, she had Rolan, she had her predecessor—and she still had her father. She had the King’s Spy. Spies! Her father and Mags!
Really . . . the only thing she could possibly claim was I don’t want to!
And just what kind of a feeble complaint was that when this was almost what she had wanted for so very long? Oh, here she was, like a child getting a sweet, and deciding petulantly that instead of a honey-sweet, she wanted a cherry-sweet!
:What if I make a mistake?: she finally said.
:Everyone makes mistakes. I make mistakes. If you make a mistake, we’ll admit to it, own it, and then fix it.:
What possible answer could she have to that?
So she got up—without disturbing Mags, which was hardly surprising considering everything he had gone through yesterday—and got dressed. It seemed very strange to think that in a candlemark or two . . . she’d be wearing this clothing only rarely. And in a candlemark or two, the person who had always tried to be the least conspicuous person in a room would be one of the most. :Now what do I do?: she asked Rolan.
:You report to Herald’s Collegium and the Dean. He will guide you from there.:
—
Mags woke to find himself alone, and a quick glance at the windows told him he’d slept . . . late. So did his stomach. There was full morning light out there, even if it was gray and overcast, and his stomach was decidedly empty. He closed his eyes to concentrate a little.
—
:Dallen—where’s—:
:With the Dean. Getting Whites, since they’ve decided that there is nothing in particular she needs in the way of classes and really, after everything that happened yesterday, having her go straight into Whites without being a Trainee first is the least of the violations of protocol,: Dallen said, with a distinct sense of amusement. :And from there, I do not know, but she will probably be much too busy to think of anything but anxiety.:
Poor Amily! To be thrown, not only into the job of being a Herald, but the most difficult job of being a Herald that there was! His first impulse was to rush to her side and cushion and support her through all of that.
:Don’t, she won’t thank you for it,: Dallen advised.
His second impulse was to do it anyway . . . but when had Dallen ever given him bad advice when it came to Amily?
:I suppose you could consider the lack of advice I gave you for some time to be “bad” advice,: Dallen pointed out.
:So now you want me to go against your advice? Make up your mind, horse,: he scoffed, and stretched, winced a great deal, and opened his eyes again.
:If you feel as bruised as I feel, I am sorry for you,: Dallen said. :Nikolas, however, feels much worse. And that is what he deserves, for being such an idiot as to have been afoot on a day like that. Even if he was going incognito.:
Mags was just glad they could joke about it. The more he thought about what could have happened . . . well, his blood ran cold.
He got up, trying not to move too quickly, and got dressed. More than ever, he appreciated Amily’s lovely rooms here at Healer’s. The bedroom was small, but then, it was only used for sleeping, but it was cozy and warm, and this morning his bruises were deeply thankful for that.
As he dressed, he was keeping his thoughts to himself, because he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted Dallen to be privy to them just yet.
It was amazing, wonderful, and uplifting to think that Amily had been Chosen at last. The problem only came when he thought about the fact that she had been Chosen to be King’s Own. Life was difficult enough, being a Herald. But . . .
Like it or not, he was going to be sharing her a lot. Not just with her Companion, which at least was something they had in common, but with the King . . . the Prince . . . who knew how many other people!
How much privacy would they have now?
Would Nikolas even allow them to get married now?
Second and third thoughts and doubts went through his mind, and he let them. Because in the back of his mind, he knew that he might as well get them over with now rather than later. Somehow he was going to have to think through all of this, and convince himself that everything was going to be fine—or, well, as fine as things could be, between two Heralds, given what life for a Herald was like—before he saw Amily again. If he couldn’t convince himself, how could he possibly convince her?
It was worrisome, though. It would have been hard enough with only one of them being a Herald. With both . . . it would be very difficult, one reason why Heralds seldom married each other. But Amily was the King’s Own, and a very great deal of her time was not going to be hers.
Kinda funny how Nikolas wanted us t’be sure we could handle bein’ bored . . . one thing’s for sure now, we ain’t never gonna have the time t’be bored. At least, Amily ain’t.
He sighed, stretched his aching muscles one more time, then tied up his boots. Time to get up and get moving. He had a lot to do.
At least there was this; thanks to Rolan and Dallen, they would always be able to find each other, no matter how busy they were. And that was no inconsiderable thing.
First things first: best to go to Nikolas and find out what he was working on that had had him down in Haven, in civilian garb, without Rolan. Then find out if it was something he was going to need to take over. Because Nikolas was not getting out of bed soon, and when he did, it was going to be a while before he could use that arm.
He took himself off to the bathing room here at Healers for a quick wash, then went looking for food since last night he had used everything they had in the room to make supper. Looking pathetic and begging at the Collegium kitchen for sausage and biscuits got him fed, and a couple of apple pocket pies into the bargain. As he headed back to Healers, he prodded Dallen. :Guess what I got?:
He could practically feel Dallen salivating, and made a quick change of destination. After all, he could get more later, when he went begging for storable food.
Or . . . if Amily’s all tied up, I can go down to the market and get stuff, and get pies at that one liddle stand. . . .
:What are we doing, after you bring me my pies?: the Companion asked, as he reached the stable door.
:Yer gonna talk to that Evory and find out if Nikolas is awake, an’ if the Healers left him clear-headed enough to fill me in on what he was doin’.: The door was shut tight against the cold, and the fireplaces—or more properly, ovens—at either end of the stable were going, keeping the interior warm. He slipped inside quickly, to avoid letting too much cold air in. Dallen was in his usual stall, right by Mags’ old room. The Companion hung his head over the wall of the stall and stared at Mags’ pocket purposefully.
“Keep yer hair on, horse,” Mags laughed, and extracted the pies.
:I like Evory. I’ve always like Evory. She’s sensible, she doesn’t panic, and she’s steady. It won’t take her long to learn what she needs to in order
to support a Herald who might technically be out of immediate reach a great deal of the time. And she says, Nikolas is awake, just finishing breakfast, and will be in fit shape to talk to you in a little while.:
The stable was quiet and dark with all the hatches and doors closed. It was like that in winter; thanks to the ovens built into either end, it never got cold, but it was cool enough that the few Companions who were still lazing about in their stalls this morning were wearing their blankets. Dallen had been double-blanketed, to prevent him from stiffening up after yesterday’s fright. He looked as if he planned to stay in, and Mags didn’t blame him in the least. He deserved a couple days’ rest after what had been a truly heroic rescue.
“I wanta get to know her m’self,” Mags pointed out. “Gonna be easier if I can talk to her direct when I need to.” Mags had an unusually strong Gift of Mindspeech; he could actually hear the thoughts of those who didn’t have the Gift themselves, and speak into their minds and be heard and understood. He could speak directly to almost every Companion—he had to temporize that with “almost,” because he hadn’t actually tried to speak directly to too many of them; the closest he had gotten was a direct, and widespread “shout” to anything and anyone with the Gift to hear him. But it helped to get to know the Companions, so he could recognize their individual Mindvoices.
:Right now, if she was allowed, she would go sleep on a rug in his room,: Dallen said dryly. :Not that I blame her. This situation has unsettled everyone, but having your Chosen nearly die on you at the same time you Chose him . . . that’s particularly . . . horrid.:
Mags fed Dallen the second pie, thinking that Dallen was, if anything, understating the case. :Has to be a first time for everythin’,: he said philosophically, and took his leave. :I think what’s mostly unsettled folks, when they start rememberin’ again that we oughta be happy Nikolas is alive, is that it is the first time. ’Member how upset people was when things got changed to the Collegium way of bringin’ up Trainees? An’ that was with Bardic an’ Healers already havin’ that right there, workin’.:
:True, that,: Dallen said, as Mags made his way back toward his original destination, pulling his cloak tight around him against the wind. :No one runs from anything quite like they run from change.:
Nikolas was nibbling on a piece of buttered bread when Mags arrived, looking as if he had next to no appetite. But he perked up when Mags came in the door and flung himself down in a chair. “Fine mess ye got yerself into,” Mags said without preamble. “I thought I was the one s’pposed t’get into all the scrapes.”
Nikolas looked . . . thoroughly battered. His left arm was in a sling, heavily bandaged, possibly splinted under the bandages. Most of his face was interesting shades of black, blue, purple and green. Mags really didn’t want to think about what his body looked like under the loose, warm flannel smock they had put him in. The only things he didn’t seem to have were cuts and gashes.
Nikolas shook his head very, very slightly. It probably hurt to move it even a little bit, despite whatever the Healers had poured into him in the way of potions. “Not only can I still scarcely believe what happened, I’m befuddled to think it was a stupid accident.”
“No doubt?” Mags asked. He, himself, had been pretty certain it had been an accident—after all, he had seen most of it, and he could not for a moment imagine how anyone could have orchestrated such a thing—but he was glad to hear it directly from Nikolas.
“None at all,” Nikolas replied, and grimaced. “Just a plain, stupid accident. I have a very considerate Healer in charge of my case; he brought me the Guard report this morning as soon as I was awake, knowing I was going to be fretting about it.”
“Well, that’s only sensible,” Mags pointed out. “Usually when the King’s Own gets dead, if it ain’t sickness or old age, someone was after him.”
“Not a shred of doubt,” Nikolas confirmed. “Someone was moving a barrel of roof-tiles up to a second floor to mend a roof. A dog chased a cat between the legs of the fellow on the end of the rope, and he let go. The barrel crashed down into a cart, and some of the tiles hit the horse, battering and terrifying it, as if the crash behind it hadn’t frightened it enough. And you know the rest. A pure, uncalculated accident. Even with the ability to compel animals to do something, I doubt it could have been pulled off deliberately. There were just too many variables there.”
“Loony,” Mags agreed. “Given how many people is usually shootin’ at us an’ the like, seems impossible.”
“And yet—” said Nikolas.
“And yet,” Mags agreed. “Well. I went an’ read th’ Council a sermon on countin’ yer blessin’s last night. Ev’one from the King on down had themselves in a fizz about what happened, an’ all they could think about was disasters. I put ’em in mind of how it weren’t anything like a disaster, an’ did it a bit forceful. Hope it didn’t come amiss.” Truth to tell, he wasn’t worried about any of what he had done, including the rather rude way he had spoken to the King. He wasn’t in the least repentant. “Can’t say I wouldn’ do it again.”
Nikolas managed a bit of a smile. “I’d have done the same. From what I understand they were panicking like a lot of chickens with a snake in the henhouse.”
Well that was an apt simile, since a snake wouldn’t be able to do anything worse than eat a few eggs, and if the silly hens would stop squawking and flapping, and work together, they’d be able to peck at it and drive it out . . .
They sat for a moment in silence together. Mags took a moment to cast his eye critically over the room, but found nothing to complain about. The walls had been painted a cheerful yellow, the usual tiled floor covered with a warm rug, and the window had heavy curtains that could be closed if the light made Nikolas’ head ache—which it just might, considering. This was one of the rooms with a little iron stove inside the fireplace, which would keep the heat even, and there was plenty of wood there. The bedside table had been left with fruit and a pitcher of water. Mags was satisfied that the Herald was being properly pampered.
“Somethin’ like,” Mags agreed. “Ain’t heard a peep ’bout it this mornin’, so I reckon they’re settled for now. So, I pretty much know yer hurtin’ an’ given th’ choice, ye’d drink somethin’ nasty an’ sleep, but I gotta know what was on yer plate when ye went over the side of the bridge, an’ I gotta make some arrangements t’ handle it.”
Which, of course, he did. Amily and Rolan would deal with the matters concerning the King’s Own, but when it came to the matters concerning the King’s Spy—that was all on Mags now.
“I didn’t have much. It’s mostly been King’s Own business to concern myself with, now that it’s coming on winter, and people are leaving their estates now that Harvest is over and settling in at Court. Just two things, really. There’s someone with the nasty habit of blackmail in the Court, and he has got several people in knots.” Nikolas sighed. “Of course, if they would stop climbing into beds they didn’t belong in, or at least, if they are in arranged marriages, they’d had the good sense to arrange things properly with their spouses, there wouldn’t be a problem.”
Mags nodded. That was par for the course for the Winter Court—or, well, it was par for the course without a blackmailer. Marriage for love was not the norm among the highborn and the wealthy. And when people didn’t marry for love . . . it was easy to predict what would happen next. The Seneschal made it his business to know just who was having assignations with whom, or at least the ones that were open secrets, and for those who were quartered in the Palace rather than fine houses up on the Hill, he arranged the assignment of rooms and suites to make things more discreet.
“So far, all he’s asked for is money,” Nikolas continued, “But there’s always the concern he’ll ask for something else, so I need you to find him.”
Mags nodded. “Ye got anywhere with it?”
Nikolas shook his head, and finished the last bite of h
is bread and butter. “No, so you might just as well start with a fresh eye. No one but Kyril knows I was investigating. You might as well tell the Seneschal at this point, you will probably need his help.”
Well that made things cleaner, if not easier.
“Anythin’ else?” Mags asked. “Ye said there was two things.”
“The reason I was in civilian clothing and afoot without Rolan. There’s a newish thief-master down in Haven who uses children.” This time the hint of a smile on Nikolas’ face was . . . interesting. If Nikolas hadn’t been a Herald, Mags might have said there was a touch of cruelty there. “If he was a good master, I’d leave it for the Guard, but he’s not. I’ve heard some things that made me want to pound a head. As soon as I find him, I’m taking those children away from him and recruiting them as intelligence agents.”
“Coo! That’s a right good idea!” Mags already knew what such thief-masters were like—stories might paint them as father figures, even kindly, but in reality they were generally vicious, and the children served them out of fear, not knowing that escape was possible. In fact, he’d pulled that particular act himself. He’d despised himself for it then, though he had never actually harmed the children in question, but here was a chance to put the balance right. “Since it looks like yer gonna be laid up fer a while, I’ll handle that ’un too.”
He already had a good idea of what he wanted to do. It would need money—but that was not a problem now. The Seneschal would learn he was Nikolas’ adjunct, if the man didn’t know already, and that meant that the Crown’s purse was open to him.
Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 8
