Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Nikolas heaved a sigh of very real relief. “That eases my mind. I didn’t want that situation to go too deeply into winter. I want those children out of that situation before their master can use freezing them as yet another punishment. From what I’ve heard of the man. . . .”

  Nikolas didn’t have to continue. He and Mags had worked the dark side of Haven more than enough to know some of the things that went on right under the noses of the Guard and the Heralds. The law-keepers couldn’t be everywhere at once, and, unfortunately, it seemed that there would ever and always be people who only wanted to hurt and exploit others, and would find ways to do so.

  “Huh.” Mags pondered that. “Reckon I’ll put that on m’plate first. Gimme the details, what ye got of ’em, anyway.”

  “I don’t have much,” Nikolas admitted. “It won’t take long.”

  So it proved; Nikolas had no more than the neighborhood in which the thief-master was headquartered, and the fact that the boys were working, not as cutpurses or pickpockets, but as burglars, presumably rooftop-runners. When he heard that, Mags grinned.

  “Yes, I know,” Nikolas said, just a little crossly. “That couldn’t be better for you, could it?”

  “Hey now, ain’t my fault I’m still a squib, an’ still pretty good on the tiles,” Mags protested. And it was true, really, although good food and good treatment had rectified some of the stunting that years of privation had given him, he was still undersized by the standards of the Heralds, most of whom—well, as children, the Trainees coming into the Collegium were generally used to eating a lot more, more often, and better than he had been.

  He’d made up for some of that, but he still was never going to be anything but . . . short.

  Nikolas sighed. “Forgive me. I’m a bit out of sorts.”

  “If I’d had a yesterday like yours, I’d be more’n a bit outa sorts,” Mags assured him, getting up. “Hey, look on th’ bright side. You ain’t had any time to yerself in years. Now ye get to take some. So take some. Sleep, read, sleep some more, have long chats with yer new Companion, and sleep. Mebbe learn t’—I dunno, braid horsehair like I do. Or somethin’ else with yer hands. Play draughts. Get a dartboard.”

  “I—” Nikolas began, then looked a little stunned. “You have a point.”

  “Glad ye see it my way.” He waved his hand at his erstwhile mentor. “Be back t’check on ye later.”

  Because right now, he was going to go talk to the Seneschal and arrange to get some funds for his new project.

  —

  Amily kept her back very straight and her expression as enigmatic as she could. Now, sitting in what had been her father’s chair next to King Kyril, was the time to keep anyone on the Council who didn’t know her guessing about her.

  She had never, ever expected to be in the Council Chamber, and certainly not in this chair.

  This was the Greater Council Chamber, since this was a meeting of the full Council. She had already been confirmed as the new King’s Own, and the full story of yesterday had been related and dissected and discussed until everyone was completely convinced it had been nothing more serious than an almost-tragic accident.

  This was a relatively simple room; it held the great Council table, shaped like a circle with a piece missing, so that pages could enter the center of the circle and refresh water and wine-cups, and the plates of fruit and bread that stood at intervals, without having to reach over anyone’s shoulders. The East side was all tall windows. The West side held a great fireplace, and she was very glad for its warmth. The North and South walls held identical maps of Valdemar drawn on light canvas. At need, tokens representing troops or other important things moving through the Kingdom could be pinned onto the canvas. The only tokens there now were troops stationed along the Karsite Border.

  Right now, since her situation had been dealt with, the business before the Council was completely routine, and nothing that the King’s Own needed to intrude into: tallies of emergency winter supplies for the Guard, and for the Heralds in the Field. She’d seen these tallies in the Chronicles, going back for years, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in them—

  “Wait!” she suddenly said, into the middle of the dry recitation.

  Silence descended on the room, and the eyes of every Councilor at the table were suddenly on her. Finally King Kyril spoke.

  “Herald Amily?” he said, dryly. “Was there something amiss?”

  “The tallies for hay and straw,” she said. “For the Heralds. What were they again?”

  Now all eyes turned down the table to the fellow who had been reading out the tallies and having them automatically approved. He cleared his throat, and the tone in which he did so was strongly disapproving. He read them again, a bit louder than he needed to. “They are, to the bale, exactly the same as last year, with an increase for ten new Heralds in the Field,” he added, his voice icy.

  “And the Guard supplies the Waystations from those supplies, does it not?” she persisted.

  He laughed shortly. “As everyone knows. But—”

  “But there are twenty-three more Heralds in the Field this winter than last,” she pointed out. “Not ten. It’s the first lot of the big influx that made us go to the Collegium system in the first place. They’re paired with senior Heralds, which means each of the Waystations on thirteen more circuits will need double the hay, and half again as much straw. You need to check the rest of your supplies for the Waystations too, although I think from what I remember they’re all right. It was just the hay and straw tallies that seemed off to me.”

  The man’s mouth dropped open, and snapped shut again.

  “Why didn’t someone notice until now?” asked the Seneschal, his face crossed with an expression of mixed irritation and disgust.

  She just shrugged. “Things happen. It’s all right, it’s been noticed now.”

  The King nodded slightly. “Easily mended. Now, shall we continue?”

  The tallies went on, but Amily was still thinking about the discrepancy. :Was that an accident . . . or something else?: she asked Rolan.

  There was some silence while Rolan considered her question. :Well,: he replied. :It seems odd that every other tally was correct. Hay and straw are not dreadfully expensive this time of year . . . :

  :But when the supply falls short, at the end of winter?: she persisted. :Isn’t that when they are at their most expensive?:

  :And the shortfall would obviously have to be made up. Well spotted. I’ll pass that on to the Seneschal’s Herald.:

  Unfortunately Amily couldn’t talk to Leveret, the Seneschal’s Herald, herself, the way her father could have—she still could only Mindspeak to Rolan. But that was all right; the suggestion that someone somewhere in that chain of procurement might be looking to feather his own nest would still get to the Seneschal as soon as there was a bit of a lull.

  She settled back in her chair, and listened attentively to the rest of the Council meeting.

  At least now no one was looking at her as if they thought she didn’t belong. One hurdle down. A thousand more to go.

  5

  Mags surveyed the interior of the shop to the left of the Weasel’s pawnshop with a great deal of satisfaction. The four oil lamps mounted to the walls lit up the place very nicely. Mind, people in this part of Haven rarely owned one oil lamp, much less four, but he wanted to minimize the risk of fire . . . and no one who didn’t actually belong here was ever going to see the inside.

  His little group of hired workmen had done their work well, and incuriously. The shop had been refurbished to a state most homes in this part of Haven never saw.

  What had been the front of the shop had been turned into one large living space. The walls, which had been falling to bits, had gotten the plaster chipped off and replastered, then painted white. The wooden floor had been repaired and sanded so that the floorboards
were nice and smooth. Overhead, the ceiling had been redone as well. The room would not have been out of place in a tradesman’s house now. What had been a separate back-of-the-shop and store-room had been opened up so that the first floor was all one room; this was because the only source of heat, the fireplace at the rear, would otherwise not be able to properly warm the entire place.

  Fortunately the chimney had been in good shape, although someone in the past had attempted to put in a sort of pottery “stove,” perhaps in an attempt to economize on fuel. That had been removed, the fireplace had been repaired, the original pot-hooks put back in, and the original oven built into the side of it cleaned out and made fit for use again. The hearthstone had been replaced, the chimney swept. Next to the fireplace, a compact little kitchen had been installed, along with a stone sink, and an indoor pump to the same well the pawn shop used. These were all things most people who lived in this part of Haven did not have, but Mags was determined that his gang would never be tempted to sell their skills elsewhere, and these comparative luxuries would guarantee that.

  The room was only sparsely furnished, outside of the table and cupboards for the kitchen and four benches. There were chests along one wall filled with a good assortment of used clothing in many sizes, and bedrolls and pillows along the other wall. There was only one bed—more of a frame with a straw-stuffed mattress—and that was reserved for the adult who would be in charge here. If she hadn’t been as old as she was, he probably wouldn’t have bothered with a bed for her, either; around here, everyone was accustomed to padding the floor with what they could and sleeping together in a huge pile, fully clothed, covered with anything they could find to keep them warm. This would be a considerable step upward for all of his recruits.

  There was a pull-down staircase to the attic in the middle of the ceiling. The attic had also been refurbished and made weather-tight, and had also been supplied with bedrolls and pillows. Mags figured, based on his own experience as a mine-slave, better have too much bedding than too little.

  The cellars had been freed of vermin, a “shop cat” had been acquired, and the cellars fitted out with a well-stocked set of pantries, as well as other storage.

  Everything was in readiness. Now he just had to make his moves.

  While this place was being rebuilt, Mags had not been idle. He now knew exactly where that gang of young thieves was working, and who was in charge. It was going to give him a great deal of pleasure to take over from this particular thief-master. All he needed to know was where they were living, and he could make his move.

  There was a tap at the door, a pause, two taps, another pause, and a scratch. That was the salutation he had been waiting for. Mags immediately went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it.

  There were four people waiting just outside in the light from the lantern outside the door. One was a slightly stoop-backed old woman, who looked as if she was wearing every skirt, shirt, apron and shawl she owned. Which, of course, she was. But if her clothing was tattered, nearly worn to bits, and faded, it was also clean. Her gray hair was bound in a single neat braid down her back. And the dark eyes nestled in her wrinkled face were both shrewd and kind.

  Clinging to her were three children of indeterminate age and sex; all three had shoulder-length hair, and all three were huddled in a hodge-podge of cast-off clothing far too big for them.

  “Right on time, Aunty Minda,” he said with satisfaction. “Come in, tell me if anythin’s lackin’.”

  When he had conceived of this plan in the first place, he had known that there was one particular thing—or rather, person—that he could not do without. He was going to need a sort of “mother” for the youngsters, since he couldn’t be there all the time, and he certainly couldn’t leave them to fend for themselves. So he had his ear to the ground, so to speak, waiting and watching for the right sort of person to turn up. It had to be someone who was a denizen of these streets herself, so nothing the younglings said or did would be a shock—and so that, if correction or punishment needed to be meted out, the person in question would be able to apply something that would impress the miscreant with the gravity of the situation without abusing him. It had to be someone who liked boys—and someone with the right set of mothering instincts. It also had to be someone who was in need herself. . . .

  Unfortunately in this part of Haven, that last was not all that hard to come by; it was all the other qualifications that had made for problems. There were any number of habitual drunks, any number of women who were too sick to keep track of one lively youngster, much less a houseful, any number whose notion of “correction” was to mete out beatings hard enough to scar.

  But with the help of the local Guardsman on this beat, he’d found the perfect match.

  “Aunty” Minda was well known for being a mother-figure to any child hereabouts who needed one. She was now a beggar, though not by choice; she was just too old to continue working as a scrubbing-woman. She had collected three cast-off children who begged with her, and had been protecting and feeding them as well as she could. But the attic room in which they all lived left a lot to be desired; it was not so bad in summer, but now that winter was here, she and the children were very likely to freeze to death.

  When Mags had approached her with his proposition, she had been embarrassingly grateful.

  And she’d had one caveat that clinched her in his mind as perfect for the job.

  “This bain’t a den’o’thieves now, be it?” she’d asked, “Because if ’tis . . .” her lip had quivered, and she’d looked half-stricken, but she still continued “. . . if ’tis, I cain’t hev no part of it.”

  Mags had laughed. “Now, Aunty . . . I don’t ast where people get the stuff they sells us, but thievin’ it m’self is astin’ fer a rope necklace! Nah, I’m branchin’ out. Gonna hire out boys as messengers an’ such . . . and hev ’em keep their ears open an mouths shut ’cept t’me. Uncle Weasel says sometimes words is worth more’n sparklies, an’ he’s right.”

  That had satisfied the old woman, though only the gods knew if she objected to being in charge of a theft ring because stealing was wrong, or because she would get in as much trouble with the law as the young thieves did.

  It really didn’t matter to him. What mattered was she’d keep his recruits from backsliding.

  Minda edged in through the door, the three little ones pressed up against her, and Mags shut it behind her. The four of them took in the state of their new home with expressions more befitting someone who was viewing a palace than the former shop. All four of them had eyes wide with wonder; the littles all stared at that warm, big fire burning in the fireplace at the rear, with its heaps of logs next to it. Minda was taking in everything.

  “Oo-aye, Master Harkon,” Minda said, finally, “This—this here’s a wonder!”

  “Dunno ’bout a wonder, Aunty, but it’s good an’ tight, she’ll be warm and cozy all winter, and none-so-bad come summer. So settle yerselves in; ’tis yours, an’ anythin’ ye need, ye come see me or the lads next door.” Minda was not aware that Mags was a Herald, of course. Not yet, anyway. So far as she knew the plan was for Harkon to take over the gang of thieves, bring the youngsters here for her to care for, and employ them as overt messengers and covert information-gatherers. Everyone knew that Willy the Weasel and his nephew bought information. Everyone presumed they sold it on—no one knew to whom, but that wasn’t the sort of thing the Weasel would ever want someone to know. Possibly he engaged in a spot of blackmail now and again, but people who were as poverty-stricken as those hereabouts saw nothing wrong with blackmail. Only people with far more money than they had ever did things they could be blackmailed over, which just went to show that those who considered themselves “better” often didn’t have the morals of a cat. And if they didn’t want to be blackmailed, why then, they shouldn’t be doing things they could be blackmailed for. And well done to Harkon and the Weasel for getting a
bit out of them. This next step would just be cutting out the middleman, so to speak.

  It was possible that one day Mags would take Minda and even some of the younglings into his confidence, but for now, the scheme would work just fine without any of them knowing who he really was. And the added benefit was that there would be one more lot of Haven’s poorest who would be a little better off for it all.

  “Here’s yer key,” Mag said, handing over one of the three iron keys he’d had made. “It opens the front an’ the back door. Food’s in cellar, an’ so’s the wood for the fire. Don’t waste any, but don’t stint, neither. Here’s yer household money fer the fortnight.” He put a leather pouch heavy with coppers and some silver into the hand that was holding the key. “Anythin’ that’s lackin’, ye go get i’ market. But keep good track. That’ll have t’ last ye the fortnight. I’m givin’ ye thet long t’ get things t’where ye like ’em, afore I bring in the rest.”

  After haunting these streets as much as he had, Mags knew pretty much to the penny how much it was going to cost to keep Minda and her three orphans for a fortnight, and there was that, and just a little more, for the odd sweet or treat.

  “So now, ye settle in,” he concluded. “There’s stuff t’wear in them chests, Minda, the bed be fer ye, an’ ye three littles figger out where ye want t’sleep. Next time I see ye, it’ll be with a pack’f lads, so reckon ye best settle in quick as ye can.”

  With that, he left, before Minda could start gushing gratitude—or start asking too many questions.

  —

  By the stars, it was near midnight. Down on the streets, things were quiet. This was a residential street, in an area of tall, narrow houses so close together that people could open their windows and pass each other a pint of beer. Most people here were skilled craftsmen, prosperous, though not wealthy, prosperous enough to belong to Guilds. Their roofs were in fine repair, with not a loose tile nor a missing slate to make footing hazardous.