Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Brand gaped at him. “You’re—serious!”

  “Never more so. The fine art of lovemaking, that’s a profession, here. You can pay for a cheap rut in an alley up against the side of a building for a copper bit, or you can spend gold buying a fine apartment and fine gowns and fine food and finer jewels for a courtesan who’ll make your head spin, but one way or another, you’ll be paying for it.” He wagged his head back and forth. “That’s the way of the world in the big city, lads. Unless you happen to find yourself a lady in the court who’s a widow, or one with an elderly husband. Or one who’s not to her taste. Or a husband whose taste is for something other than ladies if you catch my meaning.”

  Brand blinked.

  “I know for a fact your father told you the servants of the King are not to be touched,” Mags continued. “And as for your own—”

  “Ugh,” Brand said, making a face. “There’s not a toothsome one in the lot.”

  “A-purpose. Never doubt it. So, unless you manage to find an accommodating lady in the Court, you’ll be paying for it.” Mags grinned. “Now, don’t worry, I shan’t take you to any place so lofty your purses will weep. And . . . just between you and me, if you behave yourself, don’t make a spectacle, and don’t go wasting your ready, your father will be refilling your purse often enough you’ll have no complaint. A man likes to know his son is a man, eh?”

  “Do you think so?” Brand asked eagerly.

  “Just remember, part of being a gentleman and not making a spectacle is to pay,” Mags cautioned. “And if you don’t pay what’s agreed on, the Guard or the Watch will be called, and instead of a nice warm bed and a cuddlesome wench, you’ll be spending the night in a cold jail cell with some half dozen ruffians, and Lord Kaltar will be called in the morning and rather than having your purse refilled, it’ll be taken from you. On the other hand . . .” He allowed a big, slow smile to spread over his face. “You can take it from me that these nymphs of the night know tricks your village girl never dreamed of, and they’re worth every silver piece. So, what’s it to be? Just a night of drinking, or drinking and debauchery?”

  There was never any doubt what they would choose. And Mags had already prepared for that. He wouldn’t take them to the best brothel in the city; he was well aware of the general state of their purses, and knew that there was no way they could indulge themselves there. But they wouldn’t know how to behave in the best brothel in the city; the courtesans there were highly talented in many areas, and the sort of man that patronized them was one who preferred his inamoratas to have conversation and wit—and a level of expertise in lovemaking that these boys wouldn’t appreciate. The one where he was going to take them would suit their mood as well as their purses much better.

  It was a bit of a walk, but these were people that were well used to walking. Those who lived most of their time on their country estates walked furlongs every day. It probably would never even occur to them to ride a horse down into the city. And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t plenty for them to look at on the way down, even in the dim light from the windows and lanterns, and the occasional street-lantern. They passed through one night-market, open for the benefit of those who were working all day long, and the lads gawked at the people buying and selling at what, to them, was a ridiculous hour to be doing anything of the kind.

  Finally they arrived at Mags’ destination; it looked just like a very handsome inn, three stories tall, all the windows softly lighted, a stout door, and the sounds of laughter and music coming muffled through the walls . . . except that there was a guard on the door, there was no sign of a stable, and the sign over the door merely showed a crescent moon, though the name on the sign was “Flora’s.”

  As the others paused in confusion, Mags went up to the guard, who greeted him by name. “Evening, Master Magnus,” the man said. “Friends, or relations?”

  “Lord Brand and his cousins, new come to Haven. I promised to take them for a night of entertainment,” Mags said. He had been here before, as Magnus, although the lady he had visited knew him as Mags. She was one of Nikolas’ informants, although Mags had not been introduced to her until after his return to Haven as a full Herald.

  The guard looked them over, silently counting. “I believe we can accommodate you, Master Magnus,” he replied, and opened the door. Magnus waved them all in; Brand went first, followed by the rest, with Mags bringing up the rear.

  They entered into the common room, which was not unlike the common room of an inn, whitewashed walls, polished wooden floor, a ceiling with exposed beams, with tables and benches, a good fire at one end, and the bar at the other, with a trio of musicians holding forth in one corner. There were several differences, however. The benches were comfortably padded. The serving girls were attired in chemises so thin as to be almost transparent, and skirts hiked up to show plenty of leg. And there were other girls scattered among the customers in a variety of costumes that you would never see a lady wearing elsewhere in the city.

  There was a red-haired wench in what looked like the robes of some religious order or other . . . except the robes were open to the waist, and slit up to mid-thigh. There was a girl with her hair loose under a crown of ivy, in the sort of gown girls in the country wore, except the neck was pulled so low as to be barely covering her nipples, and the skirt was hiked as high as the serving-girls’ were. There were several girls in a parody of mens’ clothing—one dressed as a Guardsman, one as a horse-tamer, and one all in black leather with a hand-crossbow at her hip. The other women were wearing more typical female costume, but it was diaphanous, or otherwise revealing. Mags kept his grin to himself, as Brand and the others looked about themselves with their eyes nearly popping out of their heads.

  A lady of middle years—the only one wearing a conventional, modest gown of a very fine blue wool, with an undergown of pristine white linen—approached them, and on spotting Mags, came straight to him. “Master Magnus,” she said with obvious pleasure. “It has been too long.”

  “Ah, lovely Flora,” he replied, bowing over her hand. “It has. But I make up for my dereliction by bringing you a bevy of guests.”

  “So I see.” Flora cast her eyes over the entire group. “Gentlemen, welcome. I trust that you will not be offended when I make it known to you that there are rules in my establishment. If there are any you find . . . restricting . . . I can and will recommend another house that will suit you.”

  The rules were, Mags was pretty certain, nothing that the lads were going to object to. Flora was very protective of her girls; her girls, in turn, were utterly loyal.

  After the rules, came the prices . . . and if the men were a bit surprised to have all of that laid out so boldly and without apology, the presence of the girls gathering around the group certainly quelled any hesitation on their part. And it didn’t take long before choices had been made, purses had been brought out, and the group was scattered to the private rooms above.

  All but Mags.

  “Nothing for you, tonight, Master Magnus?” Flora asked, archly.

  Mags shook his head. “Someone needs to keep an entirely sober head to get this gaggle of country geese gathered up and safely back in their roost before dawn,” he pointed out. “There will be other times.”

  Flora laughed, took his hand and tucked it in the crook of her elbow. “Then in that case, you will allow an old woman to come take you off for just a glass or two of wine and a good gossip.”

  “I would gladly allow an old woman to do so, if I actually saw one in front of me,” Mags replied, which made her laugh. “But I will be happier if it is you, dear lady.”

  Flora, as well as her girl Lissande, was actually one of Nikolas’ informants—another excellent reason to have brought the group here. He could kill two birds with the proverbial single stone; get her latest report under the guise of “gossip,” and cement his friendship with Brand and his cousins.

  It was
going to be a long night, but at least it would be a fruitful one.

  —

  “Shouldn’t I be—” Nikolas began.

  “No,” Amily and Mags said, firmly, and at the same time. They exchanged a look, and Mags gave Amily a nod of deference, silently signaling, “He’s your father.”

  “Father, you might have had all the attention from Healers that anyone could ask for, but the fact is, you have been abusing yourself and your body for as long as I have been alive, and now your body is going to take revenge on you for it if you don’t give yourself a proper long rest.” She was gratified to see that Nikolas looked properly guilty. “It was all I could do to persuade the Healers to let you come back to your own rooms for a full recovery. Winter is not the best time for someone who got the sort of shock you did to try and come back from it.”

  Nikolas had been set up in his sitting room with everything he needed, including some things the Healers had thought would work well to help him get his muscle strength and endurance back. There was a set of wooden stairs he was supposed to run up and down—there were only four of them, but the Healers seemed to think that was enough for now. There was a set of thick iron bars he was supposed to use to exercise his arms. He was using both more than he was supposed to, but the Healers had told Amily that this probably wasn’t going to cause any real harm, that he’d just wear himself out and that would force him to rest. She was a little dubious about this, but they were Healers, and she was not.

  But he wasn’t content with exercising in his rooms, or even “running” up and down the corridor. He wanted to be out there, down in Haven.

  “I’m not doing any good cooped up in my rooms like this,” he fretted.

  Amily looked over at Mags and shrugged. But Mags blinked, as if he had suddenly gotten a very good idea.

  “How old’s Willy the Weasel?” he asked.

  Nikolas shrugged. “Older than I actually am, chronologically. Probably about as old as I feel right now. Why?”

  “’Cause ain’t no reason why you can’t go mind the shop. Ye kin sit there, just as well as here. Ye’ll have one of the lads there in case ye need something done that ye can’t manage. An’ I’m just a shout away by Mindspeech.” Mags looked terribly pleased with himself for coming up with this idea. Amily wanted to smack him with a stick for a moment, but then the look of mingled relief and pleasure on her father’s face made her relent.

  So instead of objecting as she wanted to, she simply sat there and watched the two of them work through every possible difficulty that either could think of. Her father’s normally forgettable face took on an entirely new aspect when he was animated like this, and she could see in him the oddly attractive man that her mother had fallen in love with. As for Mags, the wiry, dark-haired man she loved had a tendency to lose every bit of the restraint that had been drilled into him, so that he not only talked with his hands, but with his entire body.

  As she listened, she began to relax. Cooped up under the orders of the Healers, with no freedom in sight, her father had been completely unrealistic about his abilities. But now, planning things with Mags, he was being absolutely, utterly honest. There was no way he would be able to make the walk from his usual point of disguise to the shop. Mags suggested a place he was using now, much nearer, a storage shed. “I’ll get the Weasel’s stuff from the inn and set her up for ye,” he said. “It’ll mean two changes; Nikolas to Goodman Brody, an’ take a chair from th’ inn, then Brody to the Weasel.”

  And so it went. It was clear, seeing how anxious lines left her father’s face, that this was a good idea. Maybe he wouldn’t recover as fast . . . but maybe he would recover more quickly.

  When the last detail was hammered out to their satisfaction, Nikolas turned to her. “And how are you progressing with Lord Leverance?” he asked, without any preamble at all.

  She grinned. “Lord Leverance’s good old mastiff has a very keen nose. Every time his Lordship is disturbed or in a temper, the dog knows it. And when the dog knows, I know. So if Leverance actually decides to plan trouble, we’ll not only have warning, we’ll know what it is.” Then she shrugged. “Unplanned trouble—well—there isn’t much we can do about that.”

  “This is all I can ask for,” her father said, and made a wry face. “Let’s just hope that shepherding three daughters to parties is going to exhaust the old bastard. I remember the last time he brought his family here. He didn’t engineer any confrontations at Court but down in Haven. . . .” He shook his head. “The Healers were furious.”

  “I haven’t gotten into Brand’s select circle yet,” said Mags. “It’s all relatives. But I think I can get there. I took him and his entourage to Flora’s.” He grinned. “She gave them something to think about besides looking for Leverance’s men and starting quarrels.”

  “I shall have to see that Flora gets something in gratitude from the Crown if she can keep that lot of young troublemakers too exhausted to move,” Nikolas said wryly. “It could be you’ve hit upon the most effective solution for dealing with this feud yet.”

  “Congratulate me if it works,” said Mags, with a sigh. “Only if it works.”

  7

  As Violetta sat with her sisters beside the fire in the tiny solar they shared with their mother, she decided that she had never been happier, or more excited, in her life.

  She loved being in Haven. She loved going to Court, even if Aleniel and Brigette complained that they weren’t really seeing and being seen by the really important people. She loved it anyway, the dancing, the music, all the beautiful gowns, and the men! All she had ever been around before were her cousins who were, well, cousins. And yes, within certain degrees of separation it was all right to marry a distant cousin but . . . no. Not when you had known these boys all your life, and you knew all their faults. And they knew yours, which was always off-putting. These were all strangers to her, these young men. Their faces were even subtly different from those of her cousins. There was a certain look to the family, and these young men didn’t have it. And they all talked to her, and said flattering things, and were polite. The cousins tended to talk down to her, never flattered her, and often were anything other than polite. But, she supposed, that was to be expected. The cousins were all people who had seen her fall and bruise herself and scrape her knees, knew how long it had taken her to learn to dance, had shared lessons and teased her, and pulled silly and sometimes slightly cruel pranks on her. It was only to be expected that they looked at her, and saw, not a young woman of marriageable—or at least, betrothable—age, but little Vi, who never could keep her hose tied up, or her hair in proper braids, and who, until two years ago, had been as clumsy as a calf. All these lovely, strange young men saw someone who—if she had the right dower, or the right connections—might be a good match. They also saw a lady new to them, and perhaps, if her mirror wasn’t lying, was very pretty. Someone they certainly wanted to flirt with, dance with, be seen with.

  It didn’t matter, not at all, that Aleniel and Brigette had gotten the new gowns, and her “new” gowns were ones cut down and remade from the ones they had discarded. Violetta’s new gowns were new enough, no one here had ever seen the gowns they had been remade from, and she had new chemises, because the chemises they had brought from home were all wrong for the necklines of the new gowns. Lady Dia had descended with a veritable horde of seamstresses, and between them and the servants, the three girls had new wardrobes with the latest touches within days. Father had grumbled at the cost, but not with that crease between his eyebrows that meant the cost really was worrying. And thanks to Lady Dia’s cleverness, there were trims and ornaments that could be interchanged, corselets and belts and cinchers that could be swapped about among the three of them that would make it possible to create the illusion that they had many more gowns than they really did. Father had liked that part a great deal.

  She was glad of that. Lady Dia was manipulatin
g Father with great skill but she had no idea that under the skin of the man who was being indulgent with his daughters, and very indulgent to the youngest, was another man entirely. Violetta had seen him in a rage, and more than once. He’d beaten servants half to death when they marred or destroyed something valuable. He’d sent all of them running to lock themselves in their rooms—Mother too!—when he’d been angered over something important. No, it was a good idea to make Father happy about saving money, since he was likely to be in a constant state of concealed irritation that Lord Kaltar was also here in Haven for the Midwinter Season.

  And she had that adorable little dog, Star, that Lady Dia had given her! Violetta loved animals, and always had, but she’d been told that none of her pets from home could come to Haven. Which was fair, really, since most of them were cats, and they would fight with the resident cats of the Haven manor-house, and the rest were creatures unsuitable for the manor-house like a pair of rabbits, and a squirrel. Father had brought the only dog; his great mastiff that went with him everywhere, but the mastiff never left Father’s side. She had been missing all her pets, and this little dog was utterly, utterly perfect in every possible way, and gave her something to love that loved her back. Not only was she allowed to take him with her everywhere, she was expected to take him with her everywhere. He was as quiet as a little toy, perfectly behaved, and loved fondling and attention. He slept in a proper little bed on the kitchen hearth at night with no fuss. He was even using the door in the kitchen, made in the middle of the human door for the cats to come and go, when he needed to go out.

  Right now, he was sleeping on her feet, keeping them warm, as she plied her needle in the company of her older sisters, hoping to finish the embroidery made to tack on the square neckline of one of her new-old gowns in time to wear it to the first of the Midwinter parties this very evening. Although—if she didn’t, it would not be bad, she would just have to wear one of the fur neck-pieces instead. Lady Dia was escorting them, and Violetta knew that her sisters would have nothing to complain about. This time, they absolutely would be in the company of the “best” people, and many of those people would be young men who had not yet had marriages arranged. Of course, there was very little chance at all that Aleniel and Brigette would be allowed to choose a husband for themselves; marriage was too important to be left to young people. But at least, they would have the opportunity to look over, and be looked over in turn, and get to know something about the young men available before a betrothal took place. And if they were very lucky, and there was more than one suitor (or rather, the suitor’s parents, more likely) applying for their hands, they might be asked if they preferred one over the other.