Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy

by Mercedes Lackey

  She had thought, before going out on circuit with Mags and Jakyr, that it was only the highborn and wealthy whose lives were so constrained. After all, they had titles and money to protect . . . and a lot of leisure time in which to create elaborate codes of manners. But . . . no. No, she had found out that while the common folk could have been a bit more lenient in the way they treated each other, for the most part they were just as constrained by custom as the rich.

  Although if this had been a little village drama being played out, Violetta’s letter would have probably resulted in her father beating her black and blue and forcing her to marry the first cousin that would accept her. Certainly in the eyes of her fellow villagers, the only girl that would write such a thing to a young man was one whose virtue was already gone.

  But at least if she was a village girl she’d have had a lot less exposure to silly romances, and more to the other options of what she could do with her life.

  :Assuming her parents allowed it, or she had the gumption to run away,: Rolan said, following her thoughts. :As the third daughter, she’d have had no dower at all and would have been expected to stay home and take care of her parents in their old age. Mind, she might have been able to have her own income, if she—say—raised bees, or was an expert seamstress. But otherwise, she’d have to get her parents’ consent to have any other sort of life than that—or, as I said, run away.:

  Amily settled in an out of the way corner, half-obscured by one of those tourney banners, with a cup of wine in her hand, and kept not only her eye on the proceedings, but the eyes of several other little unwitting helpers . . .

  Like the wren that had gotten in here at some point and was reluctant to leave. He kept himself out of sight as much as possible, way up in the rafters and cross-beams of the Great Hall, but both Amily and one of the maids knew he was there and made sure there was a hidden supply of crumbs and seeds tucked out of sight of the people below, but not of the bird above. And Amily had added her own little supply in the Minstrel Gallery, along with a dish of water she kept filled. She thought there might be a leak somewhere he was getting water from as well . . . or possibly there was enough condensation on the windows to keep him supplied. She made a note that when all this was over, she was going to net him and bring him to the greenhouse to winter. It didn’t seem fair to expose him to the frigid winter at this point, since he wasn’t accustomed to the cold now, but she could turn him loose in the spring.

  And there was the downstairs cat, allowed to roam the public rooms freely because she was fastidious, who cared not at all about the bird (though she was a mighty hunter of mice). But she was here in the Great Hall because she knew that bits of cheese and meat were discarded or dropped near the refreshment tables, and knew that this evening would bring her a round belly as long as she was agile enough to stay out of the way of the people. She was yet another vantage point—but far more importantly to Amily, she was a sharp pair of ears. She could hide under tables and behind banners all she liked, as long as Amily could hear what she could hear.

  And there was the mouse who had made a nest in one of the evergreen swags, high above the reach of the cat, and was watching the scene, half fascinated by the tantalizing scents of food, and half terrified of all of the people. He was of limited use, but he did give another overhead vantage that was different from that of the bird.

  Violetta’s little dog had been put to bed in her room—and truly did not want to be down here in the crowd and the noise. But Leverance’s huge mastiff had been deemed worthy of becoming part of the decorations, and now lounged at his ease along a bench covered with a swath of ancient brocade, kept content by a meaty bone and a bowl of cold water. People seemed delighted by his presence—and he was a very mannerly fellow. He was also keeping a benign eye on part of the room that Amily could not see from here. She just hoped that he wouldn’t fall asleep. His ears were just about as good as a human’s, so he could hear conversations from where he was that she could not.

  Then again, if anyone started anything, he would probably be aware of it, even asleep, before she was. He wasn’t a guard dog as such, but he would certainly wake up and alert her to something unusual going on.

  It was going to be a long night. She just hoped it was going to be a boring one.

  —

  Violetta was not exactly happy, because even though she was trying with all her might not to think about Brand, she kept thinking of him anyway. It had been easier when she was working on the decorations; then she’d had to concentrate on what she was doing in order to get it all done as quickly as possible. Now that she was here, in the Great Hall . . . she kept wishing that Brand was at her side, about to take her out to dance. She kept picturing how he would look, and what a pleasure it would be to dance with someone so graceful.

  But she wasn’t unhappy, either. She’d been promised the first pavane by some son of a friend of Mother’s, and if he wasn’t Brand, he also wasn’t repulsive.

  She had been promised other dances by other young men, and even knowing that they were only doing this because their mothers had arranged it was not spoiling the fact that she was finally going to get to dance with someone who wasn’t her cousin.

  So unlike that ill-fated Court gala, she was not going to be standing there while her sisters got dance after dance, and she was ignored.

  She was wearing her favorite of all the new gowns; red velvet that she had embroidered with her own hands, with a high waist and as daring a neckline as Mother would allow, over a heavenly-soft linen chemise in a deep gold. It was definitely a good color on her. She thought it made her look older, almost as old as Aleniel. She thought Aleniel had made the same observation, since her sister had looked briefly displeased when she had appeared downstairs wearing it.

  I don’t know why she should care. She doesn’t want any of the young men, she wants one of those three old Lords Mother invited specially for tonight! It’s not as if they are going to take any interest in me, if they know what my dower is!

  Then again, who knew? Maybe Aleniel was not sure enough of their interest to feel confident they would continue it if they got sight of a Violetta who no longer looked as if she needed Nurse to take care of her. Ew. No thank you. I don’t want to be married to some old man!

  The musicians up in the gallery gave the signal that they were about to start the dancing. Since everyone was excited about having actual Bardic Trainees playing for this, the center of the Great Hall got cleared away very quickly, and that first young man came up and politely offered Violetta his hand.

  She took it, and even though he wasn’t Brand, it still gave her just a little thrill. Because he wasn’t repulsive, and he was a stranger, and she was, at last, dancing in a beautiful gown at a wonderful party in the capital city.

  —

  Brand and Mags had been dragged away from a party that was turning out to be an unmitigated disaster as far as Brand’s goals were concerned. Mags hoped he wasn’t going to turn surly, but so far he had managed to remain polite to the other attendees, although his asides to Mags were definitely bordering on cruel. Truthful, but cruel.

  First, it was dull. Not the usual sort of dull, but deadly dull. There were no musicians. There was no dancing. Even the food was dull, the sort of thing you could find at virtually any village fete. Pocket pies, for heaven’s sake, and it did not matter in the least that these were miniature pocket pies, they were still pocket pies. A great deal of bread and cheese. A minimal assortment of sweetmeats. A lot of apples. The wine was of mediocre vintage, the beer was weak.

  And it was clear from the start that the girls here were not interested in them, but in the much older, and wealthier, men that had also been invited. Brand’s comments about them were hilarious. No defect, from a paunch that bulged over a belt to the pathetic attempts to disguise a balding head, went unnoted.

  So when a couple of fellows they knew slightly
came and gathered them up with a whispered invitation to “come along and have some real fun,” Brand was only too happy to go with them. And Mags perforce had to follow. Not that he minded in the least; he was more bored than Brand was, since he was accustomed to conversation that varied a lot more than he was getting here.

  They got their cloaks and the group of a dozen or so gathered just inside the front door while someone Mags knew only as “Morin” distributed something, parceling out one of—whatever this was—to each of them. It was too shadowy in this little antechamber to see what it was until one was shoved into his hands. He looked down in blank unrecognition until he finally realized what it was.

  A mask.

  His was a black half-mask with a suggestion of a beak. Morin saw him turning it around in his hands, trying to figure out how to carry it without damaging it. It seemed to be made of stiffened fabric, or something of the sort. “Put it on, but shove it up on your forehead,” Morin suggested. “That way you can pull it down in place when we get there.”

  Oh! Mags realized, finally, what giving all the young men masks to wear actually signified. We’re going to go invade a party uninvited!

  Well, Brand would like that. They hadn’t been invited along on one of these things yet, possibly because Brand was a relative newcomer to the Court, and people weren’t sure how he would behave incognito.

  Now this group at least was sure he would behave with the appropriate level of “impropriety,” so he and Mags had gotten included in the raid.

  There was the suggestion of rebellion in this that was going to appeal to Brand in his current mood, even though the hosts of the party would probably not care—there was a certain amount of this sort of thing that went on all during the Season. Of course, they would most certainly have cared if they were invaded by common folk from down in Haven! But since it was the privileged lads of their own class, well it was “all in good fun” and “part of the Season.” There was an unspoken code of conduct in these “raids.” The invaders would not do anything too outrageous; mostly flirt suggestively and play the fool. The hosts would not have them thrown out by the servants. The invaders got a chance to leave terrible parties and go to ones they had not been invited to, on the understanding that they would leave again after a short time. The hosts got their parties livened up if things had quieted down, and if not, there was a certain cachet that came with being “raided” because the invaders would not stay long at a bad party.

  “We’re off to Guildmaster Ambrose’s manse,” said Morin, as Mags tied his mask on and pushed it up, as suggested. “Good food, better wine, and he always makes sure to invite the prettiest girls. He’s got good taste in wenches and wine. Even his maidservants are pretty little things.”

  “He’s lucky his wife doesn’t object,” chuckled someone Mags didn’t know.

  “She doesn’t care as long as he just looks,” said another, and elbowed Brand. “Trust me, one look at the company Ambrose keeps and you’ll stop mooning over Lelage’s—legs.” He laughed and ducked as Brand mock-swung on him. “Oh, you think nobody knew? The way you were caterwauling in your cups the other night?”

  Mags was stumped for a moment, then remembered that another dull party had sent Brand and several other young men out to the “Rose and Thorns,” since going down to Flora’s was out of the question. The tavern was quiet, but at least the wine was quite good. Brand had done a bit of carrying on about Lelage, and it appeared that Morin, at least, knew the lady by reputation.

  “Well, don’t let my father find out,” Brand said, suddenly sober.

  “Bosh, you think he’d care? Every one of our fathers probably has his little tidbit down in Haven,” Morin said with a touch of a leer as he held the door open so they could all file out. “Just count your blessings that his pretty piece isn’t the same one you want. I’ve known that to happen a time or two. Awkward!”

  That occasioned some uproarious laughter as they went out into the snow.

  Mags kept his mouth shut and listened to their banter, and it occurred to him—as it had more than once since all this started—that the highborn girls congregated at the party they had just left were not all that different from the ones at Flora’s. All of them, the highborn and the girls at Flora’s alike, centered their lives on pleasing men. All of them were commodities. If anything, the girls at Flora’s were freer to live their lives than the highborn girls were. And really, none of them were free.

  Not unless they were willing to sacrifice a great deal for an uncertain future. Life at Flora’s—or life as the wife of a wealthy man—was comfortable, at least for most of them. Except, of course, when it wasn’t. Wealth didn’t mean that a man wouldn’t beat his wife, or abuse her in other ways.

  And what about the girls at the lowest levels of the trade—or the “marriage market”? The ones who sold themselves for enough to eat that night, or a place to sleep . . . whether it was for a coin or as a wife? For them, freedom was a distant and unreal dream. It made him melancholy, and it wasn’t until he realized that the group had stopped that he was shaken out of his thoughts.

  They had met with a smaller group of three maskers, and Morin was conferring with them. After a moment, the group moved on, but heading down another street. The three they had just met went on their way.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Morin, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. It was cold, but at least it wasn’t snowing, and the wind wasn’t blowing. It was dark, and the mansions where parties were being held were lit up like festival lanterns, not only with lights in every window, but with lighting outside as well. Some had lanterns hung out along the paths that led to their doors, some had those and braziers to warm the air along the path, but the manse to which they seemed to be heading had torches stuck into the snowbanks on either side of the walkway, and what looked like banners on either side of the door.

  And—armored warriors? Who would be mean-spirited and cruel enough to stick a guard in a suit of freezing cold armor out all night to stand next to a door just for the sake of an impression?

  But in the next moment he realized these were just empty suits of armor, set out as decoration. Very effective, he had to admit.

  “Guildmaster Ambrose has sickness in his house, and the party is being hosted by someone else,” Morin replied, as they neared the door. “All right boys! Masks down! Remember, just because you’re masked that doesn’t mean you won’t be in a world of trouble if you make real trouble! Just the usual foolery, make the ladies blush and think they’ve had a bit of an adventure, don’t start a fight, and don’t drink all the wine. If you’re going to be sick, do it outside.”

  Obediently, Mags pulled his mask down, just as they got to the door, and Brand preceded him inside. Just in time to hear “Welcome, young Lordlings, to House Chendlar.”

  —

  Violetta flung herself through the steps of the bransle in a kind of odd fever. Part of her was enjoying herself; she loved to dance, she loved to dance fast, and her partner was tolerable. Part of her wanted to cry, right there, break right down in the middle of the dance, sink down on the floor and weep. This would have been the most perfect night of her life—

  If only Brand were here.

  Oh, if only he was her partner! She thought she was managing to conquer that desire for him, but every time she thought she had fought it down, it came rushing back twice as strong. She longed for him so much it was a physical ache in her chest. So she danced as hard and as fast as she could, to keep the pain at bay.

  And she had plenty of partners to assist her in her efforts. Evidently this time she had been noticed, and it wasn’t only young men who’d been coerced into it by their mothers who were asking to partner her. She only stopped when she was breathless, her cheeks hot, and an ache in her side.

  She stepped out of the way and to the sidelines, thinking she would catch her breath and then begin again. Mother
was not standing watchdog over any of them tonight, possibly because they were in their own home, and she felt they were safe. Violetta was glad of that, because Mother probably would not have approved of all of the men she had danced with tonight. Not that any of them were bad, or they wouldn’t have been invited here—just that some were . . . unsuitable. And tonight, she just did not care.

  A servant offered her wine, and she took it, sipping it while she looked around at the other dancers and at those who were not yet dancing.

  The musicians up in the gallery sounded heavenly; never a missed or sour note, and they were playing tunes she had never heard before. Even Mother had been brought out onto the floor more than once, protesting, but not very hard. Right now Mother was nowhere in sight; exactly how Violetta wanted it.

  Brigette and Aleniel were still dancing, though with nowhere near the energy that Violetta had put into it. Well, they were trying to look dignified, even in the fast dances, to create the sort of impression that although they were quite young and attractive, they were older than their years. It was so complicated! It was like putting on mask after mask after mask. Sometimes Violetta wondered where the real Brigette and Aleniel were, under all the “impressions” they were trying to make.

  Then again, though they shared a home, they were practically strangers. They never shared lessons; they didn’t even like the same sorts of things. They saw one another at meals, and sometimes sitting with Mother in the solar to embroider. She often felt as if she was an only child. The only reason she knew anything about them, was because they talked to each other so much, while she listened.

  There was a stirring at the entrance. Quite a stir, in fact, out of keeping with the way most people had been entering the Great Hall, and out of curiosity she made her way there. Is it possible Father arranged for some kind of entertainment besides the music? If they had been at home, where he knew everyone and everything, he sometimes did just that—jugglers, or gypsies, or once, a man with a horse no bigger than the mastiff, that he had trained to do all manner of tricks.