Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  Amily gave her father a long, measuring look. Mags held his peace; he agreed with Nikolas. Why, every single one of Amily’s friends before she had been Chosen had been spies—of a sort. Granted they reported straight to their parents, who in their turn went to the King, but how was that different from this? Finally she let out her breath in a long sigh. “Of course not,” she replied. “You’re right. And since you seem to be in agreement on this, I’ll talk to Dia in the morning and we’ll get things in motion.” She sat back in her chair. “I get the feeling that Miana already has some acquaintances in mind. If you have any families in which you think my ladies should be placed, I’d like a list at your earliest convenience.”

  Mags noted with approval that, once she had made up her mind, Amily was quite prepared to follow through. He took a few bites of baked apple, and then cleared his throat. “I got me an ideer,” he said, as Amily and her father looked over at him. “I dunno if this’d suit ye, but it seems t’me that Dia might could have an open hand in this. An’ that’d take any suspicion that th’ King was behind it right off, on account of Dia does things like this all th’ time.”

  Amily turned toward him and smiled. “I am all ears.”

  He put down his fork, and noted that the wind had picked up outside. He sighed mentally. It was going to be a long, cold walk to their quarters. But then, getting warmed up afterward would be worth it. “Dia kin set up a kinda school fer handmaidens. What she gets outa it is she gets a buncha ladies she kin hand out some of her work to—like weddin’ an’ festival stuff. What they gets outa it, is they get a nice place t’live an’ access t’all the best families an’ gatherin’s an’ all. An’ anybody Dia’d trained, well, the people we wanta get ’em placed with, they’d think first of all—Lady Dia!—that’d be a status thin’, t’get yer handmaid trained by her. They’ll prolly compete with each other to get them girls. And second, they’d all git t’know each other, an’ they’d know how t’get in touch with each other in case’a trouble. Whaddya think?”

  “Great good gods, Mags, I like it!” Nikolas exclaimed, his brown eyes lighting up with unabashed enthusiasm. “No one would ever suspect Dia of spycraft. The Crown can fund it all, and no one will ever know.”

  “Dia’s got the room,” Amily mused. “She’s always complaining that her husband’s manor house is a great mausoleum we have to keep three-fourths closed up, lest the echoes from the empty rooms drown out our actual conversation. I’ll ask her about it! And with the Crown footing any additional expense of taking on a dozen young ladies, not even her husband will object.” She smiled a little. “Not that he would. He complains about the place being too quiet himself, and I think he would enjoy a lot of feminine company around him.”

  “Then you two should see him tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” Nikolas decreed. “I’ll go with you.”

  Something about the way Nikolas said that, made Mags take sudden notice. There was something going on here. . . .

  Mags gave his mentor a look that said, And just what is it you aren’t telling us? But Nikolas was keeping his mouth firmly closed, though there was a faint gleam in his eye. . . .

  Well, Nikolas didn’t usually keep secrets from Mags, and those he did, generally were not his to tell.

  :You got any notions?: he asked Dallen.

  :I expect you’ll find out tomorrow afternoon,: came the bland response, which only cemented Mags’ suspicions into certainty. Nikolas was keeping a secret. And not just from him, but from Amily.

  And tomorrow afternoon they were going to find out what it was.

  • • •

  They had ridden in through a pair of beautiful wrought-iron gates and had been met by three grooms in Lord Jorthun’s special crimson livery. The grooms escorted—not led—them and the Companions through a lovely little paved courtyard, past the main entrance, and to Lord Jorthun’s magnificent stone stables. There, they displayed the accommodations that the Companions were to enjoy, and Mags was impressed. There were special stalls just for Companions in Lord Steveral Jorthun’s stables. Stalls with mangers full of sweet hay and water-buckets that looked freshly scrubbed until they shone. And grooms—plural—that knew exactly how to treat Companions.

  :With the admiration and deference due to us, of course,: Dallen said smugly as he, Rolan, and Evory were escorted—once again, not led—away. It was clear the Companions were about to be treated better than many humans.

  :Naturally, horse,: Mags replied, following the footman who had come to greet them at the stable door. He looked up at the manor house. A real stone-built manor house, not one of the “town-houses” the highborn usually had, even up here on the Hill. It wasn’t the size of the Palace, but it was certainly big enough, and it was small wonder that Dia joked about it being a mausoleum. It was four stories tall, plus an attic, and probably cellar-rooms as well, within its own grounds and gardens, and it must have taken a staff of at least eighty to a hundred just to keep it all going, whether it was full of visitors or not. He knew Dia held a great many gatherings, and Lord Jorthun often played host to several contingents of relatives during Court season—and you couldn’t exactly put staff members in a closet and take them out again when they were needed. Lord Jorthun never left Haven anymore, and so perforce his manor house was fully staffed, all year around.

  Mags had never been here before. Lord Jorthun was an old friend of the King, and the King’s father before him, and there had never been any need for Mags to pay the highborn a visit in any official—or other—capacity. In fact, until now, he hadn’t realized there actually were any manors this size on the Hill. Most of the highborn contented themselves with a town-house, for the very good reason that a manor this big required so much staff, and even a skeleton staff, with most of the house closed up, would be a minimum of twenty servants.

  This place looked as if it might even date all the way back to the Founding. If that was the case, then it had probably been meant to serve more than one highborn family—or one really enormous extended family.

  They were almost at the front portico when another footman opened the door, and a very tall, very erect, very fit man with silvery hair, dressed in Court finery of black and gray velvet with silver ornaments, stepped out into the sunlight.

  “Ah, you have arrived!” It was Lord Jorthun himself who intercepted them at the front door, his distinctive and powerful voice carrying out into the courtyard. He took a half dozen strong steps toward them. “Thank you, Jem, that will be all,” he said, as he took Amily’s hand and bowed over it.

  Mags had only ever seen this powerful member of the highborn at a distance, on the rare occasions he came to a gathering at Court himself, rather than sending his wife as his delegate. He was even more impressive near at hand. He was one of the tallest men Mags had ever seen—he towered over Nikolas by a good head. His dark eyes suggested that the mane of silver hair he boasted had once been jet black. Beneath a silver beard and moustache, his features were those of an heroic statue. And the way he carried himself told Mags his excuses for staying away from Court events because he was “fatigued” were a fabrication; this was a fit man, and despite his years, still perfectly capable of anything he put his mind to.

  “So this is our King’s Own, my little Dia’s childhood friend. Well met at last, my dear,” he said, in a voice that was rich and deep. “I have known your father for many, many years, of course. In fact, I knew him before he was King’s Own.” A genuine smile crossed his face. “You are a credit to your family.” Amily blushed, but kept her composure.

  “I am very pleased to meet you at last too, sir,” she said. She was about to say more, but he released her hand and waved them in ahead of him, through a pair of doors of ornately carved, light-colored wood. These led straight into an entrance hall; the walls and support pillars were of a pale stone, but the staircase rising from it was of the same intricately carved wood as the doors, as was the padded bench whe
re the footman and the hallboys—two of them—waited patiently to be needed. Lord Jorthun led them through an open doorway to the left, into what looked like a version of a Great Hall, with a massive fireplace, a great deal of seating, and a gallery running around all four walls. Clear light came from skylights in the roof above; Mags guessed that the rooms off the gallery were probably guest rooms, but he was only guessing. Whoever had planned and built this building had intended to showcase the pale beige stone it was made of; the only places where the stone of the walls was covered was where the magnificent decorative tapestries had been hung. Mags didn’t get much chance to look at this room, however, as their host whisked them through it and into a much smaller room beyond.

  He hurried them through the entrance and closed two massive wooden sliding doors behind them. Mags stared a little; those doors were definitely an impressive feat of building. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine how they worked; they seemed to have been literally built into the walls on either side of the doorway.

  This was a library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves taking up every bit of wall that wasn’t occupied by a window or the fireplace. Above them was a paneled wooden ceiling. The fireplace was just as big as the one in the Great Hall, and had a fine blaze going in it. There was enough comfortable seating in this room for at least thirty.

  They weren’t going to need that much seating, obviously, but that particular point made Mags think that Lord Jorthun must use this room fairly often for entertaining. Near the fire, Dia rose from beside a table loaded with food and drink, and waved them merrily to seats around it. In a nice nod to the company, the seats were each two-person sofas, comfortably upholstered in plush.

  They all took their places, Mags and Amily taking the seat nearest Dia, Nikolas taking the one opposite her, Lord Jorthun settling beside Dia and taking her hand as she dimpled at him. “Help yourselves,” she said, “Steveral says I needn’t play the hostess with old friends.”

  Nothing loathe, Mags poured wine for himself and Amily; Lord Jorthun’s wines were second to none by reputation. The cups were of silver, the plates were as well. There was a small fortune here on the table, without even counting the out-of-season fruits heaped on one of the plates. There was probably a hothouse here. And it was a good thing that what he had poured was a white wine, because he nearly ruined his Whites at Steveral Jorthun’s next words.

  “So, how is my best pupil in the Great Ungentlemanly Game fairing now that he doesn’t have to juggle his clandestine assignments and the position of King’s Own?” If the last words of that sentence hadn’t given away who the question was directed at, the arched brow in Nikolas’s direction certainly would have. “I trust your life is less complicated now?”

  Mags spluttered and choked and quickly put down his goblet. Amily simply looked stunned. Dia giggled. Nikolas . . . shrugged.

  “It’s infinitely easier now,” was all he said, while Mags struggled for breath. “And very much less complicated, thank you.”

  But if Mags couldn’t speak yet, he could most certainly think, and he directed those thoughts straight at his mentor, with no little outrage. :Why didn’t you ever tell me Lord Jorthun was your teacher?: he Mindspoke accusingly. :It would have saved me a great deal of trouble if I had known who I could come to during the times you went temporarily missing!:

  :It wasn’t my secret to reveal,: came the laconic answer. :If Jorthun had thought you needed to be informed, he would have sent for you himself.:

  Amily must have had much the same question on her mind, although hers was directed at Dia and not her father. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that your husband was Papa’s spymaster?” she sputtered. “Even if you weren’t married to him back in the days when Papa would vanish with no notice, it would have been very helpful if you had told me once you knew!”

  “It wasn’t my secret to give,” came the similar reply. Dia’s expression gave no hint that she was being anything but honest, and perhaps a bit regretful. But not regretful that she hadn’t told—regretful that she had not been free to tell.

  Lord Jorthun smiled at Nikolas; it was the smile of a man who is very proud of and pleased with his boon-companion. “Never let it be said that I can’t pick those who will keep a secret. Right, my dear?”

  Dia squeezed his hand and chuckled. “You didn’t lay any prohibitions on me, so I told Steveral about your Handmaiden Army this morning before you arrived,” she said to Amily. “I presumed this meeting was what that was about, so I thought I would save you the explanation.” She chose a small bunch of grapes and ate them thoughtfully while waiting for Amily’s response.

  The library was exceedingly quiet, and Mags thought he knew why Lord Jorthun had chosen it. They were far enough from the doors that anyone who had his ear pressed to them would probably not be able to make out anything of their quiet talk. The books absorbed a great deal of sound, and damped any echoes off what little exposed stone there was. The plush brown curtains at the windows were fully pulled aside, so no one would be able to hide and listen at the glass. And anyone watching would only see five people having an informal luncheon together.

  “Yes it is, and last night Mags had a very good idea about it, but we need your agreement and help if we are going to make use of the notion,” Amily told her friend. “Mags can probably explain it best.” Mags picked up his goblet and took a sip to refresh his abused throat. Right. Your best proper speech, lad. This is Lord Steveral Jorthun you’re talking to, not some rat-catcher.

  He settled himself, and concentrated on forming each word, and each sentence, as skillfully as he could.

  “Something that troubled me was how we were to keep this group organized, and how we were to keep the purpose secret. The Crown is going to have to fund this, of course—aside from the question of rewarding these young ladies for their work, there will have to be measures taken for women who have to abandon their positions because of incipient exposure or some other danger, and the cost of feeding, housing and clothing a dozen young ladies in appropriate style is nothing to be sneezed at. But I quickly realized that if we were not to tip our hand simply by virtue of the fact of Crown funds, we would somehow have to make that funding look like an absent-minded but generous gesture—perhaps from the Princess Royal—and make the actual person doing the organizing someone with no direct ties to the Crown except, perhaps, those of friendship. . . .”

  Dia caught on immediately, and her face lit up. “You mean me! Oh, what a good idea! You want me to do this! Create a—a kind of handmaiden’s school, here, in the manor? Turn out exquisitely trained women of many talents? Oh, Steveral, may I?”

  “Now, when it makes your eyes sparkle like that, how can I possibly say no?” Jorthun chuckled, patting her hand. “Not to mention that having a dozen or so young ladies here will be good company and help for you, and give me something pleasant to look at as well as another lot of eager students to impart my particular wisdom to. And if the Crown will be funding this Handmaiden Army, well, that would remove the last possible objection—”

  “Oh wonderful!” Dia looked as if she was about to clap her hands with glee, forgetting that one of them was clasped in her husband’s. Her beautiful brown eyes shone with happiness. And it occurred to Mags that Dia missed those days when she had been one of several youngsters who had been informants for the Crown via the auspices of their parents. Could it be that Dia actually envied her friends Mags and Amily? That despite being cradled in the lap of luxury, she longed for something more productive than breeding dogs and planning festivities?

  “But—” Lord Jorthun said, warningly.

  Dia blinked and faltered. “But?”

  “As I said, I must be in charge of teaching them proper spycraft. And the means by which they can defend themselves. I will not take any other answer but ‘Yes, of course, Steveral.’” He smiled, but his eyes were deadly serious. “They will be my pupils as much, if not more, th
an yours. I will not allow these young ladies to go into a potentially dangerous situation without doing everything I can to ensure that they emerge from it intact.”

  “You would do that?” Mags said, before Dia could respond.

  “I insist on it. I agree with Dia, this is a very good idea, and it is something I wish I had thought of and had the resources to put together.” Lord Jorthun nodded at Mags. “Then again, perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t. Having that many young ladies about when I was younger and not nearly as self-controlled as I am now might have been too great a temptation to resist.” He arched an eyebrow at Dia.

  “I rather doubt you would have been able to create the fiction that you were doing a work of charity, my love,” Dia said dryly. “People would have assumed you were gathering young ladies for some form of pleasure palace.”

  He shrugged. “I did that, too. I still do. Who do you think is the silent owner of three of the most honest brothels in the city?”

  Mags was glad he wasn’t drinking this time. As it was, he nearly choked. “You own the Doll Market?” he asked, naming one of the places where he had informants, bequeathed to him—he had thought—by Nikolas. This was a house of pleasure not far from Willy the Weasel’s pawn shop, which catered to those whose pockets ran to coppers rather than silver.

  Jorthun nodded. “And Flora’s and the Lunar Lady,” he added, naming the house that Mags had taken young highborn friends to in yet another persona, and a house he had not dared go to as he simply did not have the wardrobe or the years to be let anywhere near the door. Nikolas was the one who went to the Lunar Lady. When Nikolas wasn’t around, and information needed to be gotten to them, the Mistress of the Lunar Lady passed it in carefully sealed packets on to Flora’s by special messenger. “I haven’t troubled to get any intelligence from them myself for years, however. You and Nikolas are doing that for me. The further I can distance myself, the more effective my ownership is.”