“So—this is like exactly the sort of thing he’s been lookin’ for?” Mags hazarded.
She nodded. “He wouldn’t wish ill fortune on the Kingdom, but men who are used to being needed get in the habit of it, and it frets them when they feel they are sitting about uselessly.”
They paused at the door. Mags looked back in the direction of the library. “He’s anythin’ but useless, Dia. I didn’t figure to get away before a sennight.”
“Well, make use of the time wisely,” she advised him. “We’ll send you a message when all is ready.”
Dallen was waiting for him just outside; Jorthun’s stablehands could read Companions almost as well as if they had Mindspeech. :Amily wants to meet you down at Willy the Weasel’s so you can properly introduce her to your mob.: Dallen tossed his head in amusement at his start. :Don’t worry, she’s properly dressed for the area.:
Well, he had to wonder just what she thought was “properly dressed for the area . . .” It was after dark. And although any pack of thugs trying to rob or harm her was likely to end up a pack of thugs with broken heads, the point was not to draw attention to herself. But then again, she was Nikolas’s daughter.
He left Dallen in the usual spot, and transformed himself into Harkon. He chose to travel conventionally rather than over rooftops, just in case he’d run into Amily on the way.
But it took him a few moments to recognize the young tough loitering under Willy the Weasel’s street lamp. She looked nothing like a girl. And there were plenty of beardless boys in this part of Haven who could gut you before you could blink, so the fact that she wasn’t sprouting chin-hair was no indication of whether or not she was dangerous. The rapier and dagger in well-worn sheathes at her side, however, were.
She tugged on her hat brim. “Harkon,” she said, pitching her voice low enough it could have passed for a young man’s tenor.
“Yer early,” he said, deciding to err on the side of caution by not giving her a name, in case she’d dropped one out here already. “C’mon then. Let’s get yer innerduced.”
He unlocked the next door, and the two of them walked into Aunty Minda’s warm and welcoming space.
• • •
“That went better than I expected it to,” Amily commented in a voice just above a whisper, as the two of them made their way back to where their Companions were—for Amily had used the same inn stabling that Mags had used; he just hadn’t noticed Rolan since he had been in something of a hurry to get to Amily before—if—trouble did.
“They’re good lads,” said Mags. “An’ it ain’t like they don’ take orders from a woman now.”
They were walking quickly, but so was nearly everyone else on the street. Finally there was a sense that Spring was in the air. Mags hated leaving Amily . . . but on the other hand, he wanted to get into gem country as quickly as he could before the Spring rains started. It was going to take a week to get where they wanted to go by coach, even in good conditions on firm roads. It could take half a moon to get there if they got bogged down.
“Well, I expected some resistance. I’m glad there wasn’t any.” She trudged on. “I have the sinking feeling this is going to be difficult.”
“Gotta be,” Mags agreed. “Some’un’s runnin’ a tricksy deal here. Wouldn’ surprise me none iffin there’s layers and layers. We gotter unravel ’em somehow. Rolan tell ye what Jorthun tol’ me?”
She didn’t get a chance to answer him. They had reached the stable. Carefully checking to make sure no one was watching, they slipped inside, then into the hidden storage room where Mags kept his disguises.
“Yes,” she said, as they quickly changed, though it was a tight fit for two in the little room. “And I’m not happy, but what can we do? Not happy about how short a time we have left, that is,” she amended as they took turns pulling each others’ tunics down into place. “I’m actually rather relieved Jorthun is going.”
“Ye thin’ I need a chaperone,” he teased, and opened the door just enough for her to squeeze through it.
“I think he has an awful lot to teach you,” she corrected, then left him long enough to get Rolan and saddle him.
“No argument fr’m me on thet score,” he said, as they both mounted up and headed up the Hill. “Wish’t ye was comin’ wi’ me.”
“Wish you were staying here,” she replied. “But neither of us is going to get our wishes. So let’s get up the Hill as fast as we can, so we can make the most of the time we have.”
• • •
The livery was unexpectedly comfortable. Mags had anticipated something stiff, perhaps scratchy, too warm or too light for comfort. Instead, what he’d gotten was a variation on the Palace livery, made with an eye to the fact that people were going to be working long, hard hours wearing it. Dark brown, heavy canvas trews that had been softened somehow so they were as easy on the skin as good linen. A white linen shirt with a high collar. And a selection of tunics in either brown wool or brown canvas with the design of a lozenge divided in four quarters, two white, two green, embroidered on the breast. He had no idea whose device this was, but Jorthun assured him that no one was going to either recognize it, nor contest Keira’s right to it, where they were going.
The same device was on both sides of the coach. Now that was a bit of outright cleverness; Jorthun had shown him how any device at all could be bolted to it and taken off at will. It made him wonder just how many times in Jorthun’s past he’d been on missions for the King that had required a change of identity. Has to be pretty often if he’s still got something like this coach about.
They set off before dawn, in part so that no one of any consequence would see the strange device bolted onto Jorthun’s coach, rolling out of Jorthun’s gates. It was Mags’ first time in a coach. He wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. The interior looked comfortable enough, all padded plush and fitted out with all sorts of little luxuries. But it rocked and rolled from side to side and bounced up and down in a way that didn’t give him any chance to appreciate those luxuries. And in addition, he and Coot were sitting with their backs to the horses—the least comfortable of the two bench-seats in the thing—since they were the servants here.
It had been bad enough as they’d gone slowly through the streets of Haven—but as soon as they made the open road, the driver had picked up speed, and Mags began to regret breakfast.
“Here,” Jorthun said, leaning forward and handing him a little metal box. He took it, and opened it carefully. His nose was hit with the scent of fresh mint, and he immediately felt a little better. He took one of the hard, square lozenges, and stuck it under his tongue.
“Thenkee, sir,” he said, handing the box back. Jorthun tucked it into one of the many pockets crafted into the sides of the coach.
He hadn’t been able to get a good look around the object that would essentially be their home for the next week or so, because it had been so dark. But now the sun had crested the horizon, and he gave the interior a thorough inspection.
The exterior of the coach was dark brown trimmed in lighter brown. The interior matched. The entire interior of the coach had been upholstered and padded; the covering was a soft wool plush, and from the way they were being bounced around, it was obvious why every inch but the floor and ceiling was padded. They were sitting so closely together their knees touched. There was a single window in the door of the coach; there were lanterns on either side of the interior of the coach but Mags could not imagine anyone being foolhardy enough to light them while the coach was moving. There were a great many of the aforementioned storage pockets in the walls.
He glanced at Coot, who had scooted himself to the edge of the seat and was watching the countryside scroll by with huge eyes. It took him a moment to realize why.
Coot had never been out of the city.
Coot was wearing the same livery Mags was; Jorthun had advised him to pick out one of his
“lads” to bring along as an all-purpose errand boy—and lookout, in case he needed to do anything that required breaking and entering. That seemed an entirely sensible idea to Mags, and Coot had been eager to go.
“Be—be there bears, sor?” Coot wavered, seeing Jorthun’s eyes on him.
“Not so near the city,” Jorthun replied, soothingly. “Nor wolves. In fact, you are far more likely to be bitten by a farm dog than by a wolf.” Coot relaxed a little, and turned his attention back to the window. Jorthun amused himself by answering all of the boy’s questions about the things that they passed. Keira dozed; she’d been up quite late, making the last minute adjustments to her new wardrobe. Though how she could sleep in this rocking, rolling coach Mags had no idea.
When they stopped for luncheon, Mags was more than glad to get out and was not at all happy about the fact that he was going to have to get back in again. Coot was now full of all manner of useful information about life in the country, which he was clearly storing in his mind with the alacrity of a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter. He knew his role and snapped to it, however, as the coach came to a stop. He was the first out the door, got the stepstool in place, and was waiting at one side to assist “Mi’lor’ an’ Mi’lady” down as Mags did the same on the other. Jorthun and Keira went inside the inn; a servant was sent out with hot ale and pocket pies for Coot, Mags, and the coachman—who was as stolid as a statue of wood, and just about as talkative.
In due course, Jorthun and Keira emerged, Mags and Coot sprang into action again, and they were on their way.
Keira was awake now, and the four of them discussed every aspect of the coming job that they could think of as the coach bounced and rolled over the rutted road. Jorthun was particularly concerned with making certain that Coot was prepared for what would essentially be—to him—living in the country.
But poor Coot was only getting more confused by the moment. Finally Keira sat up a bit straighter as the coach lurched over another rut, and said, “This is ridiculous. Instead of trying to make poor Coot into what he isn’t, why don’t we simply work with what he is?”
Jorthun furrowed his brows, and offered Mags a flask of water. Mags took it gratefully. “I’m not sure I follow, Keira. . . .”
But Mags understood exactly what she meant. “But how’s a lady with money supposed to have come across a street waif an’ taken him up? An’ why would she?”
Keira laughed. “Because I am eccentric, of course. As to how, let’s work out a story with enough truth in it that it will be easy to remember. Coot, did you get any education at all?”
Coot nodded enthusiastically. Nothing pleased him better than to be able to show off his reading skills. “Aye, m’lady. Harkon sent me t’ Brother Elban at Alia of the Birds, on account of I was hevin’—having—problems an’ ’e recked Brother Elban could sort ’em out.”
“Well then, there you are.” Keira nodded. “I like to do little acts of immediate charity. I went to Brother Elban after my husband died and asked if he had a boy he could recommend as a hallboy. He offered me Coot. Coot did so well and was so very good at keeping pickpockets and thieves from me that I promoted him within the month to my personal page.”
Coot took up the tale eagerly. “An I’m good at thet, on account’a my old master was a thief an’ tried t’make me thieve, too. But I wouldn’ hev none’a thet, an runned away t’Aunty Minda.”
Jorthun’s mouth curved up in a broad smile. “I believe, young man, that Mags should promote you further in his ranks. You have a natural ability at weaving truth into an entirely different sort of cloth than it actually is.”
“Not t’ mention ’e’s a fine breaking-and-entering an’ upper-story man,” Mags added. “It’s already in th’ plan, Lord Jorthun. Once this job is over, I figger t’ place ’im temporary-like in a page or footman’s position so ’e can learn all that ’e needs to know t’ fit in with household servants, and then we’ll see what other skills ’e can acquire.” Mags was not keeping as tight a level of control over his speech as he usually did when speaking with the highborn; he needed to have a certain touch of the common about him in order to fit in with “fellow servants.”
Coot beamed. Mags was very happy with the young miscreant. In Aunty Minda’s hands, and under Mags’ eye, he had blossomed. He’d been extremely good at thievery, so much so that his former master had set him to do more difficult jobs—like the theft of a spurious silver vase that had been the bait in a trap Mags had laid for one of those boys. But his heart hadn’t been in it. Once given the chance to “go honest” Coot had never looked back.
Good food and a comfortable, warm place to sleep, regular baths, and clothing that wasn’t made of rags, had all turned him from a skinny, snot-nosed, filthy urchin no one would trust with a bent pin, to one of Mags’ best runners, and someone who had been consistently chosen over the others to carry valuable messages and parcels. But he’d put on a growth spurt, and was being chosen less often these days—people in need of runner-boys generally picked small, nimble ones, under the impression they could dart their way through traffic faster than the taller, lankier ones. So Mags had been about to place Coot as a hall-boy to continue his education in becoming an all-around informant, but it had been obvious Coot’s addition to their party would be of tremendous aid, so he’d added Coot at the last minute, and promoted one of the others into the place Coot would have taken.
“I like this,” said Lord Jorthun. “There is no reason why Keira should not have done something of the sort. It makes her look soft-hearted, which is not a bad thing, considering we want the gentlemen of this district to underestimate how shrewd she is.”
“Ye’ll have t’ fight some,” Mags observed. “On account’a yer a city-lad. But I don’ think we coulda drilled ye t’show country in the little time we got.”
Coot sniffed disdainfully. “I ain’t feared of no fight,” he said. “Less’n it’s ’gainst some giant. Then I ain’t feared t’run.”
“If you have to run, come straight to me,” said Jorthun. “Or Mags. Make sure your foe follows, so don’t run too swiftly.”
“Ah!” Coot brightened up. “An’ let ’m cotch me an’ mebbe get in a lick’r three. Then ye kin get ’im thrashed, an ev’body knows ye ain’t takin’ no truck wit’ people messin’ wit’ yer sarvants.”
“Precisely.” Jorthun beamed. “Mags, I am more and more impressed with this boy of yours by the moment. May I take him in hand when this is done with?”
Coot’s eyes went as big and round as dinner plates, and Mags felt his own eyes widening. “I’d be more’n happy t’turn ’im over to the Master,” Mags said. “This is uncommon kind of ye!”
“Nonsense. It’s been far too long since I had a sharp lad to train in the Game. I can’t take on more than one at a time—but once we decide Coot is polished, then send me a half dozen more and I’ll pick out another.” He turned to Coot. “And because I am a master that likes his man to know what direction this is going, boy, I have in mind to train you up as Mags’ spymaster. You’ll be in charge of others, and take on the riskiest and most dangerous of tasks. Does that suit you?”
“Does it!” Coot looked fit to burst with excitement and pride.
Because at his age, he doesn’t even think about death . . . Mags thought, with a sudden burst of misgiving.
:But by the time he’ll be risking death, he’ll be well aware of the hazards, Chosen,: Dallen reminded him. :And he’ll have been taught by the best. You rescued him; he wants to pay you back. He’ll never be a Herald, but let the boy be a hero in his own way. He has the right.:
Dallen was right. And Mags ruthlessly pulled his mind back to the present. There was very little risk even of bodily harm in this venture, at least for Coot. And even that was no worse than every city-bred servant faced when coming out to the country.
“Very good. We’ll speak of this when our task is over.” Jorthun sett
led back against the cushions of the coach. “Now, since we are concentrating on you, young man, we need to give you a thorough drilling in your duties as Keira’s page. When you are the page in a small household like hers, you generally have the combined tasks of the page, the hall-boy, and the general errand boy. So let’s speak about shoe-cleaning. I understand you have never done it. . . .”
• • •
Over his lifetime, Mags had made his bed in many places and in varying levels of comfort. The worst, of course, had been in the mines; bedded down with a heap of other children on whatever straw, leaves and dried weeds they could scavenge, covered with the tattered remains of blankets too ruined for the mine-ponies to use. The best, well, that had to be snuggled in that lovely bed next to Amily. This was somewhere in the middle.
They arrived at their first inn after dark, but before the horses had any chance of stumbling. Keira and Lord Jorthun were whisked off to a private room to be fed the best the inn had to offer. Mags brought in their traveling bags; with ears about, Lord Jorthun merely told him to get himself and “the boy” seen to.
So Mags brought Coot in to the common room, where the serving girl seized on them at once. They both were given tall mugs of ale, two rough plates full of stew with bread piled on top, and told to take a seat in the common room where they fancied. Fair treatment so far as Mags was concerned; Coot was thrilled. This was a different sort of food than Aunty Minda served the gang; different herbs, and it was thicker than Minda’s soups. Aunty Minda was careful with bread, since she had no real oven and it had to be bought. The serving girl had heaped three thick slices on top of his bowl, and told him “There’s more iffin ye wants it. An’ drippins.”
“We’ll be havin’ more bread an’ drippins, iffen ye please,” Mags said for him. “The lad’s still a-growin’.”
The serving “girl”—who was older than Mags by at least a decade—grinned and winked. Mags led Coot over to a table that was only half full. He nodded affably at the fellows already there, who looked to be locals enjoying their pint. They nodded cautiously back. Mags sat Coot across from him and started in on his food. A moment later the serving girl brought about half a loaf and a little crock of dripping from the roasts for Coot to dip the bread in. Since Aunty Minda never served roast anything—she did serve good healthy food and lots of it, but roasts were for people better off than they were—this was Coot’s first taste of dripping. He ate until he nearly popped; the girl kept coming by to see that he was eating well and nodded at Mags in satisfaction. “Yer master sez not to stint,” she told him with approval. “Must be a good man.”
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