Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Well, ye gimme a lot t’mull over.” Linden was still getting out packages. “This ’un is fer His Kingness. An’ this ’un is fer Mags. An’ this ’un is fer Her Princesship.” It was easy enough to tell them apart, as she had tied them up with different colored string. Amily’s was the biggest package of the lot. The ones for Kyril and Mags were quite small, and the ones for Dia and Lydia about a quarter the size of Amily’s. “Tuck still ’as lots t’do fer Lor’ Jorthun.”

  “We don’t expect him to get all of it done at once, Linden,” Amily reminded her. “Let him work at his own pace.”

  But Tuck must have come to a stopping place in his work, since he turned and beamed at her. “Tuck like work,” he said, radiating satisfaction like the sun.

  “Do you still remember the other things I asked you to think about?” she asked him.

  He nodded. This time his reply was wordless, conveying that there were some objects he had worked out how to make, and some that he hadn’t yet. But he was sure that eventually he could.

  “Take as long as you need to, Tuck,” she assured him. “You’ve already done much more than we ever expected!”

  He beamed again, then lost interest in the conversation, as he was inclined to do, and went back to what he had been working on. A moment later, he was humming again, deep in concentration on whatever it was he was crafting.

  After making certain there was nothing that Linden could possibly need or want for her and Tuck, Amily bundled all her packages into a string bag she had brought with her—just in case—and went out to join Rolan. Rolan was waiting patiently in the drying-yard, politely accepting bits of bread or wilted flowers or whatever scraps of greenery the children could find. Tuck had gotten over the novelty of having the “Pretty Horse” come visit, and came running out to make much of the Companion with the other children only when he wasn’t deep in a project.

  She thanked all the children, and sent them back to their play; they went, reluctantly, as she mounted her Companion. They joined the traffic in the street. :I’m frustrated,: she admitted to Rolan, as the crowds parted slightly to let them through. :We are running out of time, and there is nothing I can do!:

  :You can be the King’s Own,: Rolan told her. :You can be steady and keep everyone else from panicking. And . . . there actually is one more thing you can do, now that I come to think of it. Something only the King’s Own could get away with.:

  :There is?: she demanded. :What?: Just the idea there was something she could contribute had her excited.

  :After you give your packages to be delivered by pages, you can go talk to the Rethwellan Ambassador,: Rolan said, with a . . . could there be such a thing as a mental smirk? :He’s planning to leave in a few days. He doesn’t yet know that Menmellith is trying to recruit Rethwellan should they declare war on us. And as you are aware he is extremely susceptible to aiding pretty young women.:

  Her jaw nearly dropped. Was Rolan suggesting what she thought he was?

  :Yes, I am saying to go behind Kyril’s back. You and you alone could get away with this; it’s the prerogative of the King’s Own to do what the King would like done, and can’t, for various reasons. It is better to beg forgiveness in this case than ask permission.:

  She looked down at Rolan’s ears. They were pointed back at her. :Is this . . . ethical? We all pledged to tell no one.:

  :How is it not?: he demanded. :Technically you pledged to tell no one in Valdemar; and all you are going to do is tell the Ambassador something he is going to find out in a fortnight anyway. You like him. You know he is an honorable man. You know he is prepared to help as long as it doesn’t compromise his duty to Rethwellan in the least. Do you really want to let him walk into that situation with no preparation and no warning?:

  She chewed her lip, as Rolan eeled his way through the traffic, heading ever upward to the Hill. :Well,: she said. :No. Not really. That’s not really fair.:

  :It just so happens that all this information will be trusted more if it comes from the King’s Own, and more palatable if it comes from an attractive young woman.: Rolan swiveled his ears for emphasis. :When your opponent hands you a weapon, then use it. And yes, Maranthenius Vorthelian is not an opponent. And yet, he is. He is always going to work for Rethwellan’s best interests. It is your job to make him understand that in this case, Valdemar’s best interests are Rethwellan’s as well. How you do that is your business.:

  Well . . . this was just politics again, and it was all very well to say that word as if it were a curse, but the job of King’s Own was always going to be about politics. There was no other way around that. And it was not as if she was going to be trying to seduce Maranthenius. She was not even certain she could if she wanted to. The Ambassador was an old, old hand at this game. He’d certainly see a seduction attempt coming and deflect it.

  But he deeply enjoyed the company of pretty women. He enjoyed the company of intelligent, pretty women even more. She thought that he valued the kind of candor that came of being a fundamentally honest person, even though—or perhaps because—he was not one. This could work.

  :You’re right. I’ll just “drop in” on him with a farewell token. And we’ll see what happens from there.:

  :An excellent plan,: said Rolan with great satisfaction, and he picked up his pace to a slow trot, finding holes in the traffic with such surety that she suspected Foresight.

  • • •

  Amily tapped on the door of the Rethwellan Ambassador’s suite in the Palace, with a nod to the Guard at the door—also a native of Rethwellan, but wearing the sort of non-uniform of one of the mercenary companies that were often employed there, rather than something official. He nodded back at her but maintained his wary pose, as was only proper.

  The Ambassador maintained a small entourage of a Secretary, a couple of personal servants, and his guards. It was the Secretary who answered her knock, a small, balding, deceptively mild-looking little man who always wore charcoal gray and black. He said it was to hide the ink blotches. Amily, who was well aware that he kept two poniards in arm sheathes on him every waking moment, rather thought it was because such colors hid other stains as well.

  He blinked at her in confusion. “Herald Amily,” he said cautiously. “the Ambassador was not expecting you so far as I am aware. Is there an appointment I was not made privy to?”

  Amily smiled at him. “Not at all, Kleventhalaril. I just wanted to say goodbye to the Ambassador as Amily-the-person before I had to do so as Amily-the-King’s-Own-Herald.”

  “Oh, well then!” The Secretary favored her with a smile that did reach his eyes—as his smiles often did not. He held open the door. “By all means, please come in, and have a seat. I’ll see if he can pry himself away from the packing.”

  She entered the little reception room, and took a seat on the sofa near the fireplace. As small as the room was, it was organized into two very distinct sections—a desk with a chair facing it for official business, and a sofa and chairs at the fireside for informal meetings. She set the tone by taking a seat in the latter section. Like all of the guest suites in the Palace, this one was themed—in honor of Rethwellan, the theme was “prosperity.” All the furnishings were in jewel-tones and rich woods, and the rugs and tapestries featured the Rethwellan symbol of wealth, an apple tree bearing apples of gold. The golden apples were everywhere, woven into the rugs, carved on the vases, made into lamp-bases. She wondered if he ever got tired of them.

  While she waited, she turned the little carved goldenoak box in her hand over and over, smiling a little. It was Tuck’s work, one of his “pretties.” Interestingly enough, Tuck never tried to carve anything that resembled something living; he always carved geometric patterns, in the mode she was told was called “chip carving.” Tuck had made clever little leather hinges, and a leather and bone “hasp” to hold it closed. This wasn’t a box you would use to hold something that was exceptionally
valuable. It was the sort of box you used to keep something of sentimental worth.

  “Amily, my dear,” said Maranthenius, both hands outstretched, as he entered the room from the private part of his suite. “How immensely kind of you to give an old man the pleasure of a personal visit from such a lovely young Herald!” Maranthenius was a short man, like his Secretary; his hair was likely white under the yellow he tinted it with, and curled, which probably was also not natural. Even though he had been overseeing his packing, he was dressed as if he was expecting important visitors, in a shirt of the finest ramie, under a sleeved tunic of twilled linen in a muted scarlet and matching breeches. His boots were brown, and polished to a high shine, and he wore the seal of his office on a heavy gold chain around his neck.

  Amily put the box aside and rose, taking his hands in hers. “How kind of you to allow me to give you a proper farewell!” she said, smiling. “Of course, we will have you back again before the end of summer, but I was hoping to find out if you would be here for my wedding.”

  “How can I possibly know that, when that ever-so-energetic young man of yours keeps haring off when plans are half made?” Maranthenius asked, waiting for her to resume her seat before he took one. “Now, if you think you might have it done about Midsummer, that, I can promise.” He made a little face. “Though if you people would just loan me one of your Companions, I could be home and back in no time at all.”

  She had to laugh at that. “Now Maranthenius, don’t tell me that you would be willing to ride day and night, sleep in the saddle, and touch your feet to the ground no more than four or five times in the day!”

  He shuddered theatrically. “No . . . no, that would be far too much for this old man. I do like the comfort of my carriage, and overnight stays in fine lodgings. And regular meals of something other than pocket pies. I believe that I will settle for slow and pleasant.”

  “Well, I can’t loan you a Companion, but I thought you might like this,” she said handing him the box. He took it, his shrewd green eyes brightening.

  “This is very handsome work!” he said, with pleasure. “The intricacy and the detail are astonishing! Whoever made this must have both phenomenal control of his hands and phenomenal eyesight!”

  She smiled. “He does, but the box is not the gift. Open it, please.”

  He did, and lifted out the two short white bits of leather with silver grommets and silver bells attached, and the braided lengths of white horsehair with complicated knots at one end and loops at the other that went with them. His eyes widened and his smile was completely unfeigned and without any calculation or guile whatsoever.

  “My dear Amily! You could not have pleased me better! What a wonderful gift!” he said, fingers caressing the soft leather, and the silken horsehair. “Are these jesses what I think they are?”

  She nodded. “Braided Companion hair, yes,” she said. “Mags makes things like this for gifts; he’s terribly clever at it. I know how much pleasure you get from flying your falcons, and I remembered how you admired our style of bracelets and jesses. I thought I would give you a set, both as a memento and so you could have them copied when you get home.”

  “These are wonderful,” Maranthenius said fervently. “And you are a delight to have thought of such a gift. So clever of you Heralds to have thought of jesses and bracelets that a bird can free himself from, should he escape. And to have the jesses made of Companion hair! No one will be able to boast of that at home!”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Heralds that invented those jesses, it was the Hawkbrothers. We just adopted them.” She patted his hand, and he freed one of his to place it over hers. “I know how tender you are with your birds, and what a good falconer you are. It gives me as much pleasure to give you these as it will for you to use them.” She cleared her throat a little. “Now, that wasn’t the only reason why I came to say goodbye to you . . . there’s something you need to know that your friend Amily can tell you, that Herald Amily cannot.”

  He put the jesses away in the box and handed it to his Secretary, who took it with a slight bow. “My goodness gracious. That sounds serious.”

  “Well,” she said. “It is . . .” and she proceeded to explain the situation to him, and how they had learned of it. He listened to her, his face still, his expression neutral, until she finished. “You are likely to be walking straight into a Court where the envoys of the Regency Council of Menmellith are already there, and have been demanding that Rethwellan join them against Valdemar, on the grounds that if we have fomented revolution on their soil, we are likely to do the same to you.”

  “And did you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Send arms to their rebels, that is.”

  “I can’t say that someone in Valdemar didn’t, but it wasn’t done at the behest of Kyril, nor anyone on the Privy Council,” she said, as earnestly as she could manage. “We’ve gone over all the records carefully. There’s no unexplained expenditures of money. Every coin in the Treasury is accounted for. There’s no arms missing from the Guard outposts. The accusation came as a complete shock to the King and the Privy Council, and we have been working day and night to try and discover where the money to buy these weapons came from, what armory they originated from, and who bought them in the first place.”

  He sat back in his chair and pondered what she had told him. “Well,” he said. “To begin with, I believe you. I honestly cannot see what Valdemar has to gain by encouraging a disgruntled fellow with pretensions to royalty in his quest for a throne. It is not as if the lands on the border with Menmellith are good for anything but grazing sheep and breeding hill ponies and goats. There’s nothing under those hills worth digging up. If you want to expand your lands, you will do what you have always done; expand your western border, where there are nasty creatures and even nastier bandit-lords and petty warlords and the like and the people will welcome you and your Guard with open arms. Why trouble a civilized nation? Why interfere with a situation that is already unstable, in a dubious partnership with unreliable people?”

  She sighed with relief. “Exactly so,” she said. “Exactly so. As I said, we are trying to find out who did this, and when we do, the King intends to punish them somehow. We’re not quite sure how, because there are no laws against sending weapons to people you like, but—”

  “But the King’s word is law, and I think that is sufficient here,” Maranthenius waved off legal complications as if they were of no matter. Well, probably in Rethwellan they were of no matter. “Well, my darling girl, I already know what you want of me, and fortunately for both of us, it is powerfully not in our best interests to join with Menmellith in an ill-conceived attack on Valdemar. Think of the trade that would be destroyed! Think of the money lost! And that doesn’t even get into the insanity of waging war in the summer, when there are crops and herds that will be destroyed! What are they thinking?”

  “If you are asking about the Regency Council of Menmellith, I don’t believe they are thinking at all; they are panicking and seeing monsters everywhere,” Amily said sourly. “Perhaps they think if they convince their own people that danger is everywhere, they will somehow muster . . . more energy? I don’t know. As for the rebels, well, rebels often tend to be of the sort that would rather poison the well should anyone else look likely to take it back.”

  “I can’t speak to that. I believe the fear is that a country with a boy on the throne will be seen as a weak country, and a land ruled by a Regency Council is less prone to successfully defend itself than one with a man and a sword on top.” He shrugged. “I can’t speak to either. Weak men see monsters under the bed and enemies in every bush.”

  “That may be,” Amily agreed. “But if you will tell your people that no, we of Valdemar are not behind this . . . unbelievably stupid ploy, that Valdemar holds as it always has, to the maxim that There is no one true way, and that applies to not meddling in other peoples’ political battles, and that we are spending a great
deal of time and energy on finding the culprits behind this, I will be eternally in your debt.”

  His eyes shone a little, and for a moment she felt a chill. Oh no. What have I let myself in for? What is he going to ask me to do?

  But then his gaze softened and he smiled and patted her hand. “I won’t hold you to that, my dear. In fact, I am in your debt. I would have walked into a dreadful situation without any warning whatsoever, and there are many parties who would have applied all manner of pressure to me to get me to say what they wanted. For profit, of course, everything in Rethwellan comes down to profit and loss. I must say, I find that a more reasonable way to run a country than depending on the vagaries of royal births. Still, it does leave the government open to . . . influence.”

  She nodded, waiting for him to finish.

  “So, to be less brief than you would like, but more brief than is my wont, yes, I will argue against joining with these hotheaded fools and squandering resources when there is absolutely no profit to be gained and a very great deal to be lost. I assume since you have shared certain information with me, that I can share it with my fellows.” She beamed at him with relief, and he smiled back at her. “Really, it is a pleasure to be able to help you in this, Amily. You have always been kind and courteous to me, when I am well aware that there are those in your Court—not the Royal Family, of course, but I suspect even some Heralds—who have dismissed me as a trumped up merchant. You never have, and for that friendship, I am grateful.”

  “Certain people in the Court live in glass houses and should refrain from throwing stones,” she said, and leaned over and kissed his cheek. “But there are people with their noses in the air over something everywhere. Thank you, Maranthenius. I’ll let you get back to your packing.”

  She stood up, and so did he. This time he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And now I know where that athletic young man of yours must be, trying to get to the bottom of this mess. I shall be saying prayers for you all the way home that we are all back in Valdemar in time for a Midsummer wedding, and laughing about what a ridiculous situation this was.”