Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  “From your mouth, to your gods’ ears,” she said fervently, and left, feeling that finally she had accomplished something of value.

  Now to go tell Kyril what I have done, she thought with a sigh. Well, he should have gotten Tuck’s toys by now. Hopefully that will have sweetened his temper enough that he’ll be pleased rather than the opposite.

  Coot basked in the reflected glory of Mags, who was very much the hero of the moment so far as the town of Attlebury was concerned. It was probably a very heady experience for someone who had once been on the very bottom of the pecking order. Mags occasionally had to thump him on the head and remind him not to start putting on airs. “We ain’t here t’show off,” he had to remind the lad. “We’re here on account of some’un here in this place might’a slipped out somethin’ wuth a lot so’s some’un else kin buy up a lotta trouble. Get me?”

  Fortunately Coot was a sensible lad at bottom, and didn’t need reminding very often. He was also a lad who remembered past misery and was not inclined to do anything that might cause Mags to throw him back on the streets, prey for older, stronger, and crueler people.

  Not that Mags would ever do that. The worst he would be likely to do would be to have Coot sent to be a manual laborer on one of the Royal Home Farms, far from the street life he knew so well, and without the means to get back to an urban landscape. It would take a lot more than Coot boasting about being “Harkon’s” best friend in all the world and giving play by play descriptions of Great Kirball Games of the Past. But Coot didn’t know that. And he was not inclined to ever tell Coot that.

  At the moment, Mags was conferring with Lady Keira and Lord Jorthun in Lord Jorthun’s rooms, all the while keeping an eye on the young miscreant through the window. Coot was almost directly below the window, in the yard by the kitchen door. Mags could see and hear everything.

  On the whole he was satisfied. Coot was doing a very good job today.

  Coot had wanted details of Kirball games, details that Mags would surely know in character, and Mags, with his permission, had implanted some memories for him.

  So now Coot was regaling an audience of mixed servants with tales of Mags’ Kirball prowess—except that with Mags’ careful tinkering, it was tales from the viewpoint of one of the four Riders on his team. The fact that Harkon had played on the same team as the great Kirball player Herald Mags made it all doubly thrilling for his audience.

  It was positively surreal to hear people hanging on Coot’s every word just because Mags was a “Great Kirball Player.”

  Coot was benefitting quite a bit from this. The inn’s chief cook kept bringing him little bits of this or that, “just to taste,” and made sure that his mug of cider never went empty. He’d gotten some harassment when they had first arrived as being a “city-boy,” and Mags had utterly forbidden him from fighting, so until now, he hadn’t been able to establish his place in the servant-boy pecking order.

  Now, however, there was no doubt that he was on the tip-top. He’d even been offered presents to gladden a boy’s heart if he’d just “tell us’n ’bout tha’ business where tha’ ’Erald broket ’is arm agin,” and since Mags had not forbidden him from taking presents, he gleefully accepted. Now he had a fine collection of slings, practice cabochons made by the Gemcutter ’prentices, bone fishhooks, chipped flint arrowheads, glass rings, fancy scarves and kerchiefs, and other similar trinkets. He was going home with an entire box full of the sort of things that children cherish.

  Mags let Coot do the boasting for him. He, in the meantime, was modest, would only tell Kirball (and Herald) stories when coaxed to, and refused all attempts at giving him anything more than a drink or a tasty treat with “I cain’t, Lor’ Jorthun wouldn’ approve.” This established his persona as someone who was very trustworthy.

  A second match had been played here at Attlebury, much to the satisfaction and delight of the entire town. This one had been won by Mags’ side, but it had been hard-fought all the way to the end, and both sides had been treated to a celebratory feast by the Gemcutters and Assessors Guild. Just as an aside, Mags was actually coming to appreciate the finer points of being a Kirball rider. And the finer points of bonding with ordinary horses.

  All this was bearing some interesting fruit. But for now, he needed to return his attention to what Lady Keira and Lord Jorthun were saying.

  “. . . I don’t think there’s any doubt that they are seriously courting me now, my lord,” Keira was saying, as she fanned herself with one hand and sipped sweetened tea that had been cooled in the well. “I don’t think they’d have warmed to us nearly fast enough for the lads to come calling if it hadn’t been for Mags.”

  “If it had been autumn, you could certainly have accomplished the same thing by riding out to the hounds or to hawk,” Jorthun pointed out. He had divested himself of his tunic and was taking advantage of the fact that they were in his private rooms by being arrayed only in his shirt and breeches. Mags could not help but notice that Lord Jorthun still had a physique that would put many men younger than he in the shade. Then again, practicin’ sword an’ knife-work with your Weapsonsmaster three candlemarks a day, not t’mention the ridin’ and huntin’ an’ hawkin’ will surely keep a feller fit.

  “I could, if I were equipped to do such things,” Keira replied, with a shrug that implied more helplessness than indifference. “Alas, my parents were unable to supply more than a single horse, and that was my father’s warhorse and unsuited to hunting, and no one was likely to loan the little daughter of an impoverished knight one of their hawks. And of course, when I went to the care of my kindly relations, they had other plans for me that did not involve anything like recreation.”

  “We’ll have to remedy that, later,” Jorthun told her. “But not knowing these things might have worked just as well.”

  “Except that it isn’t autumn, no one is going to be able to do any hunting until moons from now,” she countered. “Given the circumstances, it is almost miraculous that we have exactly the combination of talents that we do.”

  “I could not have planned this better had I known exactly what we would require,” his lordship agreed, with a smile and a wink for Mags.

  “Mags has broken down every possible social barrier between us and our suspects,” Keira pointed out. “I have most of the miners’ second or third sons coming around, several of their eldest sons, and all of their sisters. If there is any sort of funny business going on, and the offspring are aware of it, I’ll have it out of them.”

  “Has anyone offered you presents he can’t really afford?” Jorthun wanted to know.

  Keira pursed her lips. “Now that is a very difficult question to answer. Under normal circumstances I would say yes, but we are dealing with the case of the confectioners’ son here.”

  “Which means?” Lord Jorthun was puzzled.

  Mags was astonished. For once, Lord Jorthun didn’t have every bit of information, however obscure, at his fingertips!

  Mags answered before Keira could. “Ye got th’ sons of men what owns gem mines givin’ milady pretty things, it’s kinda like the sweetmeat seller given his sweetheart candy. T’ anyone else, that’d be special. T’ them, it’s jest what comes outer the ground.”

  “Ah, your point is taken, Keira.” Jorthun steepled his fingers together. “Still, in the little tokens that have been given you, have there been any that stood out?”

  “Tiercel,” she said decidedly. “He’s been extremely generous with some rather interesting little tokens. Do you want me to cultivate him in particular?”

  But Jorthun frowned a little. “I am loathe to think that a family that treats their workers so well is involved in chicanery.”

  The hum of conversation below stopped. Mags checked to see if something was amiss, but it was only that the Cook had brought round fresh bread and butter for everyone. Coot’s audience was too busy stuffing their faces to talk.r />
  “Well,” Mags put in, returning his attention to the others. “If they was up t’somethin’, best way t’keep their people shut ’bout it is t’treat ’em good, so tellin’ on ’em is gonna feel like betrayin’ ’em.”

  “Good observation.” Jorthun sighed a little. “Well, then, the best way to find out anything is to accept an invitation there again.”

  “I expect I can manage that.” Keira nodded. “Probably by the end of the afternoon.”

  They went on to talk of commonplaces, and Mags returned his attention to Coot, to make sure the boy wasn’t getting himself, and them, into anything compromising. But he was troubled. He liked Tiercel; from the little he had seen of Tiercel’s father, he liked the older man. He, far more than Lord Jorthun, was well aware how extremely well Lord Mendeth treated his workers. He did not want to discover that the man was up to no good. He didn’t want to bring justice, in this case, should there be treachery involved. For surely such actions—deliberately sending off valuable stones, avoiding taxes on them, to purchase arms for a rebellion in another country—were treacherous, if not precisely treasonable. And for what reason would he be doing such a thing? Profit? Was he somehow getting untaxed income out of this?

  :He could be,: Dallen observed, sounding as if he felt just as troubled about this as Mags was. :It would be easy enough to hide any amount of money; the man has a mine, after all, and it would be child’s play to conceal a fortune in one of the played-out shafts.:

  Mags ground his teeth a little. :All right but what if money ain’t the thing? What if it’s somethin’ else?:

  :I can all too easily think of what the “something else” might be, Mags. Tiercel’s father has six sons and not all of them can inherit the mine. The other mine owners are in a similar case. What is the first thing that a conquering monarch does when he ascends the throne?:

  Mags was at a loss for that one. :Dunno. Collegium history didn’ treat with that.:

  :He generally impoverishes his enemies and rewards his followers, usually with land and titles. I would imagine that any of the young men in this town would be very happy to discover that their father’s shrewd backing of the rebellious cousin had resulted in titles and property being awarded to them.:

  Mags blinked at that. Yes, he could see that. As he could readily see how convenient it would be for a father to ship off a restless and sometimes troublesome son to the south, there to sink or swim.

  :I can all too easily think of a number of other things to be gained here. Trade concessions. Access to things they do not now have access to—or outright gifts of mining grants. We’ve always heard that the hill-country between Valdemar and Menmellith and Rethwellan is all but useless, but what if it isn’t? What if there’s something valuable under those hills? That could be what these mine-owners want.:

  Mags didn’t want to hear this, but he knew that he had to, and consider it in his dealings with them.

  :This ain’t makin’ me happy, horse,: he growled mentally.

  :It’s not making me happy either,: Dallen agreed. :But I think you have full reason to do more than a little snooping in surface thoughts now. I think that you need to dig deeper.:

  :Aye, dammitall. Specially since I don’t want to.:

  • • •

  Lady Keira was as good as her promise. Before the afternoon was over, she had teased an invitation out of Tiercel for an afternoon, followed by dinner, with his family. “No more ridiculous tours of the mine and works this time,” he said firmly. “We have quite nice gardens that my mother is very proud of, and would love to show off to you.”

  Keira laughed, and accepted. And since it was all four of them going, Harras readied the carriage, and they went in that, rather than by horseback. This meant that they could stay until after dark, and the lanterns on the carriage would give the horses enough light to get them home.

  Which, of course, gave Mags a place to put gear he might possibly need for his “snooping.” Chief of which was a suit of all-black clothing, which covered him from head to toe. Not the sort of thing that was easy to conceal in a saddlebag. Not to mention that it would have been a bit foolish to try and ride horseback after dark. Horses broke legs that way—unless there was a full moon to see by. But tonight was nearly moon-dark, which was exactly how Mags wanted it. If he couldn’t get anything by merely asking some gently leading questions, there was something else he could do. Once he left Coot to tell tales in the kitchen and claimed he was going for a walk, he could don his black clothing and do some snooping.

  This time, since they were not making any effort at speed, the ride was actually comfortable. Mebbe we can take our time goin’ home, he thought, without any real hope that it would happen . . . but then again, going home there would be no more need for this masquerade, and he could ride Dallen.

  But for now, the carriage was pulling up to the Rolmer Great House, and it was time to play his part.

  • • •

  The village had been given a couple of wild boar to roast, and enough beer to satisfy everyone, which was, on the whole, quite a lot of beer. Several barrels, in fact. Wild boar were the only animals that were fair game even in the spring; fierce and highly dangerous, they were more pests than game, bred outrageously, and had almost no enemies except humans. Even bears and wolves would think twice before tackling a wild boar. So earlier, in the early morning, in fact, in anticipation of this visit, the Rolmers had formed a strong boar-hunting party and had bagged three boar, a sow, and all the sow’s piglets. This might have seemed unfair, but it was more unfair to leave the piglets to starve. There was suckling pig enough for the dinner guests, the house staff got the sow, and the village got the boars, one of which looked to be nearly the size of a small pony. All the adult animals had been roasting since they were brought in, and the smell of succulent pork drifted over the village.

  The mood in the village was festive, and enough beer was circulating to make everyone loose-tongued. Mags asked his leading questions . . . and got nowhere. Frustrating. Intensely frustrating. But he didn’t show his frustration, he simply bided his time until darkness fell, put on his black suit, and did what he did best—slipping around and listening in places he was not supposed to be.

  But he learned nothing. Or rather, nothing having to do with the situation at hand. He did learn rather too much about who was trysting with whom. And much too much about whose wives were where they shouldn’t be. He quickly learned that people have trysts in the most uncomfortable of places. . . .

  He was lingering outside the window to a study he assumed belonged to the elder Rolmer, thinking about slipping inside and seeing if there were any ledgers or record books he could examine. He was about to do just that, when the door opened, and Master Rolmer entered, followed by Lord Jorthun.

  Quickly he ducked back below the windowsill. He considered leaving, but then it occurred to him that Lord Jorthun was about to ask some leading questions himself, and if things somehow got out of hand—if Master Rolmer realized where the line of questioning was going, for instance—he might be needed to create a distraction. So he stayed.

  “We’ll let the young people frolic,” Rolmer was saying. “I don’t know about you, but after that boar hunt, my bruises are a little too tender for dancing.”

  “I can’t claim the boar hunt, but I can certainly claim years,” said Jorthun. “More of them than I care to admit to.” He chuckled. He sounded relaxed, exactly as a highborn gentleman of his ilk should sound after a good dinner and good wine.

  Mags made himself comfortable—after years of making himself comfortable on rooftops, it was easy to do so huddled up against the side of a building on nice soft grass on a lovely spring evening. He made himself exactly the right sort of irregular, not man-like shape that could be a shadow, although with next to no moon, it was unlikely that anyone would spot him. It was too early for many insects—which made things even easier. />
  Master Rolmer sounded very relaxed, and just a little tipsy. That edge where one says injudicious things . . . and Mags had a good idea that Lord Jorthun had been the one to get him there. It would have been hard to refuse such a high-ranking guest, one who at the same time was very democratic in his ways, when said guest urged “another toast” on his host. There were any number of ways in which you could appear to be drinking the same amount as the other fellow, yet not get tipsy. Some of them even allowed you to actually drink that much.

  “I have a lovely little bottle of spirits of wine here that will be just the thing to finish off the evening with,” Master Rolmer said, and then there came the sound of a bottle being uncorked, and the clink of glass against glass as he poured.

  Mags breathed slowly and easily, eyes half closed, all of his attention on the sounds and the surface thoughts. Surface thoughts of Master Rolmer, at least, who was thinking of nothing more than how gracious his guest was, and how completely without the airs that many of the highborn put on around him.

  “Now this is a real treasure,” said Jorthun, after some silence that Mags knew from Jorthun’s surface thoughts was appreciative. In fact, Lord Jorthun was a little surprised that Master Rolmer had a bottle of something this good in his possession. It was causing him to raise his estimation of Tiercel’s father a little higher, and Lord Jorthun already thought highly of the man. “It makes me wonder what other treasures you have hidden here.”

  “Oh well, as to that—” Master Rolmer laughed. “I’d be happy to show you, milord. Not everything that comes out of our mines leaves this property.” Aye. He’s a bit tipsy, all right. “You know that we don’t have to declare what comes out of the mine until it goes to the Assessors and Gemcutters, correct?”