Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

It appeared Jorthun did. “Just the thing! I expected to be back home in time to handle all the matters regarding my lands that my Chief Secretary cannot. I’m sending you to tell him as much and send him on to me. When you get to Haven, tell the King that, and ask Dia to send me Walther and Petras. And see if you can find someone that can be spared that used to play Rider position on the Kirball teams—not yours—tell him as little as you can, swear him to secrecy and send him back here with them. That way all our obligations are covered, and Keira and I can see if there is anything more here we can learn.”

  “I’ll start t’night,” Mags said immediately. “Ye can say ye sent me off first thing in th’mornin’ in early dawn, afore anyone in th’ inn was awake. Dallen kin be t’th’ inn afore you could blink.”

  “Not a good idea. Dallen might be seen. Even if he was not we’d have to explain what, exactly, you rode off on, since all our horses would be accounted for. You can set off tonight, but I’ll give you the riding horse I bought for myself. Leave it somewhere along the way, far enough that it won’t wander back here.” Jorthun waited to see if Mags was going to object.

  But Mags shook his head; it was a good thing Lord Jorthun was better at picking up all the little loose ends of a plan and weaving them back into the fabric than he was. He would just have gone on Dallen, leaving people to ask questions that should not be asked.

  Mags really didn’t want to be burdened by a horse that wouldn’t be able to move nearly as fast as Dallen, but there didn’t seem any choice if they were going to avoid arousing any suspicions. It wasn’t as if he would set off walking, after all, not when it was a week by carriage, and the errand was purportedly urgent enough that it couldn’t wait for Lord Jorthun himself to return home.

  So once they arrived at the inn, Jorthun made a play of “discovering” what the date was, and being exasperated with himself for losing track of time. There was a good bit of palaver with the innkeeper as to what was to be done, with Jorthun hinting that he was reluctant to leave now “because of my daughter,” with the hint that this had to do with all the mine owners’ sons flocking around. The innkeeper offered several options, including the loan of one of the inn horses, but all of these options required waiting until morning because Jorthun would not “risk another man’s horse on the road at night.” Finally, and after much lecturing of Mags about “taking care” and “not breaking a leg” it was decided Mags would take the newly purchased riding horse and Lord Jorthun would buy another. Since the last horse had been bought from the innkeeper’s brother-in-law, that made the innkeeper very happy indeed—happy enough that his suspicions evaporated like snow in the spring.

  And after all the play-acting was finally done, Mags found himself in the saddle of Jorthun’s horse, and off on the road. The innkeeper was shaking his head over the folly of riding at night—but his surface thoughts told Mags it’s his lordship’s horse and his lordship’s man, an’ if he wants to trust both of ’em in the dark, then it ain’t my place to tell him different.

  And there was the very deep satisfaction of knowing he’d be getting his share of the new horse Jorthun would buy, and that another of the inn servants would be on permanent duty to his lordship to replace Mags . . . something that would put even more coin in the innkeeper’s pocket.

  So off Mags went, the horse moving at a reluctant fast walk, and he doing his best to soothe the poor thing. He didn’t blame the horse in the least. The poor thing was picking up its feet unnaturally high, to avoid tripping over things it couldn’t see. He tried to soothe it, but he couldn’t overcome the poor thing’s natural instinct not to move at night.

  Both of them were nervous and sweating when they reached the Waystation where Dallen was waiting for him. The horse seemed pathetically happy to see “another of its kind” even though Dallen wasn’t anything of the sort, and even happier to see the rudimentary stable. Too bad the horse was not going to get a chance to settle down in it! “I wish I dared leave this nag ’ere,” he told Dallen as he dismounted and began removing the horse’s saddle to put on the Companion. “But the stupid brute’ll eat all th’ hay an’ grain at once, and founder an’ likely die.”

  :Very likely,: Dallen agreed. :Well, we won’t be able to make much speed, but I can keep him calmer and keep him from breaking a leg on the way, and at dawn we can turn him loose and I’ll meddle with him so he won’t be able to find his way back home.:

  “And some’un’ll git hisself a nice horse. That’ll do.” He transferred saddle-blanket and saddle to Dallen’s back, but left the bridle and reins on the horse. He could put tack on Dallen in full dark like this, easily, when he needed to, and the horse was close enough to Dallen’s size that it wouldn’t matter for a few days. But he didn’t need a bridle or reins to ride Dallen, and he’d need the reins on the horse to lead the beast.

  Or rather, for Dallen to lead the beast; Mags tied the reins to the back of the saddle, mounted up, and they were off.

  • • •

  Just at dawn, before the sun was up but the sky was a nice pale, pearly gray, Mags turned the horse loose within sight of a farm that Dallen assured him took good care of their animals. Just as Mags took the bridle off the horse, a pony whinnied in the distance, and the weary beast pricked up his ears and snorted. A second whinny and a slap on his rump convinced him that wherever that pony was, he wanted to be there too, and off across the fields he trotted. The hedges that bounded the fields were nothing he couldn’t easily jump, and he was so eager to find a stable and food and water that he lofted over them like a butterfly.

  Mags didn’t bother to wait to see that he got there. He was back in the saddle again in a trice, and they were off like a shot, this time at Dallen’s best ground-eating long-distance lope.

  The innkeeper had packed a saddlebag full of food, so Mags didn’t even have to stop at inns. And he didn’t. They stopped for water, for some mouthfuls of grass for Dallen and mouthfuls of pocket pie or bread and cheese that he didn’t even taste for Mags, and then they were off again.

  The journey that had taken nearly a week by coach was over in two nights and a day. It was grueling, but a Companion’s pace was so smooth that Mags could literally sleep in the saddle, and a Companion’s endurance was supernatural. Oh Dallen would pay for stretching his resources like this; he’d sleep for days, and eat like a fool pony with all the grain in the world in front of him, but that endurance was there, all the time, to be drawn on when the need was great enough. So Mags rode, and drowsed when the sun went down, snapping awake at intervals to make sure Dallen was still up to the pace, stopping twice so they could both drink at a stream or a village well.

  They stumbled in through the gates of the Palace at dawn on the morning of the second day. Already alerted by Amily, who had been kept up-to-date by Rolan, stablehands ran out to lead Dallen to food and his stall and get him out of the increasingly uncomfortable saddle.

  As for Mags, there were people waiting for him, too. Once he was out of the saddle, Amily and Prince Sedric led Mags off to the rooms he shared with Amily, where the artist who had worked with Bear in the process of rebreaking and re-Healing Amily’s leg was waiting for him, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. With the very last of his energy, Mags first set the image he had gotten of “General Thallan” into her mind, then hovered over the page with her, correcting her as she drew. When she was finished to both of their satisfaction, Sedric carried the drawing off to his father, she went with him to make more copies, and Mags literally fell into bed and slept until nightfall.

  • • •

  Mags came awake all at once, feeling very much as if he could sleep more, but it was hunger that had awakened him, and his stomach said forcefully and out loud that he had not eaten in too long. “I’ve food and lots of it,” came Amily’s voice out of the dark, and welcome it was, too. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I could’a slept th’ clock ’round. Ye git Lord Jorthun’s me
n off?” he asked. “An’ thenkee, ’cause yer a wonder. I don’ think I coulda stayed awake t’see to it m’self.”

  She stood up, silhouetted against the light of a small fire in the fireplace, and picked up a tray that had been on a table beside her. She brought it to him, and he sat up straight and began eating without any apology for poor manners. “Yes, Jorthun’s men are away with his orders as to what parts they are to play. They went on horseback, and one of them joked that it was about time His Lordship supplied him with a better wardrobe and Attlebury would be as good a place as any to get it. They did not go alone, for yesterday when you fell asleep and Lord Jorthun’s men were packing their gear, I realized that I already knew exactly who you needed for your Kirball replacement—you actually know him, Mags, he’s father’s man, Larek, one of the grooms in the King’s stable.”

  Mags snapped his fingers. “Aye, he’s perfect, but I didn’ know ’e was a Kirball player!”

  “While you were gone, when you’d been kidnapped, he joined the North team. He’s very good. I just told him that this was on father’s business, which it is, and that he was to tell Lord Jorthun or Keira, and no one else, that he works for father, and do what Lord Jorthun tells him to do.” She sounded very pleased, as well she should be. He put down his food for a moment and took her chin in his hand and kissed her thoroughly. He already knew why Nikolas had an informant in the stables; you needed one for the same reason you needed informants among the servants and the pages if you could get them. A stablehand knew when people took horses out of the stable, and when they got back, and if he was astute and trained by Nikolas, he would probably be able to make a good guess about where the horse went by what he found in its hooves. Having one of Nikolas’s men helping Jorthun was the best possible solution there could have been. He would obey without needing to know just what “the business” was about, and he would keep his curiosity in check for the duration.

  “An’ ’ere I was worryin’ ’bout ’ow ye’d manage, an’ ye managed better nor I could’a,” he said warmly. “I should’a knowed better.”

  “We are still very far from having anything that Aurebic can take to the Regency Council,” she warned him. “And the evidence you have is very flimsy stuff indeed. No matter how highly regarded Heralds are here, and how certain we are of what Mindspeech can do, I do not think that the delegation from Menmellith would accept what you allegedly pulled out of someone’s head. But at least now we have a direction, and there’s already a copy of the portrait on its way to father.”

  “An’ the delayin’ tactics?” he wanted to know.

  “Better than we could have dreamed. Last we knew, the party from Menmellith come to fetch the Ambassador back was caught in a torrential, two-day downpour. They couldn’t move from the inn where they took shelter, and when the storm cleared, the road was practically impassable, with several bridges washed out.” Amily shook her head as if she couldn’t believe the miracle. Mags scarcely believed it himself. “The King has decided that when they finally arrive, if there still isn’t enough evidence in our possession to satisfy them, he’s going to override anything they might say by pretending he thinks they are here for our wedding. They won’t be able to tell him no, and that will buy more time for father to see what he can find.”

  “So th’ weddin’s back on then?” Strange, how calm he felt about it, as if this was just some new festival or other, something in which there was a minor part for them to play, but which was centered around something else entirely.

  Well . . . it is. It isn’t about us, it’s about delaying tactics. The more we delay, the better off we are. Maybe if we delay long enough it will be so late in the growing season that even that idiot who started all this in the first place will think twice about trampling crops and starving people.

  :Dream on,: Dallen said, cynically.

  :Maybe the Regency Council will decide they had really rather not fight a battle on two fronts?:

  :Maybe,: Dallen agreed. :Assuming anyone on the Regency Council gives two hoots about the common folk. Or is a decent military strategist. Which is doubtful.:

  :Aren’t you just full of optimism today!:

  “Dia has it all in hand. She can mount it on a couple days’ notice, and we’ll have at least a week’s notice before they arrive.” She kissed him. “And of course, if it has to be postponed again, we don’t care.” Her soft laughter made him smile. “Though it is a most amazing gown. It’s going to become my Formal Whites. I have the feeling you will like yours just as much.”

  He had to smile at that. Of all the things he was likely to actually use. . . .

  “As if I’m likely t’need Formal Whites,” he scoffed. “Th’ on’y time I’m likely t’be at Court’s disguised as a servant. Or, jest mebbe, as our ol’ frien’ Magnus. An’ he ain’t likely t’be wearin’ Whites!”

  She smiled mysteriously, as if she knew a secret she wasn’t telling him. “Well, you’ll like them all the same. They’ll make you look like the amazing, handsome fellow you are, and not the ruffian Harkon or the ne’er-do-well Magnus.” She held her hand against the side of his face, and he turned it and kissed her palm.

  Then yawned tremendously.

  And flushed with embarrassment. Here Amily was telling him all manner of romantical things, and he yawned at her. “Dammit, love, I didn’ mean t’do that!” he blurted, and yawned again.

  She laughed, reminding him of yet another reason why he adored her. “You’ve just ridden nonstop for almost two days,” she told him fondly. “I’ve just stuffed you with the first food you’ve had since the sun went down yesterday. Of course you want to go back to sleep. Do.”

  He didn’t wait for another invitation; he just laid himself back down again and rolled over on his side. The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was Amily slipping into bed behind him and curling up against his back.

  • • •

  And that was the last good rest he had.

  The Menmellithians, so the Heralds shadowing them reported, were unbelievably determined to get to the Capitol. Where the bridges were out, they hired boats to take them and their horses across, even going to the extent of blindfolding the beasts and making them lie down in vessels barely big enough to hold them and a rider, and being rowed across, one at a time. Where the roads were blocked, they either detoured around, or rolled up their sleeves and joined the road-clearers, without regard for rank or position. They were on the way, and since as yet there was no response at all from Nikolas, King Kyril had launched his last defense, the wedding.

  Making good use of the idea that had served her well before, Dia was setting it in a giant tent in the case of inclement weather, or on the Palace grounds in the case of good weather. She had ruthlessly dragooned help from every source that could be flattered, bribed or browbeaten into giving it. And she had timed it all so exquisitely that the little festival being held the day before the wedding proper would be starting just as the Menmellithians arrived at the gate. No matter what they believed, they would see a Valdemar that was in no way preparing for a war. And no matter what they wanted to do, they could not make a declaration of war. They were not empowered to do that—and in any land but Valdemar, they’d have probably lost their lives if they had. Their only function was to get Aurebic and bring him home, so the Regency Council could declare war without having their Ambassador become a hostage.

  If they actually could make a declaration of war, now that Amily had talked the Rethwellan Ambassador, and thus the government of Rethwellan, quite out of cooperating with them. Of course, they wouldn’t know that. They had left Menmellith long before the Ambassador of Rethwellan arrived home.

  Mags was so proud of her for pulling that feat off that he hadn’t bothered restraining himself when she’d told him about it. He’d picked her up and twirled her around until they both were dizzy.

  At the worst, she’d bought them more time, a
nd they wouldn’t have to fight on two fronts. At the best . . . the Regency Council might rethink their plan, and give the Heralds more time to actually find whoever was behind this.

  Of course, staging this wedding on such short notice meant that everyone recruited by Dia for this pageant—and it was going to be a pageant, rivaled only by Sedric and Lydia’s wedding—was working nonstop, from morning till night on it. And meanwhile the business of Valdemar could not come to a screeching halt, so Amily and Mags were beginning to feel as if they each needed to be three people at once.

  The gathering of information on everything other than their current crisis was nothing that could be put off. First, there was no telling when some crumb someone dropped would lead them straight to “General Thallan.” And second, information, Mags had learned, was like bread. It was of very little use when it had begun to grow stale, and when it grew mold, no one wanted it at all.

  He had made the rounds of his planted pages and had gathered nothing of any great use, so now he was Harkon again—the Harkon of the streets. And already today he’d gotten hints of a possible alliance between two gangs of thieves that would have unpleasant consequences if it went through, the identity and location of a fellow who was selling a dangerous intoxicating herbal concoction at prices that made it cheaper than beer, the identity of a very wealthy merchant who actually had a home up on the Hill who had made an exceedingly poor choice of mistresses, and the final piece of information that told him exactly who the new spy for Hardorn was.

  Now, the latter was actually not much of a worry for him at the moment. Valdemar had been in a peaceful concord with Hardorn for a very long time indeed. Centuries. Nevertheless, every country generally kept informants in every other country bordering it, for the simplest of reasons; you couldn’t always trust your allies to tell you the truth. But it was a very, very good idea to know who those informants were. The last one had left just before Nikolas had nearly died, and Amily became King’s Own. Nikolas had not had the strength then, and later the time, to find out who the new one was. He’d left that up to Mags.