Closer to the Chest

by Mercedes Lackey

  If he had been the same stolid character he was pretending to be, waiting wouldn’t bother him, so he didn’t let a bit of impatience show. Someone like Pakler would be used to waiting on other people’s leisure. In fact, that was half of what poor people did, when it came right down to it; if you had no steady job, you did a lot of waiting.

  Eventually a new Novice came in, and took the other stone seat. This was a tall, thin, blond one, with the same hard—say it, fanatical—eyes as all the rest. “Well, Pakler, are you still prepared to serve the God in whatever capacity he calls you to?” the robed man asked.

  “Aye, sor.” Mags bobbed his head earnestly. To Pakler, who was at the very bottom of the social scale, everyone was “sir.” And he would bow and scrape to whoever had marginally better clothing, just in case.

  “Are you prepared to take your instructions by Mindspeech?” The Novice raised an eyebrow. Mags did not have to conceal his shock. Thank goodness. Because this was a real shock and not at all anything he had expected. Mindspeech? They’ve got Mindspeech too? Never had he heard of anyone but a Herald with Mindspeech.

  Then the impact of that shook him, and he clamped a shield down hastily around his inner thoughts. Oh, it was a damn good thing that Dallen had drilled him in every sort of thing that Mindspeech could do, because if he had to hide his identity from another Mindspeaker this could get . . . interesting.

  He let careful things leak. Slow, methodical thoughts. Puzzlement. That should be the chief one. A little fear, because someone like Pakler was a little afraid of anything new.

  “Mindspeech?” he said, sounding like a man who was sorely puzzled, and letting more fuzzy impressions of puzzlement and worry drift over the top of his mental shield. “That be like them Heralds, with talkin’ in yer head, belike? But I thunk—on’y Heralds could do thet.”

  The Novice smiled. Is he a Mindspeaker? No . . . no, Or I’d already be beaten within an inch of my life. Or, more likely, beaten to death. Would they dare to kill a Herald? They might. It was a big step from killing a dog to killing a man, but on the other hand, if they knew he was a Herald, that might send them over the edge enough to do just that. “The God gives us many powers, Brother Pakler. The ability to guide you on a task from afar is one of them.”

  “Huh. I’ll be.” He scratched his head, which he had not combed when he got up this morning, so he would look tousled and untidy, and less like Herald Mags. Well, this is not good. He doesn’t know that I have Mindspeech and could hear him if I chose, so this other Mindspeaker is powerful enough to talk to people that don’t have Gifts themselves. I thought I was the only one around that could do that!

  And that left him with another problem. Now he didn’t dare use Mindspeech himself, lest this other Mindspeaker pick it up. He wasn’t even certain he dared talk to Dallen directly . . . at least not while he was in the Temple. And not while there were so few other minds around his. He’d have to be somewhere very crowded to try it, and he had the distinct impression that “in a crowd” was the last place his “brothers” would let him be right now.

  “So since you have no objection, Brother,” the Novice continued, smoothly. “We will move on to the next phase of your testing.”

  Mags allowed himself to look a bit alarmed. “I ain’t gonna lose m’place here am I?” he asked anxiously. “Iffen I cain’t hear this stuff? I wanta serve Sethor, I wanta stay—I did all right last night, t’other Novice said so!”

  The Novice smiled soothingly. “Don’t you worry about that, Brother Pakler. We do not direct every Soldier of Sethor with Mindspeech. Just the most special ones. We are sure you will be one of the special ones.”

  Which means either that they know I’m Gifted, which is a big damn problem, or their Mindspeaker is as strong as me. Or maybe not. Mags could Mindspeak to literally anyone. But this Novice had implied that their Mindspeaker could only talk to some of the unGifted. So maybe he wasn’t quite as good as Mags.

  Don’t count on it, and don’t get cocky.

  “For now, we would like you to rest. You will be performing your task by night, as you did last night. If you wake and are hungry, you may go straight to the kitchen and help yourself. I will show you where it is. You already know where the privies are, yes?” The Novice seemed utterly oblivious to the roil of anxiety and racing thoughts under his shield. And surely if the Mindspeaker had detected all of this, he’d have informed the Novice. I might still get away with this.

  “Aye, sor,” Mags said humbly. Then he smiled shyly. “Don’ mind sleepin’ th’ day. On’y time I ever bin let t’do thet was when I bain’t got work. An’ then, a empty belly don’t make fer good sleepin’.”

  “I can imagine,” the Novice replied carelessly, and Mags got the distinct impression this fellow had never known a hungry day in his life. Highborn? Maybe. Definitely better than a farmhand or a craftsman’s helper. “All right, let me show you the kitchen. We’ll be serving you better food than we dole out in the Fellowship Hall, as I am sure you learned this morning.”

  “Aye sor,” Mags repeated, this time sounding eager, as would any man who’d lived lean for a very long time, when told he was about to be able to enjoy all he could eat. There seemed to be two sorts of men here; the ones like Mags, the common working man—or just as common thug and layabout—and the ones like these, who came from a slightly better, or significantly better background. And the latter treated the former like . . . children to be indulged as long as they were good little children who did exactly as they were told.

  He followed the Novice to the kitchen, which was just off the smaller hall where he and the others had eaten this morning. It was enormous, scrupulously clean, and warmer than the rest of the building. To his surprise there were women here.

  Women who kept their heads down, didn’t speak, and scuttled around like frightened mice. Mags restrained the impulse to say something. Here, it was clear, the principles of Sethor the Patriarch were put into practice . . . and when one of the women raised her head for a moment and he saw her bruised face, it was painfully clear just how Sethor’s discipline was enforced.

  They didn’t look starved, and they were well-clothed, a little too well, actually, and identically, in shifts that were tied tightly around their necks, with sleeves that ended at their wrists, skirts that went all the way down to the floor, and aprons over it all. If this kitchen hadn’t been in the cool of this stone building, they’d have been suffocating. As it was there was enough heat from the fireplaces and the ovens built into them to make them all sweat enough that their hair sent out little damp straggles and curls from under the kerchiefs they all wore.

  The Novice smiled smugly. “Whatever you need to eat, you may take from here if it is not a mealtime,” he said. “And . . . if you pass this second test, you may take whatever you want from this room.” His nod as Mags looked from him, to one of the women, and back again, made it quite clear he meant the women workers. And to drive that home, he added, “Just do not leave the female incapable of her duties afterward. Otherwise you may do with her as you wish. That is the privilege of the Soldiers of Sethor.”

  Mags had never wanted to strangle anyone so much in his life, but he managed to grin—it probably looked a bit feral, which was all for the best—and say “Aye, sor!” And if that came out a bit fierce, well . . . a man who had been without a woman for quite some time might well sound fierce when told he could have one.

  Told I can have one . . . as if they’re pocket pies to be passed around and eaten by anyone, and not people! But it was quite clear that to the Novice, while these poor things might be intrinsically more valuable than a pocket pie, they were accounted to have no more free will than one.

  The Novice left him, and he resisted the urge to grab these women and herd them out the door to freedom. It was a very powerful urge, but it would probably terrify them, and would end up exposing him for what he was. So he didn’t. Instead he w
ent back to his room like a good little Soldier of Sethor, and laid himself down on the bed as he had been instructed to do.

  At least he was able to take better measure of his quarters; stone all around, no signs that the walls had ever been decorated; weak sunlight came through the slit near the ceiling, showing him that the outside wall here must be as thick as his forearm and hand.

  He stared at it for a moment; he had thought of escaping through that slit, but it was quite clear now that it was too narrow and the wall was too thick for anything of the sort. One of his littles in Aunty Minda’s gang might be able to, but not he.

  All right, then. I’ll have to see this through and take the hard way. He closed his eyes. He was going to have to do one of the most difficult mental tasks he had ever attempted. He was going to have to construct, quite literally, two minds. The first one, which would remain shielded, would be the real one. The second would have only the surface thoughts of the common sort of thuggish laborer he was supposed to be. The only time he’d ever tried anything like this, was when he’d tried to hold the kernel of “himself” intact through the barrage of drugs and memories that the Sleepgivers had put him through. He wished he had Dallen here, or dared to contact the Companion. This would have been a lot easier with Dallen’s help.

  On the whole he was very glad that he’d been given the day to “rest.” He was going to need the entire day to build his “overmind” and rest from the labor.

  First things first. The shield, which needed to look to a fellow Mindspeaker not like a shield at all, but like the murky bottom of a very stupid mind.

  • • •

  He emerged from his work at the ringing of a bell; there had been a similar bell rung this morning, when a Novice had come to take him to breakfast. Mindful that someone might be watching him, he stretched and got up slowly, as if he’d been sleeping.

  I ain’t goin’ into that kitchen, no matter how hungry I be. If he couldn’t rescue those poor women, then at least he wouldn’t terrify them by going in there and making them think he was about to drag one of them off and rape her. Let whoever was keeping an eye on him believe that he was being very careful about minding the rules. This was a mealtime, therefore, he would eat with everyone else.

  He kept his head down and appeared sleepy, and inhaled everything that he was offered. Mental work was hard, and he was ravenous.

  After he’d eaten, he went straight back to his bed, and resumed his work, making his mental shields as tough as he ever had in his life, and setting a few dull thoughts about food and nice beds and sleep and how the women deserved everything they got to coat the surface of those shields. By the time he was done, the bell was ringing for dinner.

  There were real windows in this room, and as he ate with the others, he watched the sun set and scarcely tasted what he’d been given. It wouldn’t be very much longer before his ruse was tested . . . and he honestly did not know what he would do if he was found out. Try to call for Dallen of course, and any other Herald he could reach, but, what if he was prevented? The Sethorites could kill him and get rid of the body and deny he’d ever been here and there was nothing to show that he had been. Or . . . even worse, with a Mindspeaker as powerful as he was among them, the Sethorites could do what the Sleepgivers had not been able to accomplish, and wipe out his mind. Then they could just turn him loose on the street, a drooling idiot, and deny that he’d been inside their walls. No matter what Dallen and Nikolas said, the Sethorites could claim immunity from Truth Spell, and he had no way of leaving any token that he had been here. Even his original clothing was gone. With a Farseer possibly watching his every move, he didn’t even dare scratch some identifying token in the stone of his cell.

  Such were the gloomy thoughts that occupied him when he went back to his room, and waited to be contacted. The room grew dim, then dark, and still there was nothing. Grimly, he kept up his shield and the slow, dim thoughts of “Pakler” on the other side of it, keeping himself busy by changing them from time to time, from food, to runs over the rooftops, to memories of destroying that herb shop, then back to food again.

  And finally, when he had begun to think he’d surely been detected for the fraud that he was . . .

  :Soldier Pakler.: The Mindvoice was . . . odd. Not like any Mindvoice he’d ever heard before. Flat, expressionless. :You will take your knife, but nothing else, go out into the hall, and turn right.:

  Obediently he did exactly that. From there he was directed to a small door that proved to be an entrance into a walled herb garden. He was told to climb the wall, using a ladder that was in a shed, and use the wall to get to the rooftops.

  From there, the strange, flat voice guided him. Twice he was told to hide, once behind a chimney, and once by hanging over the side of a steep roof. Both times, he had no sooner gotten out of sight than he heard the sounds of men in the street—didn’t dare try to get a glimpse of them to see who they were, but he suspected they were some of the augmented Watch patrols that the Prince had promised.

  While he waited, he dared an experiment. He let another, not entirely anomalous thought creep over the surface of his shields. The suggestion of another, better path to travel, one with surer footing and more hiding places.

  If the one Mindspeaking to him noticed the thought, he didn’t even acknowledge the fact.

  Finally, the voice directed him to drop down into a small yard in the back of another shop, and enter it. This was a small yard with some small, smelly vats of unidentifiable liquid in them, and he suspected they were dye. It was even easier to open this door than the last one; just pass his knife between the door and the frame and he could flick open the latch.

  He walked into the shop, which had a generous window in front—a glass window, which was unusual. He looked around, as the smell of good leather hit his nose. Then it was obvious why he’d been told to bring his knife.

  The shop belonged to someone who made small, fine leather objects; gloves, fancy belt-pouches, leather vests and bodices, cases for small, expensive objects, like fine tools, pens, or delicate instruments, all beautifully tooled or embellished. It broke his heart to do so, to see all that delicate work ruined, but he used his knife as the Mindvoice directed, and put defacing slashes through every single thing in the shop, no matter how small.

  But he worked slowly, feigning that his knife was duller than it actually was, hoping somehow to be able to save some of these things. And whenever possible, he slashed the backs, not the fronts; the backs might be mended, and the owner would have to discount the items for the repair, but at least she wouldn’t lose everything.

  But he had only been at this “work” a short time when the Mindvoice suddenly interrupted him. :Stop,: it said. :You must leave, now! Return to the Temple at once, as fast as you can.:

  Repressing his relief, he bolted out the back, clambered up the drainpipe to the roof, and ran for it.

  • • •

  The Mindvoice directed him to come in the front of the Temple—and the same Novice that had met him last night met him there tonight. “Well done, Pakler,” the Novice told him, slapping him on the back. “Sorry we had to interrupt you, but there was a special patrol of the Watch who had keys to every shop in that area. They were opening every door and checking inside before moving on.” The Novice frowned as he led Mags in. “Obviously the sluts went to whine at the King, and got him to order this. We’ll have to put a halt to our night-work for a while, at least in the better parts of town, and there aren’t any women owning shops elsewhere that we haven’t already dealt with.”

  “Does thet mean ye ain’t gonna need me?” Mags replied in feigned alarm, stopping right there in the hallway, and widening his eyes like a frightened horse.

  The Novice’s frown turned to a smile. “Not a bit of it. We’ll just put you to a different sort of work. Now that we know you can hear the Mindspeech, you’re being appointed as one of the Elite Sol
diers of Sethor.” He paused at the door to Mags’ room. “Is there anything you need tonight? Food? Drink? The kitchen women have gone to bed, but I can have one brought to you if you’re not particular.”

  Mags thought for a moment he was going to gag, but evidently neither the Novice nor any other watcher noticed. “No, sor. Uh, no, thet ain’t true. I’d admire me some wine.”

  “That’s easily done. I’ll have some brought to you.” The Novice left him at his door, and he went inside, leaving the door open so the light from the torches in the hallway shone inside.

  He’d taken off his boots by the time a boy turned up with an open bottle of wine, it looked about two-thirds empty, which suited him. “Novice Tarenton said ye was t’hev this, Sojer,” the boy said from the doorway. “What’d ye do tonight?”

  Mags held out his hand, and the boy came into the room, handing him the bottle. What would Pakler do? Boast. Definitely boast. “Well,” he said, inflating his chest as the boy stood there in the light from the door, looking at him, wide-eyed and worshipful. “Seems I got skills.”

  He spun a wild tale of running across rooftops, evading a dozen patrols of the Watch, utterly destroying the stock of a woman who was clearly some kind of witch, based on all the arcane symbols he saw carved and stitched into her goods. “Up to no good, she were,” he lied. “Bet she were puttin’ evil spells on poor fellahs t’make ’em do whut she wanted, like i’ th’ old, bad times. But Sethor done give me strenth! An’ when I left, there weren’t nothin’ i’ thet place could harm a flea.”

  The last, at least wasn’t a lie.

  “Cor!” breathed the boy. “I cain’t hardly wait till I’m a Sojer like you!”

  Mags reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Ye will be, soon ’nuff,” he said. “Now be off. An close door behind ye.”

  He really did feel in need of the wine—which was quite good. Not really excellent wine, but then, someone like Pakler wouldn’t know excellent wine if it stood up in the bottle and announced its quality to him. He drank it slowly, while he thought.