Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Read online

  “No, you little idiot, you could not tell. You did not suddenly become Gifted. In fact, I can tell you for a fact that you have never been more wrong about something in your entire life. Because you didn’t even bother to find out who he was before you sent that damned letter. Brand, son of Lord Kaltar, of House Raeylen.” Dia folded her arms over her chest and glared as the tears practically froze on Violetta’s cheeks.

  Her mind nearly exploded. She felt dizzy. She wanted to die, right there, on the spot. “Oh no—”

  “Oh yes,” said Dia. “And it must be true that the gods look after the foolish and the idiotic, because it is purely a matter of sheer accident that Brand was more than a little drunk when he read your letter, and he threw it in the fire. A friend of mine happened to be there at the time, and Brand told him about it, briefly, before staggering up to bed.”

  “He threw it in the fire?” she faltered. Surely her heart was going to break . . . all her heartfelt words, and he threw them in the fire. . . .

  And then, her head caught up with her heart, and she quailed inside. Lady Dia was right! She was a fool! How could she even be thinking that, now that she knew who he was . . . and what he could do to her . . .

  “You are also mortally lucky that I have discussed you girls with my friend, and he knows all about you,” said Dia, sternly. “He is a dear young man, and he feels very sorry for you, and felt he had to protect you. If Brand even remembers reading it, my friend is going to convince him it was some other girl—one who doesn’t actually exist.”

  Before Violetta could feel any relief at all, Lady Dia took both her shoulders in her hands, and shook her, hard. “Now you listen to me, you little fool. Your idiocy came within a hair of destroying your whole family. Because Lord Kaltar would certainly have used that letter to ruin you, your father would certainly have challenged him, and depending on whether or not the King managed to get things in hand, your father and Lord Kaltar would certainly have dueled, or their champions would, and no matter what else happened, your actions would have completely disgraced your family, stirred up the feud again, and there would be someone’s blood on your hands! The King would have had to act, and very probably he would have confiscated both estates, leaving both families too impoverished to continue this quarrel.”

  By this point, Violetta was so overcome with horror that she couldn’t even speak. Dia glared at her in silence for a good long time before nodding. “Now. What are you going to do about this? I strongly suggest the first thing is to spend a substantial amount of time this evening thanking those gods that kept your foolishness in check.”

  The tears began anew, and Violetta bowed her head. “Yes, Lady Dia,” she whispered. Any tipsiness the brandy had given her had burned away, and all she felt now was a roil of emotions, all of them terrible. Misery, mostly. Along with guilt, terror, heartbreak, and grief. To think that she had fallen in love with . . . the son of her father’s worst enemy! Oh, the bitter pain of it! He could not be more unattainable if he lived on the moon! Only the fact that he had been drunk had kept disaster from befalling all of them.

  “Are you going to tell Mother and Father?” she gulped, still not looking up.

  She nearly fainted with relief when Dia said, “No. It will serve no purpose except to upset them, and they do not deserve that. For all I know, your father might choose to do something foolish anyway, using you as his excuse.” She shook her head. “Even if he did not, they would certainly lock you away as mad. My friend is the soul of discretion and has been entrusted with more weighty secrets than you have years. He’ll keep this one for you; he told me he feels sorry for you, the gods only know why. I suppose because you are young, pretty, and innocent.” She sniffed. “You certainly don’t deserve such considerate treatment after the improper way you have behaved. I am certainly not going to go out of my way to try and find you a good husband now, and I strongly advise that you stay quiet and unobtrusive for the rest of your visit here. And if you have even a morsel of decency about you, you will avoid young Brand like the enemy he is. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Lady Dia,” Violetta whispered, now thoroughly chastised.

  “Good.” Lady Dia stood up, walked to the door, with every thumb-length of her rigid with disapproval, and put one hand on the door-handle. “I’m bitterly disappointed in you, Violetta. I thought after the good care you were giving my little dog that you were a sensible, careful, thoughtful and capable young lady. I am very sorry to discover that I was wrong.”

  And with that, she left. Violetta could only blow out her candle and collapse into a puddle of pure misery among her bedclothes.

  —

  There was a knock at the outer door to Amily’s rooms—the one that led out into the snow-covered gardens, not the one that led into Healers Collegium. She knew who it was; Dia had promised to come straight here after having “a little talk” with Violetta.

  Dia was moderately—but only moderately—annoyed that she had missed one of Soren’s Open House nights to deliver the lecture. Unfortunately, because she was serving as escort to the three girls, she was going to miss all the rest, but Soren was making it up to her by including her and her husband in his Midwinter Night gathering. She was, however, just as furious as she had sounded at Violetta’s behavior.

  Amily understood that, objectively, but part of her felt a great deal of sympathy for the poor girl. After all, she’d evidently been raised in a very protective environment but given the freedom to read and dwell on whatever romantic nonsense she could get her hands on.

  “That was more than a bit strong, Dia,” was Amily’s greeting to her friend as she let Dia in. She’d been “listening in” on Dia’s lecture to Violetta through the dog, of course. Dia shrugged, and took off her cloak, handing it to Amily. Together they made their way through the warm and green-smelling darkness of the hothouses and into the living area proper.

  Mags was waiting for them. He’d built up the fire, arranged the most comfortable of their seats at it, and had gone and begged some pocket pies at the kitchen. They had both reckoned that Dia would need the refreshment. The little sitting room looked particularly inviting and restful.

  “I wanted it strong,” Dia said, a touch of iron in her voice. “That girl is . . . not spoiled, precisely, but she’s been indulged. She needed a good shaking up, or she most certainly will get herself into some trouble, and possibly, some harm. There are plenty of young wastrels in the Court who would happily have taken advantage of her and discarded her afterward.”

  “Yes but . . .” Amily paused, groping through her thoughts. “Getting married shouldn’t be a girl’s only option! I know that the Guard is open to women—for all we know she is a good enough scholar she could be a teacher or—”

  But Dia interrupted her. “Don’t be absurd. She’s nothing like suited for the Guard, as you well know. As for anything else, well perhaps that might come into play if we hadn’t managed to save her from her own folly, but we did. She is still the daughter of Lord Leverance. She’ll do what she is told to do, or face being cast out . . . and face it, unless you or I or the King takes an interest in her, and helps her build a new life, she is woefully unequipped to fend for herself. Marriage is the only option Violetta’s parents are going to give her,” Dia pointed out, settling herself at the fire, and removing the over-shoes that had kept her dainty embroidered slippers from the snow. “Really, she isn’t even aware there are other options, and having been around her for many days now, I don’t think she would consider the other options as anything other than ranging from unpleasant to outright horrifying.”

  “Girl’s in love with love,” Mags observed, coming in from the tiny room that served them as a pantry with a bottle of wine and three glasses. “Leastwise, thet’s what it sounds like t’me.” He handed glasses to Amily and Dia, and poured wine for all three of them. “Mind, I ain’t got no experience about girls like that, not direct, b
ut reckon there might be a couple in the Court. They ain’t naïve ’nuff to go writin’ letters like Violetta did, but I hear tell there’s an artist or two does a brisk trade in liddle tiny portraits that kin be hid easy . . .” He shrugged.

  Amily made a face, and passed the plate of pocket-pies to Dia, who took one of the savory ones. “You’re probably right,” she agreed. “I’ve seen enough like her here at Court. You’re right, Mags, there are no few young ladies who moon and sigh over portraits they have no right to possess.” She had to laugh a little. “In fact, some of them have portraits of musicians and actors and moon and sigh over them! Fortunately for us all, they have the sense to confine their obsession to mooning and sighing.”

  Dia rolled her eyes. “Good spirits and ministers of grace, defend us. I suppose I should be thankful she didn’t fall in love with one of them. I very much doubt that things would have turned out the way they did. In fact, I would be shuddering with horror at the thought if that foolish child hadn’t already exhausted all my emotions for one night.”

  Amily shrugged. “Well, she’s had a good fright, and thanks to you and Mags, no harm has come from it.”

  Mags gave them both a self-satisfied grin; Amily thought that he looked very pleased with himself. “I was savin’ my best news till Dia got here. Had m’talk with Brand afore he left for a party. Managed t’convince Brand thet if’n ’e said anythin’, what with the letter bein’ gone, ’is pa would likely be mad as hops over him bein’ played fer a fool, an’ he better not say anythin’ at all if he don’t wanta get in trouble.”

  Amily tilted her head to the side. “I don’t follow,” she said doubtfully.

  “Neither do I,” Dia confirmed, and held out her glass for a refill. “Enlighten us, Mags. Speak at length, and eloquently. I really want to understand what you did. This sounds clever.”

  “I ast him . . .” Mags cleared his throat, and took on the cultured accents of “Magnus.”

  “‘How likely is it that any girl of good breeding would write a letter like that to a stranger? Really, Brand, I think you are being played here.’ An’ he had t’agree that it weren’t likely it come from Violetta.” He tilted his glass at Dia and waited for her—and Amily—to make the proper conclusions.

  Amily did first—and waited for Dia to figure it out. It didn’t take long. “Oh!” Dia exclaimed, and laughed. “Of course! It would be someone trying to lure him into making a fool of himself. No matter how he responded to it—if he even made it public among his friends—if he did anything other than ignore the thing, he’d open himself to ridicule. Whoever had ‘forged’ that letter would make it all public, and he would look like an idiot for falling for such a ridiculous ruse!”

  “And ain’t no feller Brand’s age takes t’bein’ made t’look foolish.” Mags nodded. “Talked it over with yer pa, Amily, an’ he reckoned ’twas a good approach, an’ it worked. Letter’s gone, King burned it, so there’s nothin’ fer nobody t’find now. Even if ’e decides t’tell his pa anyway, it’d on’y be Brand’s word, he ain’t got no proof. An’ thanks t’Dia, the girl’s gonna keep shut of him, so he’s got no way t’get to her.”

  “That we know of,” Dia cautioned, but sipped her wine and relaxed. “I like the girl. I just wish she had . . . I don’t know . . . more sense and less sensitivity. At least she’s not as hardened as her sisters. They are unbelievably cynical about this matter of husband hunting.”

  “They don’t have any reason not to be,” Amily pointed out. “They evidently don’t know of—or don’t care for—any of the other options that a woman has for herself either. All three of those girls have been raised to believe that the only thing that they can do is make a good marriage. And by a ‘good marriage,’ I mean one that brings them rank, wealth, or both. That would make anyone with intelligence cynical, and I will say, none of these girls are stupid. Not even Violetta.”

  Dia shrugged; well, after all, she’d spent her entire life in the Court, and Lord Leverance’s daughters were by far and away not the only ones to be plotting the same course for their lives. She reiterated what Amily already knew. “They know they are commodities; everything they have been taught tells them that. When that’s what you are taught by people you have no reason to distrust, you believe it the way you believe in your religion. You can’t blame them for being interested in making sure the deal they get gives them the most advantages, and the most privileges.”

  “That might be true for the two oldest—but you know yourself Violetta is not hardened, nor cynical.” Amily gave her friend a long and level look. “And maybe her parents had no reason to ever educate her in the fact that marriage is not the only thing a woman can do, but she’s here now, and she’s not stupid, and I think she ought to at least get some idea of what else is possible. Maybe that will catch her imagination and get her thinking about what she can be, rather than what’s in the pages of those romances.”

  Dia eyed Amily, and sighed. “I know what you are thinking at me, you remorseless wench. I’ll try and drop some hints in the girl’s flower-like ear that she has other options, what they are, and how she might wheedle her parents around to them. But don’t blame me if she doesn’t listen. Mags was right, she’s in love with love, and there isn’t much that is going to convince her that happiness lies in any other direction than the arms of a handsome man.”

  “Now,” Amily appended.

  Dia snorted. “In my opinion—ever.”

  10

  Mags was happy to get away from the Court whenever he could, tending to his little crop of budding spies. He was altogether pleased with them; the three who’d been dubious had weeded themselves out, by violating one or another of the rules. His band of faithful had recruited more like themselves. Now he had a solid little group, and it was time for the next step. Nikolas concurred. “And it is appropriate,” he’d said. “New year . . . new life.”

  He’d already revealed who and what he was to Aunty Minda. He had figured that she would take it well, but he hadn’t expected her full reaction, which had been both amusing and embarrassing. She hadn’t been afraid of him or what he represented—why should she have been, when she had never broken the law in all of her life?—but she had very nearly treated him like some form of royalty, bowing and making her children kneel, until he’d told her in no uncertain terms that if she kept doing that, he’d have to get down on his own knees just to speak to her.

  Then he’d done it.

  That had made her laugh, and they had a good long talk that went on for well over a candlemark. He already knew much about her sad life; it had been one long struggle until now, never getting ahead, never managing to do more than stay one step away from homelessness and starvation. Until that moment, however, he had never known how much she idolized Heralds—and for no good reason as far as he could tell, since until he’d come along, no Herald had ever done anything for her.

  He’d told her what he wanted and needed from his little gang—how he planned to take care of them, and how he planned they could work for him. And as he had hoped, she had some ideas.

  Now it was time to tell the gang of—children, not boys, since he’d discovered to his surprise there were two girls in disguise among them. He’d advised the girls to stay in disguise; they were more likely to get messenger jobs that way, and less likely to have to be on guard against someone trying to abuse them.

  He came in as they were eating dinner, locking the door behind himself just in case one or more of them took fright and tried to bolt, wrapped up in his usual faded cloak. The former shop had a home-like scent to it, of good food, strong soap, and drying laundry. There was a faint hum of conversation, but not much. Children who had been starved took their food very seriously, and seldom mixed talking and eating. He was pleased to see how they had progressed in the time he’d had them here. They no longer looked like they were starving, and they no longer ate like it, either. They were seated
on their bedrolls, quietly and steadily spooning up another of Aunty Minda’s tasty stews, with thick slices of buttered bread to sop up the gravy, and heavy mugs of some herbal tea. They gave him nods and waves of greeting when he came in, but by now they knew that he, too, considered eating to be serious business, and they should take care of it so long as they remained respectful.

  He cleared his throat, though, and instantly got their attention. “I got somethin’ t’tell ye,” he said, gravely. “Fust of all, ye need t’know, all this time I been testin’ all of ye.”

  Wary looks met this pronouncement. He didn’t blame them for being wary. None of them were stupid, and all of them must be thinking testing us for what? They would have been hard-put to guess, since they already knew he had no intentions of making them steal again.

  “I still want ye as messengers,” he said, “An’ I still want ye gettin’ me whatever ye kin hear or find out ’bout. But ye need t’know why I want ye t’do that. So—this’s why.”

  He opened his cloak, untied it at the neck and dropped it to the floor, standing there in his Whites.

  Twenty-one pairs—he had nearly doubled his “gang”—of the biggest, roundest eyes he had ever seen in his life stared at him in utter astonishment. Twenty-one spoons clattered into twenty-one bowls. Twenty-one mouths dropped open.

  Utter silence fell, and he wondered if they were just going to sit there until he said something else. Then, after a very, very long time, one voice timidly squeaked, “Do th’Weasel know ’bout this?”

  He grinned. Trust the girl to think of that. The Weasel scared her half to death, and fascinated her at the same time. “Who d’ye think was my Herald-teacher?” he said to little Mai.

  It took them a while to get over their shock. He’d expected that, and just went and got a stool, sitting on it in the middle of the floor so he wasn’t looming over them anymore. “Now, I reckon if ye think on’t, ye’ll get why I need all of ye t’be eyes an’ ears all over town,” he said, gravely, as if they were all adults. Because, really, these children were not children at all, for exactly the same reason that he had never been a child. From the time they had been old enough to walk and talk, they’d been doing some form of work or another. And when they lost their parents—however that had happened—the only way they kept food in their mouths was by their own efforts. There was no “childhood” for younglings such as these. Only varying degrees of work.