Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Read online

  Mags could clearly read exactly what she was thinking in her face, if not in her thoughts, and his brows creased. Then suddenly, he brightened.

  “I’ll hev one’f my boys watch ’im. Talbot, I mean. More’n one, I’ll hev a couple of ’em watch turn an’ turn about so there’s allus eyes on ’im. Reckon that’ll work t’ease yer mind?” he asked.

  She heaved a sigh of relief. “Yes. Yes it will,” she admitted. “Very much so. Of all of the young hotheads of House Chendlar, it is Talbot I fear the most. He is the natural leader of the lot, and truth to tell, I think if he were not so closely related to Lord Leverance’s girls, one of them would already be wed to him in order to keep the title and estate in the family.”

  Mags put down his empty plate and brushed some of her hair out of her eyes again. “’E seems t’be th’ one a lot’f the young bucks at Court are gettin’ behind too, an’ that’s worryin’,” he admitted. “Brand, now, I ain’t seen him gettin’ people riled up and takin’ sides like Talbot does.”

  “I can’t help but think that Brand is playing a very deep game, and there is a lot more to him than the randy young wastrel you’ve been trailing about,” Amily retorted. “I know you feel like you are wasting your time . . . but he worries me.”

  Mags took her now-empty plate from her hands and set it aside. “I allus listen when yer gut talks, love,” he reminded her. “I’ll keep on ’im, an’ keep sharp watch. Hev ye got a mornin’ meetin’ with Kyril?”

  She shook her head. “Not this morning. He has a breakfast with some of the Lords of Trade.”

  “Good,” he chuckled, and leaned in closer. “Then I got plans.”

  —

  Mags considered his entire “stable” as he made the walk down to Aunty Minda’s place. He wanted to consult with the lady herself before he made any actual selections of boys. Or girls, though that was less likely. He wanted to reserve the girls for places the boys couldn’t go.

  The good thing about the Midwinter Season was that there were messenger boys coming and going all the time, to and from every establishment on the Hill. Especially now. Betrothals were being announced, and those announcements were going out. Small “thank you” gifts were coming from people who had been invited to past parties. Larger betrothal and Midwinter gifts were being sent as well. And although Nikolas himself was pretty much confined to light duty on the King, and forbidden to leave the Palace without the express agreement of the Healers, he still had his finger on the pulse of everything going on at Court. All Mags had to do was supply the boys to watch Talbot; Nikolas could supply the reasons for their being at House Chendlar, if they were stopped and questioned.

  Mags was trying very hard not to be angry at this nonsense, because after all he had been through, it just all seemed so . . . petty. It definitely seemed, to him anyway, to be an extremely poor use of his time.

  :It is, it is, and this is what Nikolas does all the time,: Dallen reminded him. :Petty or not, poor use of your time or not, if this situation gets out of control, people will be hurt, and someone will almost certainly die.:

  :Someone dies all the time down in the bad parts of Haven,: Mags pointed out sourly. :But ye don’t see not one but three Heralds down here, babysittin’ feuds.:

  Dallen was silent for a long time. :It’s not fair,: he admitted. :It’s not fair this gets more attention than Jin Street or Pudding Lane. It really isn’t. When a rich man dies, all the world knows; when a poor man dies, more often than not he’s chucked into a common grave with five or six others and a fortnight later no one even remembers he lived and died. And we try to have equal justice for everyone but . . . we don’t. We just have to do the best we can to make it better.:

  Mags sighed, as he reached the front door of the converted shop. :Leastwise it’s good practice fer Amily. She ain’t gettin’ throwed inter the river just t’teach her t’swim.:

  He unlocked and opened the door, and closed it behind himself. Aunty Minda was surrounded by four of the children, all of them with bits of slate and chalk, laboriously writing out the words she told them. She had looked up at the sound of the door opening, but now she returned her attention to the children. Mags waited patiently. So far as he was concerned, interrupting their lesson was a sin he’d rather not commit.

  When the lesson was over, and she had given them a precious book to share, she got up and walked over to him, slowly, with a care for her aching knees. Too many years spent on hands and knees scrubbing other peoples’ floors had left her with joints swollen and painful in weather like this.

  But at least now that she was working with Mags, she was seeing a Healer now and again, and things were getting a little better. He tried not to think of all the other Aunty Mindas out there in the city, who could never see a Healer, and who could only continue to endure the pain.

  It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t fair. They needed more Healers, more Heralds . . .

  He stopped the yammering in his mind and concentrated on the job at hand. Because if those two feuding households really did let it all break out into the street, then the people that would be most hurt would be the innocents caught in the middle, who’d find themselves involved whether they knew anything about it or not. When a fight became a brawl, and a brawl became a riot, bad things always happened.

  He and Minda sat down together on a little bench, and Minda listened carefully as he explained what he had in mind. “You’ll want Ash, Sparrow and Detch,” she said, nodding her head with authority.

  “Ash and Detch, aye, I figgered them. Why Sparrow?” he asked. The two he’d already chosen in his mind were clever lads, could already read and write more than well enough to be given entire lists of people and get their deliveries right. So if Nikolas had to write instructions for them, they’d be fine. But Sparrow—

  “Sparrow is known to them up at the big houses,” Aunty Minda said, surprising him. “He’s already taking orders about from that lady that makes the fine soap over on Deel.” She chuckled a little. “Now he’s cleaned up, he’s a pretty little mite, and the ladies like to see him trottin’ about with his parcels. If ye kin git him somethin’ nice t’wear, ’e’ll look like ’e fits right in.”

  Well that satisfied that, then. He already knew where Ash and Detch were, and Auntie Minda might have read his mind when it came to Sparrow. “Sparrow’ll be here for nuncheon. I’ll hold him here till you get back from dealin’ with the other two.”

  Mags gave her a little two-fingered salute and headed off on the trot for the two inns where Detch and Ash were stationed. On the way he Mindspoke with Nikolas to let him know what was needed.

  The boys were waiting on their bench in the inn to take messages. And Mags was very glad he had planned for this day from the time he’d first decided to take over the Gripper’s gang. He crooked a finger at them from the door of the inn; obediently they got off their bench and followed him.

  “Got a special job fer you two,” he told them, as he led them toward one of the places where he kept his disguises—a hidden room in the stable of a very busy inn. Carefully he explained what they were to do, and that Herald Nikolas would be giving them further instructions. “So,” he concluded, opening the hidden door in the alley for them, “this’s why I got ye somethin’ you’ll look all right in up there.”

  He lit a candle and stuck it in the holder beside the door before closing it, giving them their first look at the place where he became “Harkon.”

  Costumes hung on a rack; there was a mirror, a stool, and a table filled with the paraphernalia to turn him from Herald Mags to anything from a blind beggar to a swaggering bravo. There were wigs, and little swatches of lighter colored hair he could insert into his own to give the overall impression it was lighter than it was. But the important thing now was that there were several outfits in several sizes, all of them matching buff-color, that looked like servants’ livery.

  Now
this was the good thing about all of the families up here on the Hill who were only here for the Midwinter Court. It was the next thing to impossible to remember the liveries of all their servants—and indeed, some didn’t actually have any livery; they just put their servants in tunics and trews and skirts in buff and black and gray, colors that wore well and did not show stains.

  So if these boys were bustling about in buff-colored outfits, people would assume they were someone’s page-boys or errand-boys or hall-boys, and leave them alone.

  “Now, ye find somewhat that fits ye, while I write notes t’get ye in the Palace Gate and on t’Nikolas,” Mags told them.

  When he had sent them on their way, he heaved a sigh. Well, that’s one problem out of the way. He’d have three sets of eyes up there, besides his own and Amily. Surely that would be enough.

  15

  It was supposedly a routine Council meeting. The Council Chamber was . . . a bit stuffy, and Amily was doing her best to stay awake. Another long night listening to Lord Leverance’s private conversations via his mastiff had left her feeling a bit groggy. A ridiculously indulgent breakfast with the King was not helping. He’d decided he’d reward her for her diligence by having some of her favorite treats, but the food threatened to put her to sleep. And although Amily usually appreciated the fact that the chairs in the Council Chamber were very comfortable, today she wished they were a little less so. Amily was sitting beside the King, listening to Lord Hallendale drone on about timber harvesting, concentrating on the great map of Valdemar on the wall opposite her seat at the table, reading the town names and seeing what she could remember from her reading about them one moment—

  The next moment, Rolan quite literally shouted in her head—and by the way that Sedric and Kyril’s heads snapped up, both of them had heard similar shouts from their Companions. :Chosen! Battle in the street! We ride!:

  “I’ll handle this, Father,” Sedric said, vaulting over the table in order to get to the door faster. Amily couldn’t quite do that, but she was hard on his heels in the next moment. She concentrated on running—it still wasn’t easy for her, particularly on the slick floors of the Palace—knowing that Rolan could tell her what the situation was when she was firmly in the saddle and could spare attention for something besides where her feet were going. Sedric was ahead of her, but not so far that she couldn’t tell which door he was heading for. That one should be her choice as well. Servants and courtiers had already cleared out of the way for the running Prince, and they remained that way as she passed, staring at her in confusion. She barely noted them except as potential obstacles.

  I’m just glad something told me to wear my sword this morning. . . .

  Kyril called after them, his voice echoing loudly in the Council Chamber to follow them as they pounded away. “Go! You have my full authority!”

  They burst out of the nearest door, which was, thank goodness, only two rooms away; Rolan was waiting for her, and Sedric’s Companion for him. Neither had had time to get saddled, but that didn’t matter, not with a Companion. Sedric paused just long enough to grab Amily and throw her up onto Rolan’s back. As Rolan shifted his weight to make sure she was in place, Sedric vaulted onto his own Companion’s back like an acrobat or a trick rider, and then both of them were off, side by side, pounding through the gates and onto the road leading down into Haven.

  :It’s the Raeylens and the Chendlars, having a street-battle,: Rolan told her grimly. :And almost everything we were dreading. Mags is in the middle of it—:

  She tried not to choke with fear, just twined her fingers in Rolan’s mane, and listened to what he was telling her.

  :I’m not sure how it started, but swords are out, people are wounded, and there’s a mob and I am getting this in bits from Mags. He’s up against Talbot Chendlar, trying to keep him from slaughtering Brand.:

  And Talbot Chendlar was an expert swordsman . . . she bit her lip and hung on. They’d be there in a few moments. Talbot wasn’t the only expert swordsman out there. Mags was good. . . .

  But was he good enough to hold off Talbot?

  The road between the mansions and small palaces was clear; it was too early for anyone but servants to be out and about in this weather. She couldn’t imagine what on earth had brought a bunch of hotheaded highborn men—who should have been sleeping off whatever they had gotten into last night!—out at this time of the morning.

  Already they could hear the mob, shouts and a few screams ahead of them—but behind them were more mounted Heralds coming to their aid. She could sense them back there, somehow, or maybe this was something she was getting from Rolan. These reinforcements would get to the mob nearly as soon as she and Sedric did.

  :And behind them is the Guard,: Rolan told her. :Nobody’s died yet, and we’ll make sure nobody does!:

  Then, they turned a corner and barreled into the mob itself. There was a wide place in the road where carriages could pass, and that was where they were battling. Amily had no real time to take in anything but the signs of blood on the snow and the flash of steel before Rolan shouldered right between two combatants and she and Sedric went to work.

  Amily pulled her belt free and began laying about her with her sword still in its sheath, using it like a club, indiscriminately, because in a mob like this, there was no “wrong” or “right” side, there were just a lot of idiots who needed to have their heads ringing like bells so they’d calm down.

  Rolan was shouldering people aside right and left; Amily could only give thanks to the gods that the ingrained response to seeing a white hide and white clothing was to back off, because otherwise they surely would have been hurt. He paused and stood over a young man who was down on the snow, bleeding, until someone—presumably from his own side—yanked on his collar and got him to his feet.

  It seemed to take forever before the rest of the Heralds from up on the Hill joined them, and either did what Amily and Sedric were doing with their sheathed swords, or forced their way through the mob, breaking it up into smaller pieces, then separating combatants by reaching down and grabbing hair or collars and pulling them apart. There seemed to be as many fighting with their fists as with their swords. The noise of shouting, swearing men only increased as combatants were driven apart, there were shallow wounds and blood everywhere, but Amily couldn’t see anyone down other than that one lad she and Rolan had rescued—

  And then, at last, came the Guard. Enough men to get everyone separated. And at last, Amily could see Mags off to her right, looking disheveled, and with a minor cut along his collarbone, but otherwise as far as she could tell, he was all right.

  Now, finally, the noise died away to coughs, sniffling, and the shuffling of feet. The Guard surrounded the whole lot, penning them in, and virtually daring them to move with their glares. Sedric sent his Companion to the top of the slope so that they would all be looking up at him—and to compound their discomfort the sun was behind him, so they had to squint into its glare.

  She wanted to run to Mags, but—no. That would be a very bad idea. Instead she flanked Sedric on his right, and the rest of the Heralds lined up behind them both. She didn’t dare even show that she knew him, not when he was in character as Magnus. But she could see that his sword, like hers, was still in the sheath, and he must have been clubbing people rather than meeting steel with steel.

  The Guards were angry. Angry enough they were forcing the former combatants to kneel in the snow before the Prince, and Sedric seemed very much inclined to let them do that. People were almost never required to kneel before a member of the Royal Family in Valdemar . . . but this was as good a time as any to remind these hotheads who their rulers were.

  Finally there was silence and order. Amily looked out over the heads of about forty people kneeling in the snow of the street, all of them men, almost all of them young men . . . almost. Because right in the middle of the two sides were Lord Kaltar and Lord Leverance.
And Brand. And Talbot. On the sidelines were women and a few men who must have come out of the great manors on either side of the road to watch; not all of them were wearing servants’ livery. And surely they had been watching rather than participating, because the Guard had not rounded them up with the combatants.

  There was complete silence now. Even the Companions were stock-still. Peoples’ breath puffed out in white clouds, and that was the only sign that they weren’t all statues.

  “Good gods,” Sedric spat at last in complete disgust, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. “Good gods. I tell you to curb your servants, and this is how you interpret me? As license to brawl in the streets yourselves?”

  “Prince Se—” Lord Kaltar began, looking up indignantly.

  “Hold your tongue!” Sedric roared. “I do not care who started this. I do not care how it started. I do not care what lies you and Leverance are both spinning in your heads to excuse this barbaric behavior! What I do care about is that you both violated the Peace of the City, and the Peace of the Season, and I will not have it.”

  The silence deepened. Amily and the other Heralds sat as quietly as equestrian statues on their motionless Companions, and hopefully that very stillness was all the more unnerving to the men who were kneeling, shivering, in the snow.

  “This feud ends. Now,” Sedric continued, staring from one Lord to the other. “I have the means to force it to end. First, if any of you so much as looks askance at someone from the other family, you’ll be cooling your heels in a city gaol until such time as you have the means to get back to your respective estates. Yes, that’s right,” he added, as heads came up with shocked looks. “The commoner’s gaol. Where you will be sharing space with pickpockets and thugs and the like. Because if you are going to behave like brawling thugs, I am bloody well going to treat you like brawling thugs.”

  Amily was glad she was well practiced in keeping her expression absolutely neutral, because most of the men were looking at her and Sedric, not at the other Heralds—some of whom were having a hard time repressing their sardonic grins.