Closer to the Heart Read online

  “Kyril wants to make this another reason for gathering in important people in the Kingdom and ambassadors. Of course, Sedric’s wedding was an occasion for that, but they were all rather preoccupied with it, and not with politics and negotiation and maneuvering. Plus, I wasn’t King’s Own then. That’s the next reason, Kyril wants outsiders to think of me as innocuous. With attention fixed on me as a bride, people are more likely to dismiss me as not as sharp as my father. They’ll underestimate me. The only people who need to understand just how sharp I am are the ones on the Council, but for anyone else, it could be very advantageous for me to be overlooked.”

  The fire popped a little, as Mags mulled all that over. He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s all good reasons. Gotta agree with ’em. Even if I don’ much like bein’ trotted out an’ put on show.”

  “Kyril had reasons for that, too. This is a good time for you to continue to create the impression you’re good-hearted, solid, dependable, and a bit thick,” she pointed out, and he had to laugh, because that was exactly what Nikolas had told him to do, back when he began learning the same craft that had made Nikolas the King’s Spy.

  “So I’m a bit thick, an’ you’re just a pretty thing at the King’s side. Well, don’ we make a likely pair!” He laughed harder as she gave a most unladylike snort.

  “The more I think about running off and making the vows before a priest, the better I like the idea,” she said after a while, just as he was drifting off to sleep. “The sooner, the better.”

  “Aight,” he agreed, and drifted away.

  In the morning, Amily was already gone when Mags finally crawled up out of sleep. His dreams had been full of wedding nonsense—not nightmares, and not of things going wrong, but of nonsensical stuff. Like the King insisting that he and Amily get married on a platform built in a tree, or of Amily’s dress somehow being made entirely of bees. He couldn’t quite make out what had triggered that image.

  Or Bey and roughly a hundred assassins turning up at the last minute to outline them in thrown knives as they kissed.

  As he dressed, then made his way to the Collegium and ate, it occurred to him that he was not entirely happy with the King’s plan. The Spring Fair was not all that far away, and if the King intended to make some sort of enormous political and diplomatic event out of it, there wasn’t a great deal of time to get everything ready. . . .

  He spooned up oatmeal loaded with chopped nuts and drizzled with honey, and considered all his options. Now, granted, Spring wasn’t a bad choice for this thing. After all, no one ever went to war in the Spring, or almost never. Spring warfare meant pulling your people away from their fields and flocks at the worst possible time. It meant that the area where you were fighting would be utterly ruined; fields trampled before seeds even had a chance to sprout, calving, foaling and lambing disrupted—and you’d have the devil’s own time trying to move herds with pregnant females and young animals out of harm’s way quickly. You went to war in the Spring and you insured that part of the country would starve, so unless that was actually your goal . . . it was a monumentally stupid idea, one that gained you nothing. If you lost, the local populace would descend on your country in an orgy of desperate looting in order to make up for their lands being ruined. If you won, you’d have to support a starving population.

  And that didn’t even touch on trying to march and move and fight in mud, because the combination of Spring rains and newly plowed fields meant you would be up to your knees in mud. And so would your supply trains.

  But Prince Sedric’s wedding had taken nearly a year to prepare, and even if this wasn’t going to be as elaborate, how would they ever have the time to get it all ready?

  :You won’t,: Dallen admonished him. :The King wants this; the King will do the arranging, or rather, delegate people to make the arrangements for him. Remember what you and Amily agreed on last night; neither of you are under any obligation to concoct a “perfect wedding” for each other. It’s a show; just do your parts and let other people worry about doing theirs.:

  :And if it all falls apart?: Mags could not help asking, although with a wry cast to his thoughts.

  :Then as players ever and always do, we all blame the director. Who will probably be Lady Dia.:

  Mags thought of that, as he got a plate of bacon and eggs and bolted it down. :I’d rather not. Lady Dia can be very . . . fierce.:

  He had an appointment to meet Nikolas down at the shop, in their guises of Harkon and Willy the Weasel. The Weasel rarely put his head in at the shop anymore; it was understood that he was leaving the bulk of the work to his nephew and his nephew’s hired toughs, but it would have been altogether out of character for him to stay away entirely. Although the shop did the bulk of its business after dark, it was the Weasel’s way to open it for a few hours in the morning, so that men who’d pawned their tools and had the money to redeem them could do so before hurrying off to a job.

  This meant subterfuge, of course. Mags went down into Haven as a Herald, and left Dallen at the stables at a Guard post. Then he left the post by means of a tunnel under the street, and emerged in a back room at a tavern, where he became Harkon. Harkon staggered out, giving a convincing imitation of a man who had been drinking all night and needed to sober himself up before facing his uncle—stopping at a cookshop for a mug of tea so strong the spoon should have melted, at another for a second, not quite as strong, and at an apothecary for a dose of his “Sovereign Remedy.” By the time he got to the pawn shop, he was apparently sober enough to evade the Weasel’s wrath.

  The shop was already open, and as Mags entered, a fellow in a carpenter’s apron was just finishing redeeming his tools. The man hurried out with a nod to the “nephew,” as Nikolas—aka “Willy the Weasel”—grunted and unlocked the door into the protected part of the shop.

  Even if you had known that “Willy the Weasel” was the same person as Herald Nikolas, it would have taken a trained eye to see the Herald in the pawnshop owner. The Weasel’s greasy, graying hair straggled down his back in a most untidy manner, he had an unattractive squint, and his mouth was always primmed up tightly, as if he was afraid to give away so much as a word. If anything, the Weasel was very memorable, as opposed to Herald Nikolas, who was so very ordinary that if it had not been for his Heraldic Whites, he would have faded into the background of any crowd.

  The shop was really two rooms; the front part held the bulkier, heavier, or more inexpensive items on shelves all around it; the back part, behind a wall so sturdy it could have been a jail cell, had a locked door and a barred window, through which the pawnbrokers conducted their business. That part of the shop held all the valuable stuff, and, of course, the cashbox.

  “See, Stef turned up like ’e promised, nuncle,” Mags said, locking the door behind him and taking Nikolas’s place on the stool so that the “Weasel” could drop into a far more comfortable chair that stood behind it. :Have you been told about the circus we’re to put on?:

  “Le’s ’ope ’is work’s more reliable this time,” Nikolas growled. “’E’s got ’alf ’is ’ousehold on our shelves. I’d be best pleased t’clear ’is trash out.” :I had breakfast with Kyril, so yes.: Nikolas shook his head imperceptibly. :I can’t make up my mind if it’s the idea of a genius or a disaster in the making.:

  “Could use th’ space,” Mags agreed, carefully counting out the money in the drawer under the counter. This was routine. Every time someone new took over the window, he was supposed to count the money. :Amily and I decided last night that we aren’t taking any chances. We’re going to pop off quietly to a priest when we both have a free morning or an afternoon and just do the thing. We know half a dozen holy folk who’d tie the knot for us without a second thought, and neither of us care much who is the deity in charge. That way, when the disaster looms, at least we’ll already be shackled and it won’t matter to us if the thing falls apart, or gets stormed out of existence, or gets r
aided by bandits . . . or any of a thousand other things goes wrong.:

  Nikolas blinked at him blankly for a moment, then covered it by half-lidding his eyes and tucking his chin down as if he was about to take a nap. :I take back everything I ever said about you being an idiot,: he replied, with a mental chuckle. :Am I invited?:

  :How could I dare say no? I’m not anxious to be knifed in the dark by my father-in-law.:

  A very faint chuckle emerged from the “drowsing” Nikolas. It sounded enough like a hint of a snore to pass for one. :Definitely not an idiot. I approve. And I take it we keep this a little secret amongst the six of us?: Nikolas had included the three Companions, of course. It wouldn’t exactly be possible to keep something like this a secret from them.

  :It wouldn’t do to disappoint Lady Dia and Princess Lydia,: Mags agreed. :Better to let them bask in the illusion that they’re creating a perfect wedding for us. They’ll probably wallow in it, actually.:

  Nikolas chuckled again. :Considering that Amily’s mother and I essentially did the same thing as you plan to—running off to a priest to avoid the hash that our two mothers were making, arguing over every detail, you are upholding a fine tradition.:

  :Good to know. And speaking of “knowing,” what is it I need to hear?:

  Mags spent the rest of his candlemarks, right up until midmorning (when the Weasel declared that keeping the shop open until “the lads” turned up to take it over after dark was a waste of time), trading information with his mentor. None of it was terribly important, but any part of it could become important. One thing Mags had learned above all else; when it came to being the King’s Spy, the most unexpected things could turn out to be relevant.

  As he and Nikolas locked up the shop, he saw Nikolas’s head cock in that odd way that let him know that Evory was speaking to him. And at nearly that same moment, Dallen chuckled.

  :Be careful what you ask for,: Dallen said. :You might get it. The King cut short the Lesser Court in order to see to some detail of the Treasury. Amily is free. You are free. Nikolas is free. And Brother Elban just down the street is tending his garden and is essentially free and of all the people you know who would do this thing, Brother Elban is your favorite. So. Would you like to get married?:

  • • •

  It was with a feeling of profound relief that Mags kissed his bride under the combined (beaming) gazes of his new father-in-law, Brother Elban, Healer and tender of the little Shrine of Alia of the Birds, and three Companions.

  He actually could not have planned this better. Everything had conspired to be perfect.

  Elban was a lone cleric at his little Shrine; he didn’t need much, just a room to live in and his garden. Alia of the Birds was a very minor Goddess, as such things went, with a tiny congregation and no real rituals of Her own. Her clerics were solitary, but not hermits; they dedicated their lives to healing and teaching the poorest of the poor. Several of Mags’ youngsters took lessons with him. The Shrine occupied the same footprint as any of the houses or shops in this area; it consisted of a walled garden mostly planted with healing herbs, with Elban’s little living quarters at the back. The walls of the garden and the dwelling were pleasantly weathered stone, a soft, pinkish granite. The statue of Alia, a motherly looking lady of middle age, with a round, smiling face and carved and real birds perched all over her, was made of a similar stone.

  Within the shelter of the Shrine’s walls, true spring had come early to Brother Elban’s garden, lilies bloomed at the foot of Alia’s statue, and the birds perched in the vines on the wall provided all the music they needed. He and Nikolas had detoured just enough to resume their identities as Heralds before meeting Amily here.

  And the deed was done. They’d managed to get married without anything going wrong or interfering. Mags had never heard the wedding ceremony as performed by Alia’s clergy before, but it had been lovely.

  Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other.

  Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other.

  Now there will be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other.

  Now you are two persons, but there is only one life before you.

  Treat yourselves and each other with respect, and remind yourselves often of what brought you together. Give the highest priority to the tenderness, gentleness and kindness that your connection deserves. When frustration, difficulties and fear assail your relationship, as they threaten all relationships at one time or another, remember to focus on what is right between you, not only the part which seems wrong. In this way, you can ride out the storms when clouds hide the face of the sun in your lives—remembering that even if you lose sight of it for a moment, the sun is still there. And if each of you takes responsibility for the quality of your life together, it will be marked by abundance and delight.

  “Now, remember,” Nikolas reminded the beaming cleric. “Unless it is vital, no one is to know they are already wed.”

  “Oh no, it would disappoint all those people who are likely planning a spectacle,” the thin little fellow replied, bobbing his head with understanding. He had no special robes; Alia’s clergy wore nothing more ostentatious than a long, brown tunic and trews, with a leather bird sewn over the heart. “No, we cannot possibly have that. It is not every day that the King’s Own gets married. People have expectations and we shouldn’t deny them their holiday, now, should we?” Then he beamed at them. “It will be our little secret.”

  He let them out the garden gate, and Amily immediately swung herself up onto Rolan’s back. “I—”

  “—have t’ get up the Hill, I know,” Mags finished for her. “Go. I’ll see ye at dinner if not afore. I got law-court this afternoon.”

  “Don’t starve yourself,” was all she said, and then she and Rolan were trotting up the street and rounded the corner.

  Mags looked to his mentor. Nikolas nodded in the general direction of a cookshop they both favored, and Mags grinned in agreement. He felt positively euphoric, actually, now that everything was settled. A weight had very much fallen from his shoulders, and it looked as if Nikolas felt exactly the same.

  The explanation for that came only when they had finished their meal and were about to part company, with Mags going on to the law-court, and Nikolas to whatever mysterious errand would occupy him this afternoon. “Now if something takes me out of Haven, it won’t matter,” Nikolas sighed.

  Mags nodded. “That be true,” he replied. “If somethin’ had called ye away afore the circus, Amily’d’ve been . . .” He groped for words.

  “Very sad. Absolutely understanding, but very sad.” Nikolas’s normally inexpressive face took on a melancholy cast for a moment. “I have had to miss too many of the important moments of her life. I am glad I did not have to miss this one.”

  • • •

  Nikolas did not say where he was going, and Mags didn’t ask. This was not because they were ignoring the one cardinal rule of their occupation, which was always make sure someone knows where you will be. It was because Dallen had already spoken to Evory, and Dallen knew where Nikolas was headed. So that made two other creatures that knew exactly where Nikolas was going and what he intended to do, and that was enough.

  Mags had quite enough on his plate with attending the Law Court; he didn’t need to start fretting about whatever possibly dangerous place Nikolas was going to go.

  Any Herald who was not already teaching at the Collegium—and truly, what was Mags actually qualified to teach?—was assigned to the Law Courts in various parts of the city. Prince Sedric was assigned to the Court Royal, which tried all cases that the lesser Courts passed to the higher, or those cases that were appealed. Not that many cases were appealed, because before one could appeal a case, all parties involved had to agree to re-testifying under Truth Spell in the Lesser Court. And was where Mags and the others came in, b
ecause in order to set the Truth Spell, you needed a Herald.

  Mostly the Heralds of the Law Courts merely had to be present; a constant reminder that if the parties on either side or the judge demanded it, the Herald in attendance could set Truth Spell on any witness. Not the coercive version—although Mags could do that. Generally the coercive version of the Truth Spell was not needed in these simple trials.

  This particular Court was in the same district as Willy the Weasel’s pawn shop; the Guard and the City Watch here all knew Mags both in his guise of Harkon and as Herald Mags. That was useful, since they could arrange for trials where Harkon might be called in to identify someone who had pawned something to take place when Herald Mags was off-duty and some other Herald was taking his place.

  Like most of the district, the courtroom and the building it was in had seen better days. Meticulously repaired and scrupulously cleaned, nevertheless, everything was old, worn, and a bit shabby. There were six benches for onlookers and witnesses, a table and bench each for the accuser and the accused, and at the front facing the rest, the judge’s bench and the witness box. Then there was Mags’ seat, at the back of the courtroom, off with the bailiff and a couple of Guards and a couple of members of the Watch who made sure things didn’t get out of hand. The walls were whitewashed plaster . . . just a bit dingy. The furnishings were all dark wood that had long ago lost any semblance of polish.

  Mostly, to tell the truth, Mags was just there for show, to remind the witnesses that they could lie under oath, but if they were challenged, they’d be caught at it, and might be in as much trouble, if not more, than the accused.

  The courtroom was empty when he entered it, except for the bailiff, who greeted him like the old friend that he was by now, and offered him a mug of hot cider. Mags accepted it gratefully. The courtroom was cold and damp, and he kept his cloak on, as did the bailiff. There were fireplaces in the building, but none in this room.