Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy Page 33

  And one was out on a special mission; Coot, who was coming along nicely. Mags had filched Chendlar livery for him, and left him down at the betrothal feast with orders to stay close to Violetta and her parents. Coot was just small enough to pass as a page, though he was actually older than most serving pages were. Mags was exceptionally pleased by the boy; once he’d come to realize that he actually had support and a home again, he’d proven to be fanatically loyal and very intelligent.

  Mags had every intention of making him a regular “plant” among household servants, eventually. That would require a lot more training than this—actual servers would be dealing with the food; the little pages would just be set around the tent for errands and the occasional pouring of wine. He’d make a good set of eyes there, get plenty of practice in being just that, and all without any risk of being uncovered, because tonight things would be tense enough that no one was going to pay attention to a little page.

  “Eh, lads, settle,” he told them, as he took a seat next to the hearth, across from Aunty Minda, who just smiled and kept knitting. “Ye all know how’t goes. So let’s hear yer tales.”

  Now that he had a full evening, he intended to use it right here. As the youngest member of his “gang” stood beside him to recite what he’d learned—and what he’d picked up by listening to all the customers gabble while he waited to run messages—Mags felt himself relax from the tension he’d felt back at the tavern. The feud mess was almost over. It was time to get down to real business again.

  —

  Amily was startled during her late dinner by a tickling at the back of her head that she associated with Violetta’s little dog. Between bites of pork pie, she relaxed, and allowed her thoughts to unfocus and reach out to the puppy. It’s probably nothing, she thought. But on the other hand . . . the Chendlar manor was all but empty, and now would be a good time for any of the Raeylen adherents charged with mayhem to slip in and wreck the place, making it look as if it had been ransacked by a gang of thieves, perhaps. If that was happening, she could tell Rolan and the Guard could be sent before they got away.

  But when she was able to settle into the dog’s mind, and see through his eyes, she was surprised to discover he was on the bed in Violetta’s room being fed bits of sweets by the girl herself.

  Now . . . that’s odd. Violetta was no longer in the feast gown that she’d been wearing when Amily left the Chendlar manor late this afternoon.

  Then again, when Amily had left the manor, Violetta had been looking decidedly ill. She’d hesitantly said something that Amily hadn’t entirely understood to her nurse, and the nurse had tsk’d and said it was probably due to excitement. Whatever “it” was. Then everyone had ignored her and gone back to fussing over Aleniel.

  Well now, here she was in her own bed again. She must have left the feast, but since she wasn’t in tears—although she was looking anxious, and still a bit pale and uneasy—she probably hadn’t misbehaved in any way, but had been sent home because of illness.

  Well, she just watched her infatuation get contracted to her sister, Amily reminded herself. That can’t have been easy.

  Odd, though. Amily would have thought she’d change into a bedgown and snuggle in under the goosedown comforter, not still be dressed. If you were home for the night, why get out of your feast gown and then into what looked like a walking gown meant for cold weather?

  All of her instincts alerted. There was something very odd going on here, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  The little wretch was up to something.

  With an irritated sigh, Amily pushed her dinner aside and settled into her chair. Until she knew what it was that Violetta was up to . . . well, she was just going to have to live in the head of that silly little dog.

  —

  The door to Aunty Minda’s burst open, and everyone, Mags included, jumped in startlement and turned to stare. Those that had weapons, like Mags and Minda, had automatically put their hands on them.

  But it was Coot standing there, cold air pouring in around him; panting, looking around wild-eyed. As soon as he spotted Mags, he gave a wordless bleat of relief, and ran for him, shouting as he came.

  “Boss! Somethin’ ain’t right! Somethin’s real bad! People are fallin’ over an’ passin’ out!” he gabbled, grabbing Mag’s wrist and trying to tug him to his feet.

  It might have taken precious time to untangle what the boy was trying to tell him, between his gutter-speech and his very real fear, but his thoughts were pouring out, with all the force of emotion behind them, and within moments, Mags knew what he’d seen.

  He’d been sent to escort Violetta back to the Chendlar manor; he had done so, and returned as fast as the carriage driver was prepared to go. Which was not very fast at all, and with a stop at a tavern on the way for at least three drinks, while Coot fretted. But eventually they got back on the way again, and the driver had pulled in his carriage with the others and prepared to doze on the driver’s box while Coot scrambled back to his post. The only thing on his mind was to get there quickly, and hope he wouldn’t be chided for being gone so long—and then recognized as someone who wasn’t part of the household.

  But . . . when he got there . . . the guards that had been watching the tent were gone.

  Coot’s instincts, honed by living all his life in perilous situations on the street, immediately shrilled alarm. Back when he’d been on the street, missing guards would have sent him in the other direction, heading for Mags. Once he’d settled—well, now he’d have run inside to see what was wrong, because surely something must be, and the first thought was that the feasters had become fighters and the guards had gone inside to separate them. But careful coaching by Mags made him go to the door and take one cautious peek inside before running back to report.

  Mags had no trouble seeing clearly what was in Coot’s mind. The image was practically branded into his memory. Everyone at the feast was unconscious, sprawled over tables into their food or actually fallen to the floor. Even the servants were unconscious. The man nearest Coot was still breathing—so at least they weren’t dead, which had been his first, horrified thought.

  —and then the sounds of someone walking quickly for the tent door made him scamper away from the entrance, to hide in the shadows.

  That was when he saw Brand shove the tent door aside and come striding out, taking a cautious look to either side before heading for the line of picketed riding horses.

  Coot was taking no chances at that point; in his memories he took to his heels then, and ran with every bit of speed and skill he had, making for Aunty Minda’s. Mags could read the thoughts in his head, clear and cogent despite his terror. Watch won’ lissen t’me. They’ll wanna know whut I was doin’ in this livery. But they’ll lissen t’Boss!

  “Well done, Coot, well done.” He clapped Coot on the shoulder, sprang to his feet and ran for the door, pausing only long enough to make sure his short sword and dagger were securely tied down for his race to the Commons. Meanwhile Dallen was sounding the alert, and he knew he could count on Dallen to pass the word to all the Heralds, and the Heralds would muster the Healers. Because whatever else was going on, there would be a tent full of people who’d been drugged or poisoned, and that alone required Healers.

  He thanked the gods that the Commons weren’t all that far from where he was now—

  He dashed out into the back yard of Aunty Minda’s. Roof-running would be faster, but he wouldn’t have time to get up there. So he would have to do the next best thing; run straight through the maze of yards and walls rather than following the streets until Dallen could catch up. If he could . . . right now Dallen was in a stall in an inn that he’d have to get himself out of. Every moment that Mags wasn’t moving as fast as he could toward that tent might mean the difference between life and death for someone.

  So he ran. And it was a good thing he had done this ve
ry route in the past, and more than once, just for practice. And yes, at night, like now. Every shadow that loomed up in front of him was something he knew well. He knew where the sound footing was, where good holds on walls were, which storage boxes and barrels would hold his weight and which wouldn’t, what animals were in which yards, and most especially, where the dogs and hogs were. His mind plotted out his run about three wagon-lengths ahead of him, and the cold air burned in his lungs as he leapt, climbed, tumbled, ran, and leapt again.

  All he could think of was those images in Coot’s mind; what the hell was going on? If everyone except Brand was unconscious, what did that mean? Was the man running away? Brand wasn’t the sort he’d have taken as being willing to strike out on his own—and anyway, wasn’t he getting exactly what he wanted from this betrothal? Why would he run?

  And if he wasn’t running from his betrothal, why in hell had he drugged everyone else there? Because that was the only explanation for why he had walked out of that tent on his own two feet.

  He leapt for a wall, caught the top with both hands, and was over it. Pounded across a dirt yard, up a rain-barrel and over the wall on the other side. Dashed a few lengths down the alley, and leapt for another wall, ran along the top of it and jumped down, pounded down the narrow gap between two buildings with his shoulders brushing either side.

  And then he sensed Dallen nearby. :Near you, Mags. Help’s coming, but we’ll be there first,: Dallen said grimly. :By the gods, I do not like this, Mags! Lady Dia is down there!:

  Mags knew, from all his time with Bear, exactly why Dallen was grimly concerned. Even if the feasters hadn’t been poisoned, there was no way of telling how much of a drug any of them had in him, and too much of anything that would put you to sleep could also easily kill you.

  He ran across the street, squeezed in between two more buildings, and leapt up onto the top of another wall. They met at the next alley, and he jumped from the top of the wall right down into Dallen’s saddle and they were off, at real speed, pounding down the street to the Commons, then into the chaos of the Winter Fair at night.

  People cleared away from them, but there weren’t that many at this late hour. There were only a few tavern tents, and shows still running at this time. Most of the tents were dark, and he and Dallen shot down between the rows of darkened and closed merchant-tents, hurtling for the Theater Tent.

  He spotted it at the end of a row, looking like a festival lantern all lit up, standing in lone splendor, surrounded by waiting coaches and horses.

  Dallen skidded to a halt as Mags flung himself off Dallen’s back, landed and tumbled to his feet, and then went into a crouch.

  The only sounds were the occasional snort of a sleepy horse, and the jingle of harness. Nothing else.

  The tent itself was eerily silent. And there was no one on the coaches. No waiting drivers.

  There were also no servants moving about the two pavilions that had been pitched to hold the food and keep it warm for serving after it had been brought from the cooks of the Midwinter Fair.

  His first instinct was to charge in through the tent flap.

  His second, and the one he followed, was to creep up to it, pause in a careful crouch beside the tent door, and open his mind.

  There were half a dozen men in there; he identified the leader, and seized on the man’s thoughts.

  “. . . got no stomach for killin’ then get gone.” The words echoed the thought, which came from the mind of a hardened murderer. “I got it from here.”

  Mags saw out of the man’s eyes; saw the ruffians, scarred and weathered-looking—but they were also well-dressed ruffians, showing that whatever else these fellows were, they were prospering. He didn’t recognize any of them, which made him think that they weren’t ordinary thieves.

  Were these the guards that we hired? If they were, they’d done a good job of concealing what must be extensive criminal pasts in order to get the job!

  And did Brand have anything to do with that, I wonder?

  The men lined up before their leader, and silver exchanged hands. Mags tried to get as good a look around as he could while the leader was occupied with paying off his men. There were bodies piled on the tables, and each other; servants and the coachmen heaped on top of their masters. It looked as if they had been dragged in and just left there, and they must have been deeply unconscious to not have woken up in the process. However this had been accomplished—

  —some drugged drink. Some coshed—whispered the leader’s memories—

  —as he guessed, he saw in those memories that they had all been brought here, solving the mystery of where all the servants were. There had been a toast to the betrothed couple that all the servants had been brought in to join, at Brand’s insistence, of course. When would servants ever refuse a good cup of wine? It wasn’t often they got wine, let alone good wine. This just made Mags even sicker inside, because that wine must have been heavily dosed for it to drug all the servants with just one cup each. That meant that there were, almost certainly, some dead already. . . .

  “Take yer pick of the horses, and scatter,” said the leader, and the others saluted him and left without a word. Mags threw himself back into the shadows, and Dallen kited around the side of the tent out of sight, as they all came running out. Each of them took a horse. In moments, they were gone.

  Meanwhile the leader’s mind moved on to the next set of his instructions. And in a bright, terrible burst of vision, Mags knew what the rest of the plan was.

  And knew he was the only one close enough to stop it.

  —

  Violetta heard the sound of a snowball hitting her window, and ran to it. Brand’s beloved face stared up at her from the snow-covered garden, pale and white in the moonlight against the dark blue of his cloak. “Can you leave by the garden door?” he called, softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping servants.

  “Yes!” she called back, closed the window, then threw on her own cloak, slung the roll of clothing Brand had told her to bring over her back, picked up the basket with her valuable jewelry in it, and coaxed Star to jump inside. Then she ran down the stairs to the solar, and out through the garden door, into the snow, and into Brand’s arms.

  “Come on,” he said, releasing her after too short a moment, and taking her hand. “We need to be quick, before they notice I haven’t come back yet.”

  She nodded and ran hand-in-hand with him to the stables. The horse he had taken was still standing there, tied to the door of an empty stall, and it whickered curiously at them when he pulled her to it. He mounted, then pulled her up behind him.

  Then they were off.

  She held her basket in her lap with one hand and wrapped her free arm around his waist, hiding her face in his cloak and holding herself as close to him as she could. Her heart sang with joy to be near him, with him at last. She felt giddy with happiness, as if she had drunk far more of the mead than the few sips she had taken.

  She had thought they would gallop away, but in fact, they moved at a sedate walk, and once down off the Hill, blended with the evening traffic. There were more people here than she was used to seeing in streets; this first street off the Hill seemed to be lined with inns, judging by the signs over the doors and the sounds and smells at either hand. There was a lot of coming and going between these inns too. As walkers and riders and the occasional carriage crowded in around them, she grew anxious, and tugged at his sleeve.

  “What, my dove?” he whispered over his shoulder, as a hot-chestnut man cried his wares under an awning to her right.

  “Shouldn’t we be running?” she whispered back, her anxiety gnawing at her, as they turned into a street full of shops that still seemed to be open, even this late at night. Did Haven never sleep?

  “Not at all,” he assured her, and patted her hand as his horse snorted in reaction to a boy running under its nose, heading for a door j
ust ahead of them. “If we run, we’ll draw attention to ourselves. If we just go with the crowd, we’ll just be part of the crowd. Right now, we’re well away, no one knows we are gone yet, and we absolutely don’t want anyone remembering something as potentially suspicious as a man and a woman on a galloping horse.”

  Satisfied with his answer, she cuddled up against his back again, and watched as they made their way from the street of shops into another, quieter street, and then yet another, a street that seemed to be full of silent workshops. All the buildings were dark, the windows shuttered, the doors firmly closed. There were some faint lights in windows overhead, but not many of them. She guessed—from what she knew of the Chendlar manor’s home village, that the craftsmen lived above their workshops, and likely were asleep by now, or about to sleep.

  They were the only people on this street, at last and when she craned her neck and looked around him, in the distance she could see what was probably the city wall.

  Finally, he tapped his horse with his heels and urged it into a faster walk. They made it all the way to the end of the street without seeing a single soul, then they passed through a gate that was manned by Guards and Watch that paid no attention to them at all, and were out onto the open road.

  There was nothing outside the wall here, not even a single house. Just the road, stretching on before them, crossing several fields before plunging into a dark mass of what she thought must be trees.

  That was when she realized that they weren’t going to the street of Temples as she had assumed. But—weren’t they going to get married right away? He’d promised—

  She sat up straight again. “Brand!” she said, a little more sharply than she had intended. “I thought—”

  He had urged his horse into a trot now. “I don’t trust any priest of any faith in Haven not to betray us,” he said. “I know a fine fellow I trust implicitly in a village a little away from here. I’ve already arranged things with him. He’s waiting for us now, at the inn. He’ll wed us on the spot, and we can wait until the hue and cry dies down. It’s a fine little inn there, very comfortable, and the innkeeper serves the best sweet pastry you have ever eaten.” Once again, he patted her hand before returning his attention to the road. “Won’t that be wonderful?”