Closer to the Heart Read online

  To begin with, every bit of it had been carefully, meticulously, even artistically reinforced. Tiny bits of wood and handmade brackets had been put in place to make the building as solid as any on the Hill. Then, it had been weather-proofed. Mags actually went outside to have a look at one of the walls when he realized just how much work Tuck had gone to, and there was no sign on the outside of the building that this was anything other than what Linden had called it, a “shed.”

  But on the inside, Tuck had carefully pieced together an entire floor made of mismatched cobblestones and bits of wood. He’d weatherproofed using horsehair and plaster on the interior walls, exactly as was done in the best houses on the hill. From the look of things, he had waited until he had somehow gathered enough materials to fill in a section, done that section, and waited until he had gathered enough for another section. Then he’d whitewashed the lot. The old hayloft had been devoted to a sleeping place; the four stalls were gone, although the posts supporting the loft that had anchored the stall walls were still in place. There was a workbench all along one wall, under windows just under the eaves that Mags marveled at—windows pieced painstakingly together from mere fragments of glass.

  The place was heated by a remarkable stove; Mags couldn’t make out exactly how it worked, but it was bolted and hammered together from scrap metal, and produced heat all out of proportion to its small size. The windows were fitted with louvered shutters clearly made of scrap wood; they were above head-height so it was unlikely anyone would ever see in here to discover just how well Tuck had fitted the place out.

  In fact, those shutters were closed when they arrived, and the first thing Tuck did was open them to let in the light, using a long stick with a metal hook on one end. It was pretty clear he knew the dangers of letting anyone see what he had.

  There was a little kitchen next to the stove, with beautifully mended pots and pans on the wall. Everything was so clean Mags would have been willing to eat off any surface, and so neat he reckoned Tuck could put his hand on whatever he wanted in the dark.

  On the workbench, it was clear that Tuck had made nearly every single one of his own tools, all from scavenged materials, including a wire-straightener of amazing design, dozens of jigs, a saw-sharpener. . . .

  On one part of the bench was a brooch, made of a pebble that was polished until it reflected light, held in a frame of wire, with the wire twisted around to the back—clearly it only needed to be finished into a pin for the brooch to be complete.

  And Mags now knew where so many of the trinkets that had come into the pawn shop had come from. Here.

  He could scarcely believe his eyes as Tuck proudly showed off his little kingdom.

  “Linden,” he asked urgently. “’Ow many folks know Tuck kin do all this?”

  “Nobody but me, an’ ’is ma what’s gone,” she replied. “If they know’d . . . people like Cobber, they’d ’aul ’im away and chain ’im to a bench an’ make ’im slave fer ’em. It wuz bad ’nough with Cobber wantin’ this shed, wi’out Cobber knowin’ it were this nice inside. If ’e’d knowed . . .” She shook her head. “Reckon ’e might not’ve stopped at bullyin’. Reckon ’e might’ve gone t’murder.”

  Mags nodded. Cobber might not have stooped to doing the murder himself, but it would have been easy enough to take poor Tuck off to some cheap tavern in the tanning district on the river, then arrange for the fellow to “fall in.” Most poor people couldn’t swim. When could they take the time to learn? And teaching Tuck, Mags suspected, would have required immense patience and the ability to somehow keep him calm.

  “This’s flat ’mazin’,” he said. “You was right, Linden. Tuck’s got real smarts where some thins are concerned.”

  Linden nodded. “Ain’t nothin’ ’e ain’t been able t’make, iffin ’e unnerstands whatcher need. Jist takes time gettin’ ’im ter un’erstan’.”

  “Tuck good?” rumbled the giant anxiously, looking from Mags to Linden and back again. For some reason known only to him, he had made up his mind that Mags was as much to be trusted as Linden. And from what Mags could read, dimly, his lost mother had driven it deep into his soul that only she and Linden were to be trusted.

  Maybe it was the Heralds’ Whites. Maybe Tuck’s mother had given him that much, as well. Perhaps she had a notion it would be a good idea to give Tuck someone he was willing to run to for help in case she or Linden weren’t around.

  “Tuck very good,” Mags replied, and took a deep breath. “Look, Linden . . . yer got any quarrel w’ Tuck workin’ fer th’ Heralds?”

  She shook her head, but looked puzzled. “No. But—”

  He interrupted her. “Lissen. Th’ more Tuck keeps makin’ thins an’ you go out an’ sell ’em, the more like it’s gonna be that somebody like Cobber figgers out what ’e kin do.” He held up a hand to stop the words she had opened her mouth to say. “I know yer careful. But it on’y takes one slip. It on’y takes some’un breakin’ in here whilst yer gone. Kin ye keep ’im safe forever? Lookit whut jest ’appened! What’f there wasn’t no Herald on duty when Cobber ’auled Tuck in?”

  She closed her mouth, and looked thoughtful. He pursued his advantage. “So here’s what I got ter offer. Herald’s’ll keep you an’ ’im. We’ll send down stuff on the quiet like, so’s ye kin fix this place up all snug an’ locked tight, an’ make it comfy. We’ll make sure ye git whatever ye want. An’ Tuck on’y makes two kinds’ve stuff. ’e makes trinkets and shinies ye take t’ Willy the Weasel t’sell, ’cause Willy don’t ast no questions, an’ we kin pay ’im t’keep ’is mouth ’bout you an’ Tuck. An’ Tuck makes special stuff just fer us.”

  She blinked at him in confusion for a moment, then, before he could explain further, enlightenment dawned over her face. “Oh! Like lockpicks!” She sucked in her lip. “I thought ’bout hevin’ Tuck make ’em, ’cause they sells good . . . but it didn’ seem smart ’cause then people’d wanter know ’oo made ’em.”

  Mags nodded. “Thet was smart, ’cause some’un would’a figgered it out. We need ’em, on account’ve sometimes we gotta get inter locked places and boxes. An’ we’ll want ’im t’make other things, like thet there stove, thet we kin take apart, see how she works, an’ set up some’un t’make by big lots. Stuff that’ll make thins better fer lotsa folk. On’y thing is, Tuck ain’t gonna ever get credit fer all ’e kin do.”

  She actually gave him a withering look. “Thin’ ’e cares? Thin’ I care? You Heralds, you jest keep us cozy an’ fat, an’ thet’s all we need.”

  “D’ye live wi’ Tuck?” he asked.

  “Like sibs,” she replied without hesitation. “’is Ma arst me t’look out fer ’im, on account’a ’e looked out fer me when we was liddle. Once ’e started makin’ thins, she ’ad no notion where t’sell ’em. Me, I been pickin’ through trash an’ ever’thin all me life, so I knows where t’sell about anythin’, an’ . . .” She let out her breath in a long whoosh. “Too much t’tell. It ain’t no kinda story,” she said. “Jest folks gettin’ by.”

  For a moment, he wished he’d started his gang of street-orphans long enough ago that he’d picked up Linden. She could have been so much more. . . .

  :And if you had, where would Tuck be now?: Dallen pointed out.

  “Ye know Aunty Minda’s boys?” he asked, and she nodded. “Good. I’ll be sendin’ stuff t’ you an’ Tuck an’ I’ll use them t’fetch it. If anythin’ turns up that one’ve them ain’t bringin’, it ain’t comin’ from me.”

  “An’ I’ll send it away.” She nodded sharply. “Cobber might look fer a way to get hisself outa trouble by getting hot goods inter this place, then sendin’ th’Watch.”

  “Linden, yer a sharp gel. I like ye.” He grinned. She grinned back.

  “An’ I like ye back, Herald Mags, an’ that’s somethin’ I niver ’spected t’say ’bout no Whitecoat.”

  • • •

  “A
nd now what do you expect to do with your inventing fellow and his keeper?” Amily asked, amused, as they snuggled together in front of their fire that night.

  “Introduce you to ’em, for one thing,” Mags replied. “And your Pa.”

  “Why on earth?” she asked, sounding surprised, as the fire popped and crackled.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Because, m’love, yer supposed t’be the King’s bodyguard, an’ I think it’d be a good notion if ye had a couple’a sneaky weapons like Bey had around about yer person. Yer Pa, too. An’ me, that goes ’thout sayin’. Mostly, we gotta figger out how t’tell Tuck what we want.”

  “I’d say firstly we need to figure out what we need,” she said, in a slightly admonishing tone. “Because if we don’t know, how are we supposed to tell this poor fellow?”

  “Oh, I already know the first thin’,” he said immediately. “I want me some climbin’ gear I kin hide on me. Then I want knives. Lotsa knives. Differen’ kinds, an’ all stuff that’s hid.”

  She craned her head around to look at him. “You’ve been rummaging through the Sleepgiver memories again, haven’t you?”

  “Got a reason why I shouldn’t?” he countered. “Just ’cause they’re killers fer hire, that don’t mean they ain’t got some good notions.” He grinned at her dumbfounded expression. “Well? Am I right?”

  She shook her head. “You’re impossible,” she replied, and kissed him.

  In the back of his mind a voice chuckled, that was not Dallen’s for once. It was his own, chuckling over the fact that back where that internal voice lived, there had been a fear that once he and Amily were “properly” married, things would get . . . dull. And they wouldn’t find each other as exciting anymore. And that certainly wasn’t the case.

  . . . not in the least.

  In fact, there was a sort of blessed relaxation, partly because he wasn’t having to think about all the ways that wretched wedding could go wrong, but mostly because there had always been the lurking fear that something would always prevent it.

  He firmly shoved into the dark depths of his mind the certainty that sooner or later he’d find a brand new fear, and enjoyed the moment, which shortly turned into something more than just a moment.

  • • •

  Mags got up earlier than Amily, and she waved him off drowsily. For once she was going to lie abed a little while longer. This was the only thing she missed about her “old life,” when she had been of no consequence—that she could no longer sleep late when she chose, nor stay up as late as she chose to finish a book!

  When was the last time I read a book for pleasure? she thought, a little mournfully, as she fluffed the pillow to make it more comfortable. It seemed forever.

  But this morning the King was not taking his usual working breakfast with her, he was taking a working breakfast with her father. She had taken the chance to stockpile something suitable for breakfast yesterday afternoon—pocket pies made a lovely breakfast—so she didn’t even have to go over to the Collegium to eat. She could just drowse until a guilty conscience or Rolan woke her up.

  Her thoughts drifted, as they were inclined to do when she was trying to get back to sleep. I wonder what sort of thing I could ask this odd genius Mags discovered to make for me. Perhaps a necklace that could be turned into restraints? And perhaps some clever tools to take the place of corset stays? Certainly a pair of stilettos in place of the front busks. Amily didn’t need to wear a corset, but she found that it helped with back fatigue when she had to stand for long periods of time. Substituting something useful in place of the stays seemed like a good idea. I’ll bet Mags will have useful things secreted in seams and hidden pockets all over himself before long.

  Bear had warned her that after so many years of being a cripple, it was going to take a body a long time to adjust to the other extreme, and he was right. Yesterday had been one of those days; formal and informal Court and she’d been standing behind the throne for all of it.

  On the other hand, yesterday the King had finally gotten around to formally requesting that Lady Dia “help” with the wedding . . . and Lady Dia had basically said, in lovely, courtly phrases, that anyone that got between her and the wedding planning was going to find him- or herself cut off at the knees. Having Lady Dia doing the planning meant that Violetta was going to find herself doing a lot of work, and the sort of thing she seemed to be very good at. If the wedding came off well, Violetta’s reputation as a clever planner of festivities might even eclipse her reputation as the featherbrained wench whose romantic foolishness had nearly got two entire noble Houses murdered. And hopefully she won’t make any further mistakes; even trivial ones are always going to eclipse your successes, she reflected ruefully. Though . . . in the end, what could have been a complete disaster turned into the end of a bloody feud. I cannot say that I will miss Lord Kaltar, and I suspect neither does his Lady. Anyone that bloodthirsty was probably terrifying to be around. There’s probably a good reason why he and Lady Kaltar only ever had a single child.

  Well, between standing all day, and Mags’ brilliant idea to just run off and get married . . . well, maybe another reason why she was aching all over was that she was finally relaxing muscles she hadn’t even known were tense.

  Today there were no Council meetings, and no Court sessions, which meant that Amily was basically free. And she knew exactly what she was going to do.

  This would be a good day to do a little snooping in the households of some of the Council members by way of the working cats and pets they had in their homes. A good many of them had one or more of Lady Dia’s little spaniels; they all had cats kept specifically for mousing. No well-regulated household could do without at least one cat in the kitchen, pantry and cellars, and at least one to patrol the upstairs. Most had more. And thanks to Amily’s peculiar Gift, every single one of those animals could serve as eyes and ears for her.

  So today would be a day when she could laze by the fire and see what she could learn.

  Sometimes it bothered her, all this spying on people she should have been able to trust. But that was the thing, really, she should have been able to trust them, but they were still people, and people got their judgment swayed by personal considerations or ambitions, or things she couldn’t even predict. And if Father had this as a resource, he’d have used it without a second thought.

  The apple had not fallen far from the tree after all. She might be King’s Own, but like her father, she was also the King’s Spy. I wish I had a troupe of spies of my own, the way that Father and Mags do, she thought, turning over and punching the pillow again. Someone who could make sure I had little dogs I could listen through in every household where I might need one. Someone who was trusted, but invisible. Someone who. . . .

  And that was when she had what possibly was a brilliant idea all her very own. So brilliant, that she sat straight up in bed, all thoughts of sleep vanishing.

  There was one thing that Amily had been able to do very, very, well, back in the days when she could not move about without help. She could observe. And one of the things she had observed, forgotten until now, was the plight of young, highborn women with a title and no money.

  Mostly, they were hangers-on in the entourages of wealthier relatives—hoping for a crumb of a dower in some cases, in others hoping to prove they had some form of talent so they could get the Crown to sponsor them to the Collegia. Often they served as unpaid governesses or companions. She had heard whispered stories of exceptionally pretty ones who had blatantly become kept mistresses—or had even become the star attractions of a brothel.

  But mostly, they languished in the households of those who were wealthier than they were, grateful for a bed and regular meals, trained in all the skills a highborn girl was supposed to have, but not in anything that made her fit to work.

  Amily had seen over a dozen girls like that, either exploited or ignored by their well-off
relations, and that had been before she was actually looking for them. How many more were out there? For the most part, so far as the truly wealthy and highborn were concerned, they were so invisible they might not even exist. The sort of highborn that frequented the Court left such girls to their seneschals to deal with.

  Now, what if Amily was to actively start recruiting some of them? Some would probably object, but there should be some who would be willing to help.

  :If you are waiting for me to voice an objection, you will be waiting until your hair turns gray,: Rolan observed. :We should give them incentives in the form of . . . hmm. Perhaps the incentives should vary.:

  The urge to drowse forgotten, Amily squirmed out of bed and grabbed a fresh uniform.

  After fortifying herself with breakfast, she called on Dia. Unlike most of her peers, Dia was an early riser, and invited her old friend to have a tour of the kennels and inspect the new litters of puppies. There were two litters of the tiny muff-dogs, sweet-tempered spaniels that Dia had bred to keep bored ladies company. The puppies were adorable, and so small two of them would fit in Amily’s hand. But muff-dogs were not all Dia bred; she supplied the Guard with hounds they could train to search for hidden enemies or search for people who were lost, she bred enormous, patient dogs that were first-class nursemaids for adventuresome littles, courageous rat-terriers who never hesitated in taking on the vermin even cats feared to attack, and she bred enormous mastiffs as protection dogs. Amily always enjoyed taking the tours of Dia’s kennels, and secretly got a lot of amusement at seeing the elegant Lady Dia with her lush, brown hair tied in a knot on the top of her head, bits straggling out, in an old moleskin tunic, trews, and tarred boots, getting down on the floor and being covered in giant herds of dog.

  When they were done, both of them were ready for a second breakfast—and in Lady Dia’s case, a good wash and a change of clothing.