Closer to the Heart Page 8

  Mags felt very much as if someone had stolen all the breath from his lungs. He sat back in his chair, grateful for the cushioning. “I am now terrified to hear what other pies you have your fingers in.”

  Jorthun laughed. “Not so many. I am mostly retired; I keep my ownership of the brothels mostly because it would be awkward for either of you to attend to. You and Nikolas are doing very well without me.”

  “Don’t lie, my love. You’ve been very sweet about it, but you’ve been wanting something productive to do for several months now.” Dia patted his hand admonishingly. “This will be an excellent opportunity for you to create something exceedingly useful. And free some worthy ladies from very dreary lives.”

  “I’ll speak to the King about funding, and Lydia about making it ‘her idea,’” Amily told them. “Then you can come to Lydia in public and suggest the school for handmaidens.”

  “And I can complain that my wife is now filling my house with her ‘good works,’” Lord Jorthun laughed. “Then she and Miana can recruit.”

  “Huh . . .” said Mags, something else occurring to him.

  “I know that look,” Amily said. “I think I know what you’re thinking. Tuck?”

  “Aye,” Mags agreed, and briefly outlined his discovery of Tuck and the poor fellow’s amazing ability at constructing and crafting objects. “And now here I am thinking two things. One, that you, sir, might be even better than me and Nikolas at thinking what sort of things he might make for us that’d be useful. And two, that I reckon Tuck can make all manner of useful things for your handmaidens. A wench has got a lot more places she can hide things than a man does, just cause she has all those skirts and petticoats and shifts and things.”

  “And hair ornaments, and jewelry,” added Dia, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Mags dug into his beltpouch and pulled out his new set of lockpicks, passing them over to Lord Jorthun, who looked them over with a knowledgeable eye.

  “These are better than my set,” he told Mags, passing them back. “I am extremely tempted now to see if I can transplant the fellow and his keeper to my own workshops.”

  “It’d be safer for them both,” Mags admitted, “But the poor man’s not right in the head. He might not take to the transplanting. I can ask, though.”

  “In the meantime, just for the sake of caution, I’ll have my man see about buying out the current owner of the building his ‘shed’ adjoins, so there is no chance anyone else gets the idea of taking it over.” Jorthun smiled thinly. “I would imagine making some repairs, and offering any vacant rooms or apartments to members of the Watch at a greatly reduced rate will put paid to the notion of this Cobber Pellen or any of his crew coming around and making further trouble.”

  “That it should, my Lord,” Nikolas replied, with a wry smile.

  “So, now that we have disposed of business—how goes the planning of the wedding?” Jorthun said, obviously expecting one of them, at least, to have some sort of spluttering reaction.

  But if that was his intention, in this, he was disappointed.

  “That’s all in Dia’s hands now, my Lord,” Amily said smoothly. “And Lydia’s. We’re nothing more than actors in whatever play they come up with.”

  “It just seems more sensible to think of it that way,” Mags added. “Amily and I have got enough to worry about—and no relatives other than Nikolas to please. So we don’t care what sort of pageant is ultimately decided on.”

  “Hmm. A sensible attitude, if a rare one,” Jorthun observed. “So many young ladies seem to create hysterics trying to have a perfect day.”

  “Possibly because it is the only day in their entire lives where they are the center of attention,” Amily pointed out. “Most of the time, they are pawns to be moved about on the game-board. At least on their wedding day, while they might still be pawns, they are treated as queens.”

  “Whereas you have rather more power than you are sometimes comfortable with, I suspect,” Jorthun replied. At Amily’s startled look, he smiled. “No, don’t suspect me of Mindspeech. Your father was the same. The King’s Own should never be comfortable with the amount of power he or she can potentially wield.”

  “Well, to get back to the subject you asked about, my love, I do have some ideas,” said Dia, and began relating them. Despite Mags’ relative disinterest in such things, he had to admit that Dia’s ideas were interesting, surprisingly practical, and would not require all that much of the two purported principals.

  After a pleasant candlemark or so, Lord Jorthun excused himself—after first giving Mags carte blanche to contact him at any time—giving the three Heralds a graceful way of taking their leave. As if by magic, they found the three Companions, saddled and bridled and with three escorts attentively waiting beside them, at the front door. The three of them rode out of the front gate with Mags still feeling somewhat bemused.

  “Did Lor’ Jorthun mean thet?” Mags asked, falling back into somewhat less formal speech with a feeling of relief at not having to think over every single word he said. “’Bout callin’ on ’im at any time, I mean.”

  “Oh, definitely. And with Dia in charge of your alleged wedding, you’ll have all the excuses you need to do so.” Nikolas patted Evory’s neck, as they rode alongside the wall around the Palace complex, heading for a side entrance. “Plus, some evening when you’re free, I’ll show you the special way to get into his place. It’s one method you are very familiar with, and much better at than I am.”

  “Ah. Roof-runnin’. Thet makes sense.” Mags nodded.

  “There’s a tree that grows very near the walls, an entire grove of truly ancient goldenoaks at the rear of the house that come right up to the back and provide shade for the east-facing bedrooms, and an access to Jorthun’s private study attached to his bedroom,” Nikolas told him. “I’ll give you the key.”

  :How long have you known about this?: Mags asked Dallen.

  :Always. It was not my secret to share,: Dallen replied. And then, the Companion relented a little. :If there had ever come a time when you desperately needed help and could not get it from the Heralds, I would have told you.:

  Well . . . Mags couldn’t fault his Companion for that. What was the old saying? Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. He wondered how Jorthun had managed to be the Royal spymaster for what must have been decades without anyone catching on to his dual identity.

  Money and rank had certainly made it possible.

  “Jorthun was very much a rakehell in his youth,” Nikolas said, in a lazy tone that told Mags that he was speaking not only to satisfy Mags’ curiosity, but in case there was anyone within listening distance. “The only thing he was not reckless with was his father’s money. That, he had a magic touch with. Anything he invested in prospered. Which, of course, caused his father to overlook his other failings.”

  “Wasn’t there a wife before Dia?” Amily asked. “And children?”

  “Yes, and they were none too happy about Jorthun marrying her, even though she came with a substantial dower of her own,” Nikolas told them. “They still aren’t happy, but there is nothing they can do about it. From time to time one of them will make a complaint to the Crown that Dia is spending his money recklessly, and Jorthun’s steward will show up with the documentation that proves that the money she is spending is her own, and that is that. Jorthun has guided her to some excellent investments. By the time she is a widow, she’ll be ridiculously wealthy.” He snorted a little. “And if his own children would stop throwing temper tantrums and come to their father for advice, they will be more than ridiculously wealthy.”

  “Sense flies out th’ winder when greed flies in,” Mags said, philosophically.

  :I must admit I am glad Jorthun chose to reveal himself before I have to hare off on the King’s business again.: Nikolas told him, as they all entered one of the side gates to the Palace complex. The Guardsman at the gate just nodd
ed and let them through without comment; their Companions were identification enough—and no Guardsman here at the Palace was ever likely to mistake an ordinary white horse for a Companion.

  :Me too,: Mags replied.

  “Ideally,” Amily said, her brown head close to Dia’s raven tresses as the two of them bent over a list of names and attributes, “we want orphans.” It was too bad that she, Dia, and Miana had to work today. Dia’s study was perhaps one of the most comfortable rooms Amily had ever been in. It was so tightly built that not even a hint of draft from the bitter, damp wind outside got in to make the candle flames waver, and the fire in the fireplace not only kept the room wonderfully warm, but also scented it.

  Dia nodded. “The fewer ties, the better.” She made a little tick against another name on their list.

  This morning, Dia had made her “request” of Lydia, during one of Lydia’s personal open Court sessions. As the fourth in rank in the Royal hierarchy, Lydia was viewed as “important” by those who were power-seekers only insofar as she had unlimited access to Sedric, and through Sedric, to the King. And she was well known as someone who never tried to persuade Sedric to hear a petitioner due to flattery or presents, so the people who were “political” seldom or never attended more than three or four of these gatherings every season. Lydia’s Courts served two purposes; for those who were there for social attention, and those who hoped their petitions would attract her sympathy. These were often people who had causes to espouse, for Lydia was very well known for her charitable works. There were none of the charitable sort in attendance that morning. Instead, the gathering had been as light-hearted and light-minded as a Royal Court session of any sort could get. So when Dia had made her carefully crafted speech about how unfortunate it was that there were so many highborn, yet disadvantaged ladies who were left languishing for lack of anything they were fit for, and that she proposed to train them, and as what she proposed to train them, the eager whispers started immediately. The more Dia spoke, describing loyal, skilled companions, more trustworthy than a servant, someone that could be confided in, like “my own Miana,” the more the whispers strengthened. Everyone knew Miana. Every woman of rank wanted someone like Miana. A lady’s personal maidservant was all well and good, and many of them were highly skilled in grooming and assisting their mistresses with their hair and wardrobe. But . . . one didn’t give confidences to one’s maid. Not unless one wanted those confidences spoken of down in the servant’s hall.

  And if one wished a conspirator in the matter of an extra-marital affair, one certainly didn’t look for such a conspirator among the maidservants.

  Oh, of course, a great many ladies did have handmaidens already, picked out from amongst their own poor relations, but often these were . . . unsatisfactory. And they often came with divided loyalties.

  But this idea proposed by Lady Dia meant that one could apply for someone who came with few or no family ties at all, and there were many ways, not all of them monetary, by which one could buy that precious loyalty.

  Lydia, who knew exactly what was going on, of course, became quite enthusiastic, proposed that she fund it out of her household monies, and that it be called “The Queen’s Handmaidens” in honor of her mother-in-law. And that she herself would see to placing the young ladies when they were deemed skilled enough to look for appointments.

  That only increased the buzz of excitement. What lady with any Court ambitions at all wouldn’t want one of her attendants to be from this elite, prestigious, and exquisitely skillful, group? Why settle for taking on some needy, untrained, bumpkin from your cousins in the country, when you could have a poised, cultured, amusing, infinitely resourceful and always helpful creature like Lady Dia’s factotum? Having a Miana of one’s own meant different things to every lady in the Court that morning, but every one of those purposes was one that currently was going unfulfilled, or only partly met, for most of them.

  Miana made the third of the party bent over papers; in Miana’s case, she was perusing what Dia rudely called the “studbook”; the painstakingly created and updated book documenting every highborn family in the country. Amusingly enough, in other countries, it was the duty of “heralds,” in the sense of that corps of glorified secretaries in charge of the arms and genealogies of noble families, who were responsible for such documents. Not here, of course. Here, that was the duty of the Chroniclers—who themselves were a combination of historian and glorified secretary. Additions were made to the book by the Royal Chroniclers every year in the form of new pages sent out right after Midwinter, which was why it was more of a loose-leaf folio rather than a book. It was the job of one’s secretary or Chronicler—if you had one—to keep the thing under control. If you didn’t have one, well, it was generally the job of whatever hanger-on or family member was of a scholarly and detail-oriented bent.

  Dia and her husband each had a personal secretary, and the household had a Chronicler as well. Though Jorthun often joked that he did so little that he could have shared his Chronicler with three or four other Houses and not had anything go amiss.

  Every so often, Miana would nod, and add another name to the list that Dia and Amily were going over.

  Their interesting task was interrupted by one of the footmen, who tapped politely on the doorframe of the open door, and waited.

  “What is it, Liam?” Dia asked immediately, looking up. She knew most of her servants by name, and never kept her servants waiting. It’s rude, she’d told Amily once. And aside from the fact that it’s stupid to be rude, there is the fact that if you are rude to them to their faces, they are going to be rude to you behind your back. And how can you have a happy and disciplined staff if everyone holds their master and mistress in contempt?

  “My lady, a young person wishes to speak with you. Keira Tremainet, daughter of the late Sir Halcon Tremainet and his late wife Maonie. Her parents were remote cousins of House Holberk.” Liam paused. “I would not have ventured to interrupt you and the King’s Own, but she seemed somewhat urgent and a trifle agitated. I asked her to wait in the lesser antechamber.” Liam bowed a trifle as he finished speaking.

  “Quite right Liam,” said Dia. “Wait just a moment will you? Hopefully a moment or two will allow our visitor to compose herself, rather than increasing her agitation.” She turned to Amily and Miana. “I could swear that name is familiar. . . .”

  “It is,” Miana said instantly. “She’s right here, under Possible, but questions. I believe there was some sort of rumor? Nothing approaching a scandal, but . . . the faint suggestion there might have been one?”

  “Well.” Amily replied. “If she’s here, I can’t think of any reason for her to be here except to petition you for a place in the Handmaidens.”

  Dia blinked thoughtfully. “If so, and there was some sort of scandal, that alone makes me interested.” She paused. “Given what I know about Brendan Keteline, I can easily guess what may have happened, and . . . it’s possible that the lady might be exactly what we are looking for. Let’s just see what she’s made of, shall we?” She looked over at the footman, still waiting patiently. “What do you make of her, Liam?”

  “A very forthright young woman, my lady. The sort to seize a scandal by the throat and deal with it, in my reckoning.” He coughed. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Not at all. I find your observations of visitors to be universally cogent, Liam. That is why I asked you. Please bring her up.” Dia shuffled the papers into a neat pile, and the three of them turned in their seats to await the young woman’s arrival.

  Lady Dia’s personal study was a bright, well-lit room that was as organized as the King’s Seneschal’s—and probably contained quite as much information. Dia could put her hand on every bit of information on any member of her household in an instant, from the little boys who were the gardener’s assistants to Miana. She could also put her hand on every bit of commonly known information about every high
born member of Court as well as those wealthy enough to be seen at Court on a regular basis.

  It could be said, Amily thought, that knowing all these things about the people of the Court is her job. Just like it is Lydia’s. And, just as it would be hers. . . .

  The study contained relatively little furniture; like the library downstairs, every possible scrap of wall was lined with bookshelves or beautifully made document boxes. What wasn’t wood, was upholstered in lambskin suede in a dark buff, which matched heavy curtains that could be pulled over the windows at need. There were six comfortable chairs, Lady Dia’s desk, plenty of lighting—although the sun streaming in the windows meant there was no need for that—and a species of reclining couch Lady Dia confessed to using when she had a lot to read.

  But the entrance of the young lady in question put an end to idle thoughts.

  Keira Tremainet was beautiful.

  I can see why there was scandal. . . .

  Sky-blue eyes, blond hair the color of wildflower honey, a perfect heart-shaped face, full lips, flawless complexion, and a figure to match the face. The rest of her, however, clearly reflected her fortune—which clearly wasn’t much. Only a very practiced eye would have discerned that she was anything other than a shopkeeper or a superior servant. Her gown was several years out of fashion, plain, the natural color of brown wool, unrelieved by any trimming except some hand-embroidery at the neck, and to Amily’s practiced eye, had been turned twice, at least. She had no jewels except the sort of garnet pendant in the shape of a flower that the average daughter of a prosperous craftsman might own. Her chemise was equally plain, linen with no lace or ribbon trimming; her shoes were sturdy things of the sort people wore in the country, that would last for years and years, and then could be resoled, not the sort of dainty embroidered slippers Dia was wearing. Her cloak was plain black wool, also untrimmed, and lined with more wool rather than even rabbit fur.