Closer to the Chest (13 page)

“You're Magnus, right?” Loren asked. At Mags' nod, he jutted out his chin as if he expected to be told to go away at any moment. “You wrote that letter for my sister to my parents, right? About classes with the Collegia?”

“I did, indeed,” Mags confirmed. “Were you interested in joining the classes as well?”

“No!” Loren blurted, then flushed, and amended. “Well, yes, maybe, but . . . that's not why I wanted to talk to you. Do you know a way of getting lessons with the Weaponsmaster?”

So
that's
the way the wind blows! Well, let's see if I can't bribe him to get him into a place where one or more of the Trainees can befriend him.

“If I do,” Mags said, slowly, “Will you also attend classes? I can absolutely guarantee that they will be infinitely more interesting than anything your tutor was teaching you.”

Loren sighed heavily. “If I have to—” he said reluctantly.

“You have to,” Mags told him. “You can't just idle around the Court you know, like one of those empty-headed asses with nothing more to talk about than horses and cards.” He nodded slightly at Hawken's group of
old
friends, who were making a nuisance of themselves over some of the young
women who were clustered in a defensive group under a tree that had a ring-seat about its trunk, pretending to embroider. The ladies in question were very well aware that
these
fellows were second-rate at best, and were trying to ignore their not-terribly-clever overtures.

Loren sighed again. “That's what Father says,” he admitted. “He says I should be doing something useful while I'm here, but he hasn't said what it is he thinks I should be doing. Hawken's going to inherit the title and the estate, though, and I—I just don't want to be hanging around trying to find some girl with money and connections to marry, when there's better things out there!”

“You have something in mind?” Mags prompted.

“Sure! I want to be the Lord Martial!” Loren looked so enthusiastic that Mags choked down his laughter and managed to keep a straight and sober face. “I want to join the Army and be an officer and work my way up to General, and win all my battles, and be a hero, and then the King will make me Lord Martial!”

Mags scratched the side of his chin. “You do know that you have to know the history of every battle Valdemar has ever fought in to do that, don't you?” he asked casually. “That's part of learning how to win all your battles.”

Loren lost a little of his glow. “I do?”

“
And
you need to know the geography of the entire country so you know exactly what kind of terrain you might be fighting in.” Mags looked up into the branches of the tree above his head as if they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. “Battles have been lost by not knowing every inch of the ground you're fighting on.”

“Oh—” Loren said, looking crestfallen.

“And mathematics, because before you become a General, you'll be going up through the ranks of all the officer grades,” Mags continued. “At that point, you're left to make most of the decisions yourself, and you'll be doing your
own
calculations for provisioning your men, and deciding how many miles they can march, whether a bridge can hold up under them . . . and all manner of things like that.” He looked down at Loren again. “How many wagons would you need to carry the provisions for a month for a full company? And how many more would you need to carry the feed for the horses that pull them?”

“—ah.” Loren coughed. “Maybe lessons are . . . a good idea.”

“I would say so.” Mags patted him on the back, in a brotherly fashion. “Now you just trot on back to your parents, and come back to me when you've got those lessons set up, so I know what your schedule will be and what group to ask the Weaponsmaster to put you in.”

Loren shot off like a lightning bolt, leaving Mags to saunter off to talk to Dean Caelen about the two new “Blue” students he'd be getting.
If only everything was this easy . . . but then, I wouldn't have a job to do.

:M
ags. Mags. Mags.:

In Mags' dream, he was standing on the top of the cliff at the Bastion. He knew, somehow, that he was completely alone, even though it was too dark to see anything. It wasn't winter; it was a windy summer night with a sickle moon high overhead, and his cloak billowed in the gusts, tugging at his shoulders.

:Mags. Mags. Mags.:

Even though he
knew
he was alone, someone was calling him, calling his name, over and over. It was . . . getting annoying. It was pleasant up here, and he just wanted to be left in peace. Who could be pestering him like this?

:Mags. Mags. Mags.:

Oh, of course!
he thought.
It's Dallen . . .

And with that, he woke up. He was in his comfortable bed, on his side, with Amily curled up against the small of his back. Unfair. It was totally unfair to be nagged awake in the middle of a pleasant dream.

:All right, I'm awake,:
he replied, shaking his head a little to get the fog out of it. He cracked his eyes open. It was still dark. This was absolutely, completely unfair. What was so urgent that he had to be roused before the sun was up?
:What's the problem?:

:The Prince needs you. He's in the Lesser Audience Chamber.:

Oh. That put a different complexion on things entirely. It wasn't just Dallen being annoying. Of course, it was still
unfair,
but it was the normal sort of unfair that came with being a Herald.
Huh. Me, he wants, and not Amily. So it's somethin' for the King's Spy, not the King's Own . . .
That in itself was unusual.
:Tell 'im I'll be there soon as I'm decent.:

He slipped out of bed without waking Amily, grabbed his clothing as he tiptoed out, and pulled on his Whites in the next room, so accustomed to the uniform now that he could get himself presentable by touch alone.

It wasn't even pre-dawn yet; the sky was still dark, without so much as a hint of light to the east. Whatever had prompted the Prince to get roused out of
his
bed this morning, it must have been urgent, but not an emergency. Urgent enough to drag the junior spy out, not urgent enough to drag Nikolas, or the King, or anyone else out.
I can live with that,
he thought, as he hurried through the shiver-cold and damp air to the Palace, taking the quickest route to the appointed room once he got inside the Palace. The corridors were dimly lit, and eerily quiet. Probably the only people awake besides himself and Sedric were the servants in the kitchens and the Guards on the rooms of the Royals.

Anyone who knew Palace protocol would have known that one of the Royals was in the Lesser Audience Chamber; there were two guards on it. The Seneschal or other officials only rated one guard, and obviously no one guarded an unused and empty room.

The two Guards stiffened as they heard footsteps
approaching down the barely lit hall, and relaxed when he came into the light and they saw it was someone in Herald's Whites. “Herald Mags, summoned to the Prince,” Mags said formally—because the Guards weren't stupid and
anyone
could purloin a set of Whites. The Prince would have told the Guards exactly which Herald he was expecting, obviously.

“You're expected, Herald,” said the right-hand one, and opened the door to the Audience Chamber for him.

There were only a couple of lanterns lit, up near the thrones. Sedric was sitting on his throne rather than his father's, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, looking very much as if he had just tossed on the clothing that was closest to hand—a pair of old, worn breeches, a heavy canvas tunic with the sleeves cut off at the elbow, and slippers. Mags tried not to gawk; it was the first time he had ever seen Sedric in anything that was not Royal Whites.

The Prince was talking to someone who was no one Mags recognized from the back—a woman, by the sound of her voice. Though with her graying auburn hair cut short and wearing full leather armor, with some drapings that might have been meant to suggest a religious habit or robes, from the back it was almost impossible to tell what gender she was. Sedric's solemn expression turned to one of relief when he saw Mags enter the room.

“This is just the person to help you, Prioress,” he said, as the woman turned to see who had come in. “Prioress, this is Herald Mags. Mags, this is the Prioress of the Temple of Betane of the Axe.”

The woman had an interesting face; square, androgynous, with a firm chin and high cheekbones. She regarded Mags soberly.

Mags gave the Prioress a little salute. “I beg forgiveness, but—”

“You've never heard of us, and why should you have?” the Prioress interrupted. From the sound of things, she was used
to interrupting people. Mags decided it wasn't rudeness, precisely, it was the habit of someone who needed to get straight to the point, and couldn't wait while other people dithered. “We keep to ourselves for the most part, and I wouldn't expect every Herald to know every god and sect worshipped in the city.” She glanced at the Prince. “Shall I tell the tale, or will you, Highness?”

“It's your tale to tell, Prioress,” the Prince demurred.

She cleared her throat. “Well, we're a martial order, obviously. We're all women. Most of us are former mercs, with a sprinkling of private bodyguards, some young girls who've petitioned to join as Novices, and a few Valdemaran retired Guard. We've been known to augment the Guard at need, but otherwise, the most action we see is when the local Watch needs a little heavy backup, and comes calling on us. As a martial order, though, we keep our skills in warcraft sharp, and a few times a year we go out of the city on a combination camping and training exercise. We close up the Temple sanctuary—not
close
it, as such, since we don't—or didn't—lock it, but we don't hold services. It's a good chance to give the Novices a taste of what real war is like, without taking them out to a battlefield. The only people left behind at the Temple are anyone sick or hurt, and a handful of the really elderly who just can't camp anymore. We've got a smaller private chapel they use when the Temple sanctuary is closed up. We were out on one of those exercises—the rest of the Order still is, in fact—when I got the overwhelming feeling I needed to get back.”

“This has happened before?” Mags asked. “This premonition sort of thing, that is?”

The Prioress nodded. “It comes with the office of Prioress. Actually, I thought for sure it was because maybe someone back here had fallen gravely ill or even passed on, so I hurried and got here a few candlemarks ago, but when I arrived, there wasn't anything amiss. Wasn't that is, until I followed the
feeling in my gut and went to the Sanctuary. It had been—” She paused for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths. Mags could practically
feel
the rage radiating from her for a moment, until she calmed herself. “Defaced is too mild a word for what I found.
Violated
is more like it. Vile, despicable things painted on the walls. Obscene, filthy things. Whoever did this had to have been deranged—”

“Just a moment,” Mags interrupted her, following his
own
impulse. There was no reason to think that this was linked to the Poison Pen letters Amily had told him about last night, and yet— “Have you been getting similarly vile letters recently?”

The Prioress started a little, and looked at him askance. “We've always gotten what I call ‘hate notes' from time to time. That's the nature of things for a martial female order, some people think we're unnatural. But yes, we have gotten a
lot
more, recently, all, as far as I can tell from the same source.”

Mags held up his hand. “Hand-printed on rough, cheap paper, the letters formed in a block-style, so there is nothing in the way of a ‘handwriting style' to distinguish them?”

The Prioress narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Exactly. Is there something going on?”

“Nothing Mags is at liberty to discuss just yet, Prioress,” the Prince interrupted. “Mags, I would like you to go down into Haven with the Prioress; she's put the sanctuary off-limits to the rest of the order for now, so nothing will have been disturbed or changed. I want you to gather as much evidence as you can, then report to me what we need to clean the place up and set things to rights by sunset at the very latest.”

The Prioress bowed to the Prince, looking both shocked and a little dazed. “Highness, I did not ask—”

“No, you did not, but it was well within your rights to,” the Prince told her. “I want the rest of your people to return to their home and find it ready for them. If we can't make everything the way it was, the least we can do is erase what was
done. As for
what
was done to you, I would like you to remain silent about it. Don't even tell the rest of the Order. We'll think of an excuse if we need to alter anything.” He turned to Mags. “Make it happen, Herald.”

Mags saluted, the first time he'd ever done such a thing, but it seemed appropriate. “It will be done, Highness. Prioress, will you need a mount to get back down the Hill?”

“I came on my horse, thank you,” she said, still looking a little dazed.

“Then we'll go to the stables; soonest begun, soonest done,” he replied, as the Prince made a little, impatient gesture, suggesting there was no point in standing on ceremony.

Mags took the hint, leading the way without pausing for the usual bows.

Dallen was waiting outside Companion's Stable, already saddled, bridled, and waiting, glowing in what was now pre-dawn light; there were always a couple of stablehands awake to take care of tacking up Companions who made it known that they were needed. One of them was still waiting next to Dallen, and went off to fetch the Prioress's mount. He came back with—as Mags had expected—a very fine chestnut warhorse. She had probably ordered it be left tied up but not untacked when she arrived, anticipating she'd either get an audience immediately, or be sent back down the Hill to return at a later time. The beast dwarfed Dallen; the Prioress was actually taller than Mags as well, so the two of them mounted side by side probably looked rather comical.

She looked down at Mags from her lofty perch, morning sun touching her hair and giving her the odd effect of a halo. “Did he really mean that, about having the Sanctuary cleaned up by sunset?” she asked. “I just came to report the crime, since I didn't want to take something like
that
to the Watch, but I didn't expect the Prince to shoulder responsibility for rectifying it.”

“Every word,” Mags assured her. “I assume there will also be some sort of ceremony you'll need to do as well?”

She nodded. “But that can't be done until the physical defilement is gone,” she said, sounding hesitant.

There must be a lot of damage . . . well, the Prince as much as said I'll get all the resources I need to take care of the problem. Enough workmen can clean up anything. And enough money will buy their discretion.
“Let's get on down there then,” he replied cheerfully. Dallen moved off without his needing to give a signal. The warhorse snorted, and followed, easily overtaking Dallen and taking the lead.

•   •   •

Mags surveyed the desecrated sanctuary, taking it all in. As the Prioress had said, the effect was nothing short of appalling. “There's something to be said for simplicity,” he said, finally. “No decorations means nothing to replace.”

The sanctuary had, indeed, been very simple; no benches for sitting on, no pews, there wasn't even an altar. It had just been a single, large room with a window high in the wall to the east, and another matching it to the west. Hanging on the wall under the eastern window was an enormous axe, an implement so huge Mags wondered how it had been forged, and how on
earth
the Order had managed to get it hanging on the wall in the first place. Some sort of hoist to get it up, of course, but how to
hold
it up there? There was no sign that anyone had tried to take it down or deface it in any manner, but most of it was hanging high above the reach of most people. Maybe that was what had saved it from desecration.

The plain, whitewashed walls, however, were another matter altogether.

They had been covered in words and drawings in red paint, the color usually used to paint barns with. Pornographic,
demented, childishly crude pictures of naked women doing obscene things to bound or otherwise humiliated men alternated with ranting, obscenity-laden scrawls. Some concerned what was going to happen to women who didn't “know their place.” Others concentrated on defamatory language against the Order in particular and women who dared to “take the place of men” in general. A few were very graphic descriptions of what the writer thought women were “good for.” And of course, given that, there were obscene suggestions of what the women of the Order were doing with each other. All of them were scrawled in slashing letters in that thick red paint, which had been dripped all over the stone floor. The floor would be easy to clean, it was the paint on the walls that was problematic. No matter how much scrubbing was done, the paint was still going to remain, and it would probably take new plaster to cover it up enough that the ghost of this insanity didn't bleed through.