Closer to the Chest (24 page)

“You're right, both of you,” Amily told them. Knowing that even if the whispers about either of the ladies in question had been true—which they weren't, as Amily knew from her father—that shouldn't have made them candidates for the Poison Pen. After all, if Lady Herra had something to say to someone, she came right out and
said
it, in as public a place as possible. She would be the very last person in all of Haven to confine herself to writing nasty letters, meant only for the eyes of one.

And as for Lady Amberly, while she was standoffish, and far more interested in horses than in people, there was nothing to suggest the religious fanaticism the Poison Pen displayed, much less the vitriolic hatred of her own sex.

“Anyone else?” Amily asked. The rest offered up their gleanings of the gossip. It wasn't much. Just four more names came up as suspects, including Helane and Lirelle, Lord Lional's girl-children, for no better reason but that half the women down at the Court were inflamed with jealousy, and their
excuse was, “Well, none of this was happening before
they
came.”

Which was selective memory, as Amily herself knew very well. She'd gotten letters, and probably so had they, in the sennights before the arrival of Lord Lional and his family.

“And do any of you think any of the Court is to blame?” she asked. It was a calculated risk; although Dia and Steveral were ninety percent certain that none of the Handmaidens was the Poison Pen—there was still that ten percent.
But if one of them
is
our culprit, now would be the chance for her to cast doubt on someone else.

One and all, they shook their heads. “Not the ladies we serve, anyway,” said Joya. “And not their husbands. And . . . all right, maybe I am being extremely naive, but as horrid as those letters are, it takes a kind of mature immaturity to write something like that, don't you think?”

Amily shook her head. “I'm not sure what you're saying.”

“I don't think anyone younger than us would be able to write something like that,” Joya explained. “Oh, I don't mean they couldn't write obscenity, because they certainly can, but there's a
feeling
to those letters I can't quite explain. The sentiments are pathetically childish. But the mind expressing them is mature; it's been holding in these grievances for a long, long time, and now it's letting loose. I think it must take
decades
for that kind of hatred to settle in and fester into something that could create those letters.”

They all fanned themselves, attentive, but silent, while Amily thought that over. “I'd tend to agree with you,” she said, finally. “But I can't think of
anyone
in the Court who fits that picture.” She looked around her, and the Handmaidens all shook their heads.

After a little more talk, she left the Handmaidens enjoying their relatively cool, idle hour, and headed back to the Collegium. And it was only when she got there, and caught sight of a tall, thin girl in what could have been a Trainee uniform—
except that it was blue, not gray, green, or rust-colored—that she remembered there was a group up here on the Hill that she knew little to nothing about.

The so-called “Blues.”

:Rolan?:
she thought, as she altered her steps to the Seneschal's office.
:Tell me about the Blues. I know I was one myself, technically, but I never wore the uniform, and the only people I ever socialized with were Lydia's crowd.:

:There are three sorts of Blues,:
Rolan reminded her.
:The first sort are the children of people here at Court—like Loren and Lirelle, Lord Lional's children. And like you. The second sort are the children of courtiers and the wealthy who live on the Hill, but not at the Palace. Lydia was one of those, if you'll recall, as were many of your friends. The third sort are the “Blue Scholars.” They are extremely intelligent young people who have earned the right to study here. Some are supported by their parents, but those who are from poorer families are often sponsored by religious groups, and there are the “King's Scholars,” who've been supported by the Crown for two hundred years, at least, if not more.:

:Thanks, Rolan,:
she said gratefully. Well, these were certainly dark horses, at least to her. She didn't
think
any of them could be the Poison Pen but . . .

. . . sponsored by a strict religious group . . . suddenly exposed to how things are at the Court and Collegia . . . and learned enough to cite those mythological man-eaters . . . could one of them have just snapped and broken out in a rash of religious mania?

It seemed unlikely, but at this point, she had to consider the possibility and eliminate it.

The question was, how?

:And where are they living? That would answer some questions.:

:Raise more questions than answer them, I'm afraid,:
Rolan replied regretfully, as she reached the relative coolness of the
Palace, and ducked inside with a sigh of relief.
:Some live in the Palace with their families. Some live on the Hill with their families. Some are boarded with the families of Blues they have become friends with on the Hill. Some live in some of the nearby Temples. And some have been put up in otherwise unused servants' quarters in the Palace. There's two living in Mags' old room at the Companion's Stable right now, in fact.:

Some were living in Temple quarters? That sounded like a prime environment to develop religious mania . . .

Except she couldn't think of a single Temple or other religious housing near the Hill that held any sect that would hold the sort of vitriolic abhorrence of women that was expressed in those letters.

:Who would know where they all live?:
she asked, although she was pretty certain she knew the answer.

:Actually it's probably not the Seneschal,:
Rolan corrected.
:But the Seneschal will know who knows.:

She managed to intercept that harried individual just as he was leaving his office. “I'm sorry, I wouldn't ask you this if it weren't important,” she apologized, “But who has the list of the Blues, who they are, and where they live?”

“Royal Housekeeper,” the Seneschal said, and hurried off without waiting for her thanks.

The Housekeeper had an office as well, in the basement of the Palace, and it was with profound relief that Amily descended the stairs into the
real
cool. The basement might not be very pleasant in the winter, but right now . . .

I've got to figure out a way I can spend more time here.

Amily found her in her office, as expected, and she was not nearly so harried as the Seneschal. But she had a small army of maids and pages under her, and seldom had to leave her office except on her rounds of inspection. It was the first time in a long time that Amily had needed to come talk to her about anything, but remarkably, the woman remembered her.

She was a tall, thin, stern-looking lady who habitually
wore black gowns with snowy white trimming, and the heavy ring of keys to everything in the Palace that needed to be locked up jangling at her belt. But she smiled faintly when Amily tapped hesitantly on her doorframe, and gestured her in.

“Well, little Amily, you have come up in the world since I saw you last,” she said, sounding pleased, and not at all as if she was trying to make it a veiled insult. “And I am more than happy to see you so well settled with your young man. What can I do for the King's Own, my dear?”

:What does she know?:
she asked Rolan.

:Everything. She has to. She's one of your father's people.:

That made things easier. “Well, you know I'm helping Mags and Father try to find this . . .”

“Wretched letter-writer,” the Housekeeper interrupted. “Yes, he told me, I'm in his circle of informants.”

Perfect. “I'm more or less in charge of weeding out the people who live or move about in and around the Palace. So I need the list of the Blues, who they are, and where they are lodging.”

Now the Housekeeper smiled broadly, and with great satisfaction, like someone who has done a job before anyone even knew it was going to need doing. “I thought someone might. I made a copy. Here you are.” And with that, she handed over a neatly folded, thin stack of papers. “I'm sure you haven't considered the servants, but I have. Nikolas asked if I could think of anyone among the servants who could be responsible, and honestly, I can't. They've all been here . . . three or four years at the very least, and those who have little seniority are all young under-servants. The letters didn't start until this summer, and I cannot imagine why any of them would suddenly break out in a flurry of acidic letter writing. Not to mention, I absolutely assure you, they simply do not have the
time
to have written all those letters, delivered them, and still gotten their duties completed.”

Amily nodded; the Palace servants were treated well, paid well, and certainly not overworked—but the sheer volume of letters sent and delivered would have meant that a servant would have been sitting up past his or her bedtime for hours several nights in a fortnight. The Housekeeper, and their fellow-servants, would absolutely have noticed someone showing signs of that sort of exhaustion.

“As for the Blues, they are all youngsters. The missives he showed me left me with the impression that the writer is an adult.”

Well, that was two observations from two separate people, Joya and the Housekeeper, coming to the same conclusion. “You're probably right—but that's not the only reason I want to check on them. What if this creature has been sending
them
those horrible letters? If they are anything like the Trainees, they are going to assume that
they
are the only ones being singled out, and will have no idea how much of this poison has been strewed around the Hill. And they'll hide the fact that they are getting these things, because they won't want anyone to know.”

“In that case, I am sure you will think of a way to find out. I'd appreciate it if you can solve this nonsense as soon as possible. It's not only creating a great deal of unrest, but it has the potential to turn deadly.” The Housekeeper gave her a fixed look, as if to be certain that Amily was taking her seriously.

Startled, Amily just nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Pellam. I'm doubly glad to discover you're someone I can rely on.”

That last brought a gratified smile to the Housekeeper's face, and on that note, Amily hurried off, reading down the list, and noting where each student was quartered.

I need someone who can keep an eye on them from inside, but who?
All
her
friends in the Blues were long since grown and most were married. None of them had had younger siblings who might be students now, and their children were toddlers at best.

Of course. Lirelle.
Mags had said the girl was smart, smart enough to have figured out within days of arriving that there were classes in those three Collegium buildings that she could eavesdrop on. And she was sensible; sensible enough to know that even if she was caught listening to classes, there wasn't much anyone would say to her except “don't do that.”
And she probably figured out she could go right back to listening in as soon as she found a more secure hiding place.

So, smart and sensible, and new enough here she hadn't gotten sucked into any cliques yet.

:Rolan, get Dallen to have Mags talk to me, would you, please?:

:Of course.:

She glanced around and spotted a handy bench, and sat down on it, taking her time reading over the list. As she had thought, the Blues that were boarding in nearby Priories and Abbeys, Monasteries, Convents, and Temples, were all in what she would have been willing to
swear
were “safe” places. All of these particular houses of religion were the sort that concentrated on good works, scholarship, and prayer, or any combination of the three, and had she shown the Poison Pen letters to the heads of any of those particular institutions, they'd have gone livid, and possibly forgotten their vows of peace, at least temporarily.

:How can I serve ye, milady?:
The familiar Mindvoice sounded like Mags' real voice, but it seemed to be coming from between her ears and had a slight echo to it.

:I need an ally in the Blues; they are the only group we're not watching on the Hill. Do you think Lirelle, Lord Lional's daughter, would work? Papa has the Housekeeper with an eye on the servants, by the way.:

She ran her eye down the next page of the list while he thought.
:Aye. I think she'd do. So does Dallen.:

That settled it, then. But Mags had something more to say.
:Get her brother, too. And afore ye do, get their schedules and
go to the Weaponsmaster and have 'em both set up with lessons. I promised—or Magnus promised—Loren'd get 'em and you might as well get the girl started, too. If she don't like 'em, she can quit, and tell her so.:

:Thank you, love!:
she thought affectionately.

Well, the likeliest place for the girl to be at this moment was, in fact, in a class. And just as she realized that, she turned a page in the list of Blues and discovered that the hyper-efficient Housekeeper had already appended the schedules of all of them.

No wonder Papa has her as an agent!
She saw that Lirelle was indeed in a class, and had a long break afterward. Perfect.

She got in place just outside the class in History that Lirelle was taking just in time for class change. Lirelle was one of the last to leave, and was chattering away at high speed to a Herald Trainee when Amily intercepted her.

“Lirelle, would you mind talking with me a moment?” she said—although the conversation abruptly stopped when both girls realized there was a Herald at the classroom door looking right at them.