Closer to the Chest (37 page)

“Now, we have a few questions,” the Precept continued. “We would like to know how you came by the skill of roof-walking. You appear very . . . practiced.”

“Learnt it as a little, sor,” Mags said. “M'sibs an' me, we useta roof-run alla time when we was littles. Safer nor bein' on street; them carters, they don' look out fer kids, neither do them highborns when they's in a hurry. On street, ye kin get snatched up, too. Cooler t'sleep on th' roof in summer. Faster t'get almost anywheres is t'go by roof.” He scratched at his head, and looked rueful. “I bain't a big man, sor. Still safer b'night nor bein' on street. Less'n m'frien' Teo's wit' me.”

“So it is,” the Precept chuckled. He lowered his lids over those uncanny eyes. “And that accounts for you wanting him
to stay. Being none too stout myself, you have my sympathy, Brother Pakler. And that clears away a question I had.”

He didn't
ask
that question, but Mags could imagine what it was. Whether or not he'd gotten those skills as a thief.
I wonder what he would have said if I'd claimed to be one?
It occurred to him that such an answer would not necessarily mean rejection—just an offer of a different sort of “job” altogether.

“Now.” The Precept leaned over his hands again, fixing Mags with a piercing stare. “Are you a true son of Sethor, Brother Pakler? Are you prepared to take His cause to the heart of the corruption in this land?”

Mags decided that bewilderment was the best reaction here. “I ain't sure whatcha mean, sor,” he said, scratching his head again. “But what'er Sethor wants, I reckon I'll do 'er. Sethor bin good t'me. Right good. Reckon I kin pay thet back.”

“Very good.” The Precept sat back in his chair. “You may go and tell your friend that he can go home without you. You will be moving into one of the Novitiate cells here in the Temple. You have no family, so you have only yourself to provide for, which makes you an ideal candidate for service.”

“Ye don' mean me t'be no Novice, sor!” Mags said in alarm. “I bain't that smart!”

The Precept laughed heartily. “Of course not. You will eat and sleep with the Novices, but tomorrow you may well meet one of your fellow Soldiers of Sethor, who are quite different from Novices, with fewer restrictions on their behavior. Sethor will be seeing to all your needs from now on. We will supply you with shelter, food, and clothing. We will require your faith, and your labor. You will be one of us, Brother Pakler.”

“Aye, sor,” he said obediently, although his mind was reeling. He hoped that Teo was smart enough to know what he should do from the few clues he was going to give the man. “I'll go tell Teo now.” He smiled uncertainly at the Precept. “Reckon he'll wish't it were him.”

The Precept nodded his acceptance; the Novice opened the door and let him out, then followed him. Mags hadn't expected anything else.

In the Fellowship Hall they found Teo sitting on the edge of a group of men that were airing their grievances against women under the direction of another Novice, from the bits that Mags caught as he and the Novice walked up to them. Teo looked up before they got to the group, got up, and left them.

“Teo!” Mags said, sounding nervous and excited (he hoped). “They're takin' me in! They got work fer me. I got grub, bed, duds, ever'thin'! I gotta stay here but that ain't no thin'!”

Teo's face transformed into a mask of pure envy. “Wish't I got thet,” he said, with jealousy tinging his speech. “Hellfires, yer gonna sleep cool, an' ev'thin'!”

The Novice laughed, and clapped Teo on the shoulder. “Keep coming and showing your faith, Brother Teo, and one day we may take you into our secular fellowship as well. But go on home now—stop by the food table and tell them that Novice Tomson authorized you to take home a blessing-basket. If we are going to deprive you of the company of your friend for a while, the least we can do is feed your body as well as your soul.”

Teo's face lit up. “Thenkee sor!” he said, and clasped Mags shoulders. “Ye do good, Pakler. Ye put in good word fer me.”

Mags slapped him on the back. “Damn if I don',” he promised. “Now git, so's ye kin git some sleep.”

Teo hurried off to the food table. As the Novice let Mags back toward the cells, he saw Teo talking to the Novice in charge of the food. The man left and returned quickly bearing a covered basked that looked quite heavy, which he put into Teo's hands.

At that point they left the Fellowship Hall, and Mags didn't see what happened next.

•   •   •

Mags lay back on a very comfortable bed by the standards of Harkon and Pakler, with his hands under his head. This was a real bed, rope-strung and all, with a good tufted wool mattress and real sheets, blanket, and pillow. He was clean—and very glad that his “disguise” of Pakler was far less than Harkon required, or it wouldn't have lasted past the extremely thorough bath he'd been told to take. He was wearing brand new clothing—just for sleeping, he'd been told—a set of light trews and a sleeveless jerkin that had been cut out of extremely worn sheets, and expertly sewn together. The very sort of sheets that effigy that had been burned had been made of. . . .

He had two more sets of common clothing, also clean, waiting for him, and several changes of breeks. And new, canvas boots. “Sethor requires cleanliness, Brother Pakler,” the Novice had said, in a voice that told Mags that there would be no arguments accepted. Not that he intended to argue. If anything, he was grateful. All the sweating he'd done tonight as he ran over the roofs and wrecked that shop had made herb-dust stick to him all over, and until that bath, he'd been intolerably itchy.

Once clean, with his new possessions in hand, and his few personal belongings piled on top of the new clothing, he'd been shown to one of the cells—which turned out to be what lay behind the doors in the corridor. As he had expected, they were small, narrow rooms, with a bed, a table, and a small chest where he was told to put his things.

Then the Novice had bid him good night, and shut the door, leaving him in darkness. Not total darkness; there was a slit window just at the ceiling, presumably to let in fresh air, and which now let in moonlight, but there wasn't enough light to do more than grope his way to the bed and lie down on it.

He was just composing himself to try to talk to Nikolas, when his father-in-law's mind touched his instead.
:Mags?:

:Aye. I'm alone, and kin talk.:

:Teo came and reported to Kriss. Kriss wrote it all down and sent my man from the Guards back to me with the report.:

Mags smiled a little into the dark, but was careful to make it no more than the smile of a simple man who has found himself in sudden comfort. Just in case someone was still watching. Then he turned over on his side and tucked his arm around his head.
:That Teo's as smart as I hoped. Aight. Here's what happened.:
He told Nikolas everything, as concisely as possible. Not that there was much to tell, except that
now
they knew for certain that the vandalism of womens' shops had been done—or at least, hired done—by the Sethorites. And he had more evidence that someone, or more than one person, was using Farsight.

:I'm followin' through,:
he finished.
:This's every bit as good a foot in as I'd hoped.:

:It's more than I hoped for,:
Nikolas said.
:I'll make a report to the King.:

And there it was. No, “be carefuls,” no orders to stay in touch via some agent or other, just the plain acknowledgement, in what Nikolas did
not
say, that Nikolas was certain of Mags' competence and was going to leave him alone to work the job. Mags felt a little thrill of accomplishment.

:Thankee, Nikolas.:
The “presence” that was Nikolas faded from his mind, and he turned his concentration to the harder task of talking to Amily.

:Hey, love,:
he sent her.

Mags!
he “saw” in her mind. And then a waft of emotion poured over him. He was no empath, but he felt it dimly anyway, perhaps because of their emotional bond, or maybe it was all in his head, just because he knew her so well. But he didn't think so; it was compounded of worry and pride, love and frustration. He fully understood the frustration. She felt like she was doing nothing.

:We need you
there,
'cause the only person who can properly protect Helane is you,:
he reminded her.
:If we put a guard
on the girl, an' he's got someone with eyes on her, we'll alert the Poison Pen. If we send her away, we know for sure he'll find out. But you kin be her friend. An' you know what t'look fer. An' most of all, you got little spies all
over
the Palace. Somethin's not right, all them muff-dogs'll know.:

He sensed that she was thinking, hard.
:I wish their quarters were bigger. We could use one of those mastiffs Dia raises.:
Then he
felt
an idea hit her.
:I wonder if she breeds a smaller dog that just alerts, rather than attacks? I'll ask her . . .:

:Leavin' all that in your hands, love. You'll know best what t'do when you take the lay'a the land. Tell yer Pa I said so, too. Wish I was up there, but at least I ain't far.:

More love. And a sense of amusement.
:And at least you're not a hostage. Goodnight!:

He pushed his face into the pillow so his grin wouldn't show.
Heh. At least I ain't a hostage . . .

M
ags sat patiently in another small, bare room. He'd dressed in his “new” clothing—which was clearly used, but much better and cleaner than anything Pakler had ever worn, and breakfasted in a smaller hall with the Novices, the Precepts, and a half dozen men who were dressed as he was.
The “Soldiers of Sethor?” Probably.
He took careful note of his surroundings, without seeming to. This, at least, was something he had a great deal of practice in. He did have to wonder at the Sisters of Ardana; they were supposed to be an entirely peaceful Order, but he'd seen keeps that were less like fortresses than this. Take this room; stone all around, except for three windows high up on the wall, with decorative iron grates over them. Decorative, yes, but still, they were
iron grates.
But maybe the Sisters had bought this place from another dying religion, as they in turn had been bought out.

He made no conversation, and no one made any with him; everyone seemed very intent on their own food and their own business. Then when he was done, he was sent by one of the
Novices he had been eating with to this little room, with a couple of stone seats in it. He took one, and waited.

If he had been the same stolid character he was pretending to be, waiting wouldn't bother him, so he didn't let a bit of impatience show. Someone like Pakler would be used to waiting on other people's leisure. In fact, that was half of what poor people did, when it came right down to it; if you had no steady job, you did a lot of waiting.

Eventually a new Novice came in, and took the other stone seat. This was a tall, thin, blond one, with the same hard—say it,
fanatical
—eyes as all the rest. “Well, Pakler, are you still prepared to serve the God in whatever capacity he calls you to?” the robed man asked.

“Aye, sor.” Mags bobbed his head earnestly. To Pakler, who was at the very bottom of the social scale, everyone was “sir.” And he would bow and scrape to whoever had marginally better clothing, just in case.

“Are you prepared to take your instructions by Mindspeech?” The Novice raised an eyebrow. Mags did not have to conceal his shock. Thank goodness. Because this was a real shock and not at all anything he had expected.
Mindspeech? They've got Mindspeech too?
Never had he heard of anyone but a Herald with Mindspeech.

Then the impact of that shook him, and he clamped a shield down hastily around his inner thoughts. Oh, it was a damn good thing that Dallen had drilled him in every sort of thing that Mindspeech could do, because if he had to hide his identity from another Mindspeaker this could get . . . interesting.

He let careful things leak. Slow, methodical thoughts. Puzzlement. That should be the chief one. A little fear, because someone like Pakler was a little afraid of anything new.

“Mindspeech?” he said, sounding like a man who was sorely puzzled, and letting more fuzzy impressions of puzzlement and worry drift over the top of his mental shield. “That
be like them Heralds, with talkin' in yer head, belike? But I thunk—on'y Heralds could do thet.”

The Novice smiled.
Is
he
a Mindspeaker? No . . . no, Or I'd already be beaten within an inch of my life. Or, more likely, beaten to death. Would they dare to kill a Herald? They might.
It was a big step from killing a dog to killing a man, but on the other hand, if they knew he was a Herald, that might send them over the edge enough to do just that. “The God gives us many powers, Brother Pakler. The ability to guide you on a task from afar is one of them.”

“Huh. I'll be.” He scratched his head, which he had
not
combed when he got up this morning, so he would look tousled and untidy, and less like Herald Mags.
Well, this is not good. He doesn't know that
I
have Mindspeech and could hear him if I chose, so this other Mindspeaker is powerful enough to talk to people that don't have Gifts themselves. I thought
I
was the only one around that could do that!

And that left him with another problem. Now he didn't dare use Mindspeech himself, lest this other Mindspeaker pick it up. He wasn't even certain he dared talk to Dallen directly . . . at least not while he was in the Temple. And not while there were so few other minds around his. He'd have to be somewhere very crowded to try it, and he had the distinct impression that “in a crowd” was the last place his “brothers” would let him be right now.

“So since you have no objection, Brother,” the Novice continued, smoothly. “We will move on to the next phase of your testing.”

Mags allowed himself to look a bit alarmed. “I ain't gonna lose m'place here am I?” he asked anxiously. “Iffen I cain't hear this stuff? I wanta serve Sethor, I wanta stay—I did all right last night, t'other Novice said so!”

The Novice smiled soothingly. “Don't you worry about that, Brother Pakler. We do not direct
every
Soldier of Sethor with
Mindspeech. Just the most special ones. We are sure you will be one of the special ones.”

Which means either that they know I'm Gifted, which is a big damn problem, or their Mindspeaker is as strong as me.
Or maybe not. Mags could Mindspeak to literally anyone. But this Novice had implied that
their
Mindspeaker could only talk to some of the unGifted. So maybe he wasn't quite as good as Mags.

Don't count on it, and don't get cocky.

“For now, we would like you to rest. You will be performing your task by night, as you did last night. If you wake and are hungry, you may go straight to the kitchen and help yourself. I will show you where it is. You already know where the privies are, yes?” The Novice seemed utterly oblivious to the roil of anxiety and racing thoughts under his shield. And surely if the Mindspeaker had detected all of this, he'd have informed the Novice.
I might still get away with this.

“Aye, sor,” Mags said humbly. Then he smiled shyly. “Don' mind sleepin' th' day. On'y time I ever bin let t'do thet was when I bain't got work. An' then, a empty belly don't make fer good sleepin'.”

“I can imagine,” the Novice replied carelessly, and Mags got the distinct impression this fellow had never known a hungry day in his life.
Highborn? Maybe. Definitely better than a farmhand or a craftsman's helper.
“All right, let me show you the kitchen. We'll be serving you better food than we dole out in the Fellowship Hall, as I am sure you learned this morning.”

“Aye sor,” Mags repeated, this time sounding eager, as would any man who'd lived lean for a very long time, when told he was about to be able to enjoy all he could eat. There seemed to be two sorts of men here; the ones like Mags, the common working man—or just as common thug and layabout—and the ones like these, who came from a slightly better, or significantly better background. And the latter treated the former like . . . children to be indulged as long as
they were good little children who did exactly as they were told.

He followed the Novice to the kitchen, which was just off the smaller hall where he and the others had eaten this morning. It was enormous, scrupulously clean, and warmer than the rest of the building. To his surprise there were
women
here.

Women who kept their heads down, didn't speak, and scuttled around like frightened mice. Mags restrained the impulse to say something. Here, it was clear, the principles of Sethor the Patriarch were put into practice . . . and when one of the women raised her head for a moment and he saw her bruised face, it was painfully clear just how Sethor's discipline was enforced.

They didn't look starved, and they were well-clothed, a little too well, actually, and identically, in shifts that were tied tightly around their necks, with sleeves that ended at their wrists, skirts that went all the way down to the floor, and aprons over it all. If this kitchen hadn't been in the cool of this stone building, they'd have been suffocating. As it was there was enough heat from the fireplaces and the ovens built into them to make them all sweat enough that their hair sent out little damp straggles and curls from under the kerchiefs they all wore.

The Novice smiled smugly. “Whatever you need to eat, you may take from here if it is not a mealtime,” he said. “And . . . if you pass this second test, you may take
whatever you want
from this room.” His nod as Mags looked from him, to one of the women, and back again, made it quite clear he meant the women workers. And to drive that home, he added, “Just do not leave the female incapable of her duties afterward. Otherwise you may do with her as you wish. That is the privilege of the Soldiers of Sethor.”

Mags had never wanted to strangle anyone so much in his life, but he managed to grin—it probably looked a bit feral,
which was all for the best—and say “Aye, sor!” And if that came out a bit fierce, well . . . a man who had been without a woman for quite some time might well sound fierce when told he could have one.

Told I can have one . . . as if they're pocket pies to be passed around and eaten by anyone, and not people!
But it was quite clear that to the Novice, while these poor things might be intrinsically more valuable than a pocket pie, they were accounted to have no more free will than one.

The Novice left him, and he resisted the urge to grab these women and herd them out the door to freedom. It was a very powerful urge, but it would probably terrify them, and would end up exposing him for what he was. So he didn't. Instead he went back to his room like a good little Soldier of Sethor, and laid himself down on the bed as he had been instructed to do.

At least he was able to take better measure of his quarters; stone all around, no signs that the walls had ever been decorated; weak sunlight came through the slit near the ceiling, showing him that the outside wall here must be as thick as his forearm and hand.

He stared at it for a moment; he had thought of escaping through that slit, but it was quite clear now that it was too narrow and the wall was too thick for anything of the sort. One of his littles in Aunty Minda's gang might be able to, but not he.

All right, then. I'll have to see this through and take the hard way.
He closed his eyes. He was going to have to do one of the most difficult mental tasks he had ever attempted. He was going to have to construct, quite literally, two minds. The first one, which would remain shielded, would be the real one. The second would have only the surface thoughts of the common sort of thuggish laborer he was supposed to be. The only time he'd ever tried anything like this, was when he'd tried to hold the kernel of “himself” intact through the barrage of drugs and memories that the Sleepgivers had put him through.
He wished he had Dallen here, or dared to contact the Companion. This would have been a
lot
easier with Dallen's help.

On the whole he was very glad that he'd been given the day to “rest.” He was going to need the entire day to build his “overmind” and rest from the labor.

First things first. The shield, which needed to look to a fellow Mindspeaker not like a shield at all, but like the murky bottom of a very stupid mind.

•   •   •

He emerged from his work at the ringing of a bell; there had been a similar bell rung this morning, when a Novice had come to take him to breakfast. Mindful that someone might be watching him, he stretched and got up slowly, as if he'd been sleeping.

I ain't goin' into that kitchen, no matter how hungry I be.
If he couldn't rescue those poor women, then at least he wouldn't terrify them by going in there and making them think he was about to drag one of them off and rape her. Let whoever was keeping an eye on him believe that he was being very careful about minding the rules. This was a
mealtime,
therefore, he would eat with everyone else.

He kept his head down and appeared sleepy, and inhaled everything that he was offered. Mental work was
hard,
and he was ravenous.

After he'd eaten, he went straight back to his bed, and resumed his work, making his mental shields as tough as he ever had in his life, and setting a few dull thoughts about food and nice beds and sleep and how the women deserved everything they got to coat the surface of those shields. By the time he was done, the bell was ringing for dinner.

There were real windows in this room, and as he ate with the others, he watched the sun set and scarcely tasted what he'd been given. It wouldn't be very much longer before his
ruse was tested . . . and he honestly did not know what he would do if he was found out. Try to call for Dallen of course, and any other Herald he could reach, but, what if he was prevented? The Sethorites could kill him and get rid of the body and deny he'd ever been here and there was
nothing
to show that he had been. Or . . . even worse, with a Mindspeaker as powerful as
he
was among them, the Sethorites could do what the Sleepgivers had not been able to accomplish, and wipe out his mind. Then they could just turn him loose on the street, a drooling idiot, and deny that he'd been inside their walls. No matter what Dallen and Nikolas said, the Sethorites could claim immunity from Truth Spell, and he had no way of leaving any token that he had been here. Even his original clothing was gone. With a Farseer possibly watching his every move, he didn't even dare scratch some identifying token in the stone of his cell.