Closer to the Chest (39 page)

Jorthun pondered this. “Do you think you can trust them to keep quiet? If so, then they would be ideal. They can alert us at the first sign of trouble.”

“I think we'd be foolish
not
to include them.” Amily
frowned. “Part of me is saying to tell Lord Lional, but we all know what he'd do—he'd take them all home, and home would be even less safe for them than here is.”

“That's sadly accurate,” Nikolas agreed. “This Sethorite has made up his mind to act, and running—well, it would be like running from a predator. It will only make him attack. If he has the resources, he could probably even ambush them on the road, where they are
utterly
unprotected.”

“I only have one more suggestion—Dia, do you also breed a smallish guard dog? Something the size of a rabbit-hound perhaps?” Amily asked, but Dia shook her head.

“No, I am sorry, but the only dogs I have that are trained to alert and to guard are the mastiffs,” she said regretfully.

“All right, this is as much of a plan as we can manage for now,” Sedric proclaimed. “Amily, you approach the children in the morning. Nikolas, I'm making your
only
duty to be down in Haven, at the ready, in case Mags needs help. You might set yourself up in the nearest Watch post. Jorthun—try and get me some more real evidence, something we can actually use to
charge
this man before he can act.”

“It probably won't be possible,” Jorthun warned.

“Try anyway.” He looked around at them all. “All right. You all have your tasks. Nikolas, yours starts now.”

•   •   •

In the morning, with Dean Caelen's help, Amily intercepted all three of Lord Lional's younger offspring, and got them all spirited up to the library, as being the one place there could not possibly be any Sethorite spies. They were clearly perplexed at being intercepted, and even more perplexed when they saw who was waiting for them in the middle of the library. Before any of them could burst out with questions, she said, “We think your mother and Helane are in danger.”

Lirelle, as she had suspected, was the first to catch on.
“From the man who's been writing all those letters! The one that killed the dog!” Then her face betrayed uncertainty. “But why? I mean, why
Helane
? She didn't get any more letters than anyone else. And why mother? She didn't get any
at all.
”

“We think the letter writer may be the father of that tutor you disgraced,” she told them frankly.

They thought about that for a moment. “And he wants revenge?” Hawken ventured. His eyes darkened with anger, and he clenched his fist on the hilt of his belt-knife. “Just let him try! I'll—”

Loren punched him in the biceps. “Don't be
stupid,
stupid!” he said, crossly. “Weaponsmaster can wipe the floor with me, and I'm better than you are at everything. He's been really smart so far, do you think he's going to be so stupid as to send somebody that hasn't killed people before? We wouldn't stand a chance.” Hawken opened and shut his mouth several times, but didn't try to contradict his younger brother. He went up several degrees in Amily's estimation at that. So did Loren.
Oh, I really like these youngsters.

“We don't want you to try and fight anyone,” she told them. “If he decides to hurt your mother and sister, we just don't know
what
he would send. But what you absolutely can do is watch over them all the time. Here.” She gave each of them a silver whistle, disguised as a pendant. Hawken's was an ax, Loren's was an arrow, and Lirelle's was a bird. “If you see
anything
suspicious, blow that whistle. We've already tried them; they're loud. The Guards have all been told to come on the run if they hear it. And having an alarm raised will probably unnerve anyone that was sent. That will give you a few moments to try and get them to somewhere safe. We're telling you and not your mother and Helane because we want them to act naturally. They are the ones that any spies will be watching.”

“Shouldn't we tell Father?” Lirelle asked doubtfully.

“Absolutely not,” Hawken exclaimed, before Amily could say anything. “He'll either not believe it and tell Mother, and
then she'll be nervous and give the whole thing away, or he
will
believe it and try to take us back home. We'll be open to ambush at ten or a dozen places along the road, and
if
we get home, we won't have Guards everywhere. I know it's horrid, but it's safer here.”

Amily let out a sigh of relief. These younglings had real sense. And they proved it in the next moment.

“Tell us exactly what you do and do not want us to do,” said Hawken, as his siblings nodded agreement.

•   •   •

As Amily left the Collegium, she saw yet another series of laden carts, followed by a pair of very fine traveling carriages and a string of riding horses, heading for the Palace gate. A string of servants, looking a bit worn, shuffled in the direction of the Palace. It looked as if whoever was leaving had commandeered everyone possible to load the carts. She intercepted one of the Palace porters before he could go back to other duties.

“Who's leaving now?” she asked, as the man paused; her Whites got her his attention, where anything else other than a Guard uniform probably wouldn't have. He looked ready for a tall drink of water and a moment of rest.

“Lady Harmitege an' her pretty chickens,” said the porter. “Eight of 'em. Eight!
And
all their fripperies and all.” He looked perfectly happy to stand in the shade of one of the garden trees and gossip—and Amily was perfectly happy to let him. It wouldn't be “gossip” in his mind, obviously, it would be “informing the Herald.”

“Eight!” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “'Course, four of 'em is cousins, but 'ow she 'spected t'get 'em all married off—well ain't my problem, thank the gods. Can't blame 'em for leavin' either. Six of the eight was gettin' them nasty letters. The dog was the last straw, I reckon.”

“Thank you,” Amily replied, and then stopped stock still as
a brilliant idea occurred to her. Lady Harmitege had inhabited—of course, with all those girls—the largest suite of rooms available to courtiers. And the Farseer
couldn't see what was going on here on the Hill anymore.
If she moved Lord Lional's family there, that would be one more significant layer of safety.

Now, as Nikolas and the others had pointed out, the Poison Pen might have ordinary spies up here . . .

But I doubt he will in the courtier's wing. We've gone over and over every single servant that does so much as pull weeds under their windows, and they are all good, loyal, and have been with us for a very long time.

:I agree, Amily,:
said Rolan.
:The Seneschal is in his office. You can arrange to have Lord Lional's family moved immediately. I doubt very much that they will object to a change in quarters that allows them each a private bedroom.:

She hurried to the Seneschal's office and caught him just before he left it. It took no more than a few words and he was happy to make the arrangements.

“Can you leave their old suite empty?” she asked hesitantly, when he agreed.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “I know exactly what is going on, you know, Herald Amily,” he said to her. “I'm one of your father's—special circle. He's kept me informed of everything, so I can take proper precautions. You might as well tell me what you have in mind.”

“I thought that I might as well spend the nights in that suite,” she told him, with no hesitation. “Of course, the fewer people who know
that,
the better.”

“Ah, set a trap. That's a good idea.” He pondered it a moment. “Well, with courtiers fleeing—not that I blame them—there isn't anyone exactly clamoring for those rooms. I don't see why I can't leave them empty for a fortnight or so.
If—”
he looked at her sternly “—you will consent to an extra Guard or two under the window.”

“I was going to ask for that,” she replied, with a shrug. “I'll have Rolan tell my father, and anyone else he thinks should know, too.”

“Good.” The Seneschal brought his eyebrow back down. “One always hopes you Heralds will be sensible, but one never knows.”

“Oh pish,” she said, managing a faint smile. “Next you will be complaining about us cluttering up the lawn, and shaking your cane at us, and calling us ‘young hooligans.'”

“Herald Amily—” he called after her as she turned to go.

“Yes, Seneschal?” she replied, turning back.

“Good hunting.” Without waiting for her reply, he hurried off on whatever errand he was on before she interrupted him.

I
t had been a full sennight since that last aborted run on the leather-worker's shop, and Mags had not left the confines of the Sethorite Temple. He had exercised with the other Soldiers, and sparred with them, careful to show no more skill at weaponry than a simple laborer should have—but also taking care to seem to “learn” some of those skills quickly. Not so quickly as to excite suspicion, but enough to make him look as if he was earnestly trying with all his might to do what his masters wanted him to.

When he wasn't exercising, sparring, and sleeping, he was taking religious instruction, twice a day, some with all the other Soldiers, and some on his own. He had been given a copy of the ponderous Book of Sethor, which was every bit as misogynistic as he would have expected, and was told firmly to read it in his free time. So read it he did. And he was completely unsurprised to see a great many examples of the sort of raving that had been in those letters and scrawled on walls repeated word for word in the Book. He had already decided
to smuggle his copy of the Book out as soon as he could manage; he'd marked the relevant passages by dog-earing the corners. It was more corroborating evidence that the Sethorites were involved, since they never let copies of their Book out of the Temple. ‘Enough pebbles make an avalanche,' as they used to say in the mine. Hopefully, even if they didn't catch the Poison Pen himself, this would be a big enough avalanche to bury the entire Temple.

For the rest, if it hadn't been for the work of holding a double mind, this would have been something of a holiday. He was fed very well indeed by the standards of his persona. There was meat in his stew, his bread wasn't half sawdust, and there was butter on it. His oatmeal pottage in the morning was full of currants. There were fruit pies and seedcakes. And there was good ale and wine with every meal. If he had been who he claimed he was . . . well . . . this life would have been extremely seductive, and he probably would have succumbed to it by now, as had his fellow Soldiers. After all it was a fine thing to be told that your proper rights had been stolen from you by pernicious women, that your lack of success was not your fault, but theirs, that in the proper order of things you would be a master whose orders were obeyed without question. And it was an intoxicating thing to be solemnly told how important you were, and to a god, no less! And then to be treated with
respect,
fed well, housed better than Pakler would have been in his life, given everything he could possibly want, including a woman whenever he wanted . . . not that he made use of that. He had been afraid at first that this might tip his hand, but . . . no, he wasn't the only one to ignore the kitchen women. So he kept his mouth shut and read the Book.

It was not surprising that his fellow Soldiers were not thinking
at all
about what they were doing—unless it was to relish the “revenge” they were getting on women who should have been treating them like kings. It was in their self-interest
not to think too hard about all the laws they were already breaking and believe everything the Precepts told them.

He did notice one thing, however. Every time he tried to go to the Fellowship Hall, where he might meet Teo, he was carefully, and subtly, steered away.

He thought about trying anyway, but that would damage the impression of complete and unthinking obedience he was trying to give, the picture of someone who was completely taken in and ready to do
anything
that was asked of him. So after three days, he stopped trying.

And as the days passed, he became more and more certain of his “double-minded” disguise. Either the Mindspeaker never spent much time on him, or he—it had to be a “he,” given the Sethorite bias—never bothered to look past that false upper layer.

Mags wasn't going to press his luck, though, by trying to contact Dallen or Nikolas while he was inside the Temple. And he hadn't been allowed outside it to try. Before he did that, he needed to be away from the presence of someone who could potentially sense when another Mindspeaker was present.

But tonight . . . tonight he got the feeling that something was afoot. Tonight's dinner had not been a heavy stew, but venison steak—and the drink had not been wine, but something else, a tisane of some sort, sweet with honey and so pleasant none of the diners appeared to miss the wine. It left him feeling alert and very clear-minded.
I need to find out what this stuff is and get the Healers to look it over. It seems like something we could use.

And when the dishes were cleared away, and he returned to his cell, there was something new there. A lit candle on the bedside table next to his copy of the Book—he'd never been granted a light in here until now. A sheet of folded paper on top of the book. And lying on the bed, laid out for him, a new outfit. There was a close-fitting suit of all-black clothing, with
a hood and gloves, a set of long knives, and a simple robe of the sort that the Novices wore.

He unfolded the paper and began to read the closely written instructions.

You will memorize these instructions,
it began.
You will put on the suit, leaving the suit hood down until you need it, and put the robe over all, leaving the robe hood
up.
Once you are clothed, you will go to the courtyard where you have been taking your exercise. You will join the Brothers who go up to the Palace twice a week to collect food from the feasts for the poor. You will be watched. Once there, you and three of your fellow Soldiers will slip away from the rest at the earliest opportunity. You will go to the dairy to wait. The dairy is just past the kitchen door where your cart will stop. It is a separate building, painted white, with a slabbed stone path leading to it. You will go in there and hide until full dark. When it is full dark, you will discard your robe, put the hood of the suit up and pull the front down over your eyes. When you have adjusted the hood to your liking, you will begin the mission.

The directions continued, sending him to Healer's Collegium, then in through the door of his very own rooms.
There you will find the blasphemy that holds the title of “King's Own,” and you will slay her, that a proper man may once again take the position that is rightfully his.

For a moment, he sat there, trying not to shake with combined rage and anguish, chilled by how narrow an escape Amily had had. Then—well it was a good thing he was sitting, because if he'd been standing, he would have been weak-kneed with relief that it was
he
that was supposed to kill her, and not one of the other three. At least he knew for certain Amily would be safe tonight!

He covered all this by staying bent over the page of instructions, as if he was memorizing it, bracing himself to keep from trembling. He was supposed to be stolid and unimaginative. He shouldn't be at all moved by the orders he had been given.
Controlling his emotions was almost as hard as holding the double mind.
So close . . . so close.

Buck up,
he told himself sternly.
She's safe. No one's gonna hurt her. An' even then, they know what's goin' on, they gotta be prepared up there. She kin take care of herself, and ye kin count on that. Ye need t'get yerself up the Hill so's ye kin make sure all t'other targets are safe, too.

Well, the first thing he needed to do was get himself ready. Quickly he stripped to his breeks and began donning the black clothing. He found it oddly stretchy—how had they managed to do that?—and as a consequence, nearly form-fitting. Certainly ideal for sneaking about in the dark. He tried pulling the hood over his head as he'd been instructed, and discovered there was a slit right where his eyes should be. With some adjustment, he could see perfectly. He pulled it back down as directions had told him to do, discovered that the two flat knives fitted into sheathes on the soft boots, and donned the light robe, tying the flat fabric belt that came with it around his middle, snugly. He put the hood of his robe up, pulling it forward so it partly concealed his face and hid the black fabric at his neck. Then he went to the courtyard, where he found a milling group of what looked like about eight Novices in the same robes he was wearing. Since they all had their hoods up, he couldn't tell which of them was wearing the same black sneak-suit he was.

“Come, Brothers,” said a Precept, beckoning from a door into the courtyard that he had never used before, and had never seen used. He went along with the rest, in the middle of the pack, following them down a corridor lined with empty rooms that could probably be used for storage, until they came out into the open again, in a stable-yard. There was a plain box-wagon with a mule hitched to it in the middle of the yard, which all but two of them got into. The last two mounted the front of the wagon and perched on the seat, one took the reins, and they were off, plodding out onto a different street than the
Temple faced. He had no doubt that the Farseer and Mindspeaker were watching him now; possibly watching the other three as well, but definitely watching
him
. He had brought his copy of the Book with him, and without making any great fuss about it, opened it and began reading. This, he had discovered, was the easiest way of feeding his upper mind. Just fill that with the words from the Book, and everything would look completely normal to the Mindspeaker.

According to his instructions, he'd been reading from various assigned sections of the Book until now. Without any direction to follow, he started at the beginning, which was, of course, the creation story. In his limited experience every religion had a creation story, but most of the ones he'd had anything to do with gave at least a sideways acknowledgement that there were other gods that were just as important as the one their story talked about. Not this Book. Sethor started by dividing darkness and light, then created the heavens and the stars,
then
created the other gods, making them definite inferiors to himself. Then Sethor created earth, and one of the goddesses rebelled at her status of mere “helper” and he cast her to earth. Then he created everything else. When he got around to making people, he made man “out of the breath of life,” but he made woman “out of the mud of the river,” and designated her as man's perpetual servant. Then the cast-down goddess, now designated a demon, infested woman with her rebellion. And in the eyes of the Sethorites, that's when everything went to hell.

Even as loosely woven as this clothing was, he was getting overly warm, but at least the sun was going down; as they wound their way through town, then up through the residences of the wealthy and privileged, most of the time they were in shade. He glanced up from time to time, and couldn't help but notice they were taking the alleys and back ways, however.
Let's not trouble the highborn with the sight of our uncouth wagon.

He went back to the Book. The writing was florid enough, and padded enough with praises to Sethor, that Mags had only just reached the part where “the demon spake sweetly to the woman, and she was weak and yielded to it,” when they got to the top of the Hill and joined a line of three other carts. They were all coming in through the merchant's gate on the “working” side of the Palace.

He was going to put the book inside his robe, when he heard
:Leave the book in the cart,:
in his mind.

Obediently he tucked it under the wagon seat. They definitely had been watching him, and his double-mind was still holding. They were taking no chances that he might leave behind this bit of evidence of the Sethorites' guilt. Too bad. There could not be enough evidence, so far as he was concerned.
Hopefully I impressed them with my piety, anyway.

Their wagon was checked over by the Guards, who gave each of the brothers a cursory search—

Too cursory. Unless that's on purpose.
He wished he knew what was going on up here!

He reminded himself that he'd gotten warning through. He'd sent word out with Teo. He'd been able to Mindspeak a bit with Dallen. They
had
to have realized that something was being planned, and had planned a counter-move.

The Guards waved them through. They pulled up with the other three wagons at the kitchen door. By this time it was dusk. Dinner was well over . . . and servants were bringing out food. But there was far, far more than he had expected; these were actual supplies, not leftovers, in barrels and boxes and big burlap bags.

For a moment, Mags was taken aback, because he had no notion of what was going on here. Surely they weren't
stealing
this food! But then he realized, as he helped load these things into the wagon, that the Palace was actually supplying more than leftovers for the poor. It was providing some supplies for Temples as well. Hence, the wagon, and the eight men to load
it. He looked things over quickly, and realized that this bounty was what the Sethorites were probably using to feed the folks in the Fellowship Hall. And he recalled vaguely that the Crown distributed its supplies to feed the poor through all the religious orders.
Well, I reckon th' Crown hasta treat all Temples and whatnot alike . . . but I sure don' like the fact that Sethor don't feed nobody but men.