Closer to the Chest (40 page)

By the time the wagon was half loaded, it was dark, and following his orders, Mags took the first opportunity to slip away from the rest. Of course, knowing the Hill as well as he did, it was ridiculously easy to get out of sight. But he did not go to the dairy as he'd been ordered.

As soon as he could, he slipped in through the doorway to the kitchen wood-room, to hide himself for a moment from passing Guards or servants. No one was going to be coming after wood at this time of night.

It was dark in there, with wood piled up close to the door. He backed into it, feeling the ends of the logs with one hand to make sure he didn't get snagged on them.
:Dallen!:
he called urgently, with anxiety clutching at his throat, and once again, he felt a rush of relief, this time when his Companion answered calmly.

:Take a breath, Chosen. I've been listening the entire time. I just stayed in the back of your inner mind; I knew if you had no idea I was there, no one else would either.:

:You have? You did?:
He sagged against the woodpile, holding himself up with one hand braced against the end of a log behind him. It was going to be all right. They had a plan.

:Everyone has been warned. We don't know where the other three got themselves to—we are fairly certain that they are the same men who've been coming up here to plant letters, so they probably know the Hill as well as you do by now—but we'll find them. Lord Lional's family is safe. We moved them, and of course the men that came for them don't know that. Amily is waiting in their old quarters—:

:Wait, what?:
he shouted. Amily wasn't safe? Amily was, in fact, in the one place that
wasn't
safe?

He tore off his robe, grabbed a stout stick from the pile and ran for the Courtier's Wing, his heart hammering with fear.
:Amily!:
he screamed at her.
:Amily!:

•   •   •

Amily had been sitting on the bare floor of the suite, staff across her lap, monitoring all the muff-dogs along the hallway in turn, when her concentration was jolted by Mags' unexpected scream in her head. So she missed the exact moment when the door to the suite opened—but the light from the hallway caught her attention, and she didn't miss the door closing, the soft
shh-sh
of a blade leaving a sheathe, or the momentary gleam of steel in some fugitive light from the window. And he wasn't far from her. Fear hit her and coursed through her like a bolt of lightning—

And then it was gone, replaced with a cool calculation. Her hands steadied, she clutched the staff, she took a silent breath, and counted soft steps coming from where she had last seen that fugitive gleam of metal.
One . . . two . . .

That was when she swung the staff she'd been holding where the invader's legs should be.

But the sound of the staff cutting the air must have alerted him; a darker shadow in the shadows leapt out of the way, then came at where she had been.

Damn.
She scrambled to her feet.

He cut the air with his knife, stabbing where she had been a moment ago.

She had already moved, sliding her feet on the wooden floor to avoid making any sound, shifting around to the side.

There he is.
She hit him from behind with a blow of the staff, aiming for a solid hit across both kidneys. The staff hit with a satisfying
thud,
and she heard him stagger toward the
window. Now she could see him; there wasn't
much
light outside, but there was enough that he stood out against it. She swung and connected with his head, and the only reason she didn't knock him cold was that he managed to get his arm up in time to intercept the staff.

He grunted with pain, but quicker than she would have thought him able to, he wrapped his arm around the staff and pulled. Instead of resisting, she yielded, and the two of them stumbled across the room together, with the staff keeping him from grabbing her. The furniture was mostly gone, but he ran into a table that had been too big to move, and grunted in pain. He let go of the staff involuntarily, and she snatched it away from him. Reversing it, she swung at him again, but she couldn't see him now, and her staff met only air.

I'm between him and the window!
she realized, and dropped and rolled until she met the wall, crawled along it for a bit then stood up, slowly, listening. Her heart pounded in her ears, but she was still in that cool, calculating state, and somehow wasn't at all afraid.

But her mouth was dry. And her neck tingled. She couldn't see him . . . but he couldn't see her, either. Now no longer a visible target, she felt her way along the wall, moving silently, and still listening as hard as she could.

She heard a soft shuffling of feet, but it stopped before she could figure out where it was coming from.
Now
she began to fear. Not much, just enough to galvanize her into action.

All right. Time to end this right now!
She fumbled for the whistle around her neck, stuck it in her mouth and blew.

And with exquisitely bad timing, the whistle shrilled just as the door opened again, and two more dark figures entered. One of them shut the door, and she heard the bolt slamming home.

Now she was locked in here with all three of them. Mags was certainly coming. So were the Guards.

I just have to keep them off for a few more moments. . . .
She slid along the wall, quickly, to at least get away from the spot she had stood when she had blown the whistle. Had any of them seen her?

“It's three against one,” whispered a voice. “You can't win.”

She kept her mouth shut. No point in giving her new position away. She kept the staff balanced horizontally in her hands, about waist high, and close to her body. She'd feel it if anyone approached her from either side; they'd run into the end of the staff.

“You in there!” This voice came from the window. “There's an entire squad of Guard out here, and more are coming down the hall. You can't escape. Surrender now!”

Just a few more moments. . . .

“God will protect us, unbelievers!” one of them shouted back shrilly.

“Shut
up
, you idiot!” hissed another. “We need a hostage! Find him!”

She couldn't help but grin at that.
Him, indeed.
What would they think if they knew they were being bested by a woman?

But at just that moment, the left-hand end of her staff moved—was bumped—and the man who'd bumped it was quick-witted enough to realize she was there and lunged for her.

Unfortunately for him, as he lunged, she did, too. She slammed the butt of the staff into something soft, and from the sound he made, it was his stomach. But the satisfaction she felt was short-lived as someone seized her from behind, and the staff fell from her hands with a clatter.

Someone was pounding on the door.

Panic hit as arms closed around her, but trained reflexes were faster. She rammed her head backward, hoping to get him in the chin, and slammed her foot down where she thought his arch might be. She did better than hitting his chin; she felt teeth on her scalp as the back of her head crunched his nose. She missed the arch of his foot, but not by much,
and she heard another crunch from the floor where her hard heel hit his toes in what felt like cloth boots.

He howled with pain and let go, and once again, she dove and rolled across the floor, not stopping until she hit another wall.

The door slammed open. Light poured in. And Mags charged through it.

One of the Sethorites lunged for him; Mags pivoted, and smacked him in the side of the head with a log. She spotted another heading for him, and dove for his knees, intercepting him before he could reach Mags. She caught him completely off-guard; he lost his balance completely and went down, hitting his head on the floor with a
crack
that made her wince.

Movement as she rolled away from him made her cry
“Mags, look out!”
as the man whose nose she had broken came lunging at Mags out of the dark, knives ready.

Mags whirled. Her heart was in her mouth, as all she could see was a whirl of limbs and knives, and all she could hear were grunts of effort.

It was over in moments; there was a
thud,
and the man dropped to the floor, leaving Mags standing, panting. He dropped the log, and peered into the darkness. “Amily?”

“Here!” she said, springing to her feet and into his arms.

They clung together as the Guard poured into the room, bringing torches and lanterns. He was shaking just as hard as she was now, and their hearts hammered in double-time.
Now,
now she felt real fear, and she was ready to weep with it.

“It's over,” he said, holding her tightly, as if he was afraid she would vanish if he let go. His trembling hands caressed her hair and the small of her back. “It's really over. We got 'em now.”

“From your mouth to the gods' ears,” she murmured into his shoulder, feeling every bit of nervous energy running right out of her, and wanting nothing more than to go to bed and sleep for an age in his arms.

“So long's it ain't Sethor,” he replied.

T
he three captured Sethorites, wounds tended and bandaged, with wrists and ankles bound in iron manacles, had been shackled to three iron chairs that had been brought into the Lesser Audience Chamber. King and Prince both were on their thrones; Amily behind the Prince, her father behind the King. Jorthun stood before the dais and to the right, while Mags stood next to the manacled, would-be murderers, ready to cast the coercive Truth Spell when it was needed. The chamber was still, close, and a bit uncomfortable. This was Jorthun's idea. It was also Jorthun's idea to play the rule of “chief accuser.” He wanted the attention on anyone
but
Mags.

The three felons had not said a word so far. Mags was not at all surprised. He would not have expected anything else, once he'd spent some time observing them in custody. These weren't just ordinary thugs like “Pakler” had been; they were fanatics, probably had been planting letters and destroying shops from the beginning, and they were prepared to die for Sethor.

He didn't think they were prepared for what was coming. Then again, it didn't really matter. They were mostly here as props; he didn't think Jorthun really cared if they confessed, or if he cast Truth Spell on them or not. They were here to rattle the bigger fish.

The door opened, and Theodor Kresh, the High Priest of Sethor, stepped through it, escorted by no less than four of the Guard, and accompanied by a single attendant—Mags recognized him as Kresh's second-in-command. It looked as if the Guard had collected them shortly after their three flunkies had been captured. That had been Jorthun's plan; grab them before they realized their mission had failed, and hold them until the King and Prince were ready to see them. Both of them were wearing rumpled robes that had clearly been thrown on in haste, and looked very indignant and ruffled—and both of them stopped dead when they saw the three bound men.

Jorthun stepped forward a single pace, and bowed slightly. “Master Kresh,” he said smoothly. “We are about to invoke coercive Truth Spell on these men, and we thought you should be here. After all, they are known to be members of your . . . organization.”

Kresh looked startled—and began looking in every direction
but
the three men, as if he was seeking a way out of this predicament.
He
was clearly unprepared for this. Whatever he had been imagining as he sat in that bare, guarded room, awaiting the King's pleasure, it obviously had not been this.

But his assistant suddenly lunged at Mags, who didn't move a hair, as the Guards piled on him and seized him. The guards hauled him back with quite a bit of effort; Mags yawned in his face, and did his best to look bored. “You are
all
cursed,” he screamed, eyes wild, spittle flying, as he fought the men holding him. “You, your get, and yes, your Kingdom, that you let be ruled by perfidious whores and man-aping sluts! Death to all of you, but a fiery death to those demon-creatures who lead you all into ruin!”

Good thing I don' believe in Sethor, or his curses.

Four more Guards came racing in, and took over holding the assistant—whose name Mags could not recall—leaving the original four to go back to their positions.

This went on for quite some time. The ranting grew increasingly unhinged; Mags cast a quick glance over to the dais. The King was cleaning his fingernails. The Prince was tracing a little design on the arm of his throne. Amily was twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Her father looked half asleep. And Jorthun had his arms crossed and was visibly tapping a toe with impatience.

One of the Guards got hold of Kresh, though it didn't appear as if he intended to try to fight or run. Instead, he stared at them all, hollow-eyed, while his underling ranted.

Finally they all grew tired of the hysterics, and one of the Guards called out over the raving, “Anybody got a cloth?”

He took a handkerchief Amily gave him and gagged the man. That left him rolling his eyes in impotent fury. Jorthun turned to Kresh in the resulting silence. “You might as well cooperate,” he said, coldly. “We have more than enough evidence to allow Coercive Truth Spell on all of you.”

Kresh finally gathered the shreds of his dignity about himself and drew himself up. “The God will protect me!” he proclaimed, and snapped his mouth shut.

Jorthun smiled, thinly. “I'm sure
you
think so, but you might want to consider why your god allowed us to seize you in the first place,” he replied, and motioned to Mags. “Kresh, or his underling first, Herald Mags?”

Mags eyed both of them. Kresh's nostrils were flaring in alarm; the flunky's attitude didn't change a particle. “Reckon the crazy one knows the most,” he said. “But let me get the Spell on 'im first, so we can cut out all the rantin'.”

Mags closed his eyes for a moment to get himself in the proper frame of mind, then invoked the Spell. The blue mist settled over the man as Kresh's eyes bulged. “You kin take the
gag off 'im,” Mags said to the Guard, then nodded to Jorthun. “You know what you wanta ask, so do it, milord.”

Jorthun waited until the Guard had pulled the gag completely free of the man's mouth, then cleared his throat. “Is your real name Renn Haladane?”

“Yes,” the man said, the words clearly coming from a violently unwilling mouth. He had turned bright red with the effort of resisting.

“And was your twin brother Roan Haladane, a musician who failed to get a position at Bardic Collegium?” Jorthun continued, as Mags wondered where this was going to go. Jorthun had been playing his cards very close to his chest, and hadn't let any of them know what was coming.

“Yes,” the man growled.

“And your father was Taryan Haladane, a chief priest of the Temple of Sethor, as you were a Precept under him?” Jorthun continued smoothly, as Mags suddenly saw all the pieces falling in place.

“Yes.”
His teeth were gritted, brows were furrowed, and still the answer was forced from him.

“And was Roan Haladane not employed as a music tutor for Lord Lional's two daughters, Helane and Lirelle?” Jorthun continued, steadily, as enlightenment dawned on all their faces.

“Yes, damn you!”
the man shouted, shaking with rage from head to toe. “Father died of grief after they drove him to his death! And if it had not been for the demons in your hearts, I would have had my revenge on them all! I would have had that harridan Tyria killed, I would have taken Helane for myself as was destined when my brother died, and I would have destroyed that bitch that stands beside the King so that Sethor could make me King's Own and begin the cleansing of this—”

“That'll be about enough,” Mags said, and the Guards, taking that as their signal to gag the man, did so with alacrity.
The King did not even appear remotely disturbed, only cold and a trifle angry. The Prince, however, looked furious.

“Take him away,” the King said, sternly, and as the Guards dragged Haladane off, he turned to Kresh.

“I knew nothing about this!” Kresh proclaimed, his eyes wide, waving his hands frantically in negation. “Nothing!”

The King snorted, and looked utterly unconvinced. “Mags?” he said.

With a little smile. Mags invoked Truth Spell for the second time.

“Which of you was the Mindspeaker?” Jorthun asked Kresh. Kresh's eyes bulged in shock and surprise, but his mouth opened despite a visible struggle to keep it closed. “Haladane,” the Priest said.

“Did his father bring him into the Temple because of this Gift?” Jorthun continued.

“Probably.” The High Priest clearly did not know the answer to that, and Jorthun let it slide. It would have been logical, though.
Temple'd be about the only place he could get trainin' so he didn't go crazy.
Mags thought about that a moment, then amended his own thought.
Crazier.

“And you were the Farseer?” Jorthun continued.

“Yes,” the Priest answered unwillingly. Jorthun turned to the thrones.

“So, it is exactly as Mags thought. Kresh would use his Gift to make sure that the agents delivering the letters—
or
the vandals going to ruin the shops of honest craftswomen—were able to evade any of the Guards or Watch, and elude detection. Haladane would use Mindspeech to direct them.” Jorthun nodded a little at Mags. “As Mags can testify.”

“Aye, Majesty,” Mags agreed. “I recognized the feel of 'is mind when 'e walked in here. Seein' as I was deep in their Temple as one of their bullyboys.” He sighed sadly. “Wrecked one herb-shop, an' 'bout a quarter of a leather-shop.”

Kresh made strangling sounds, presumably because he
realized at the moment how completely, utterly and thoroughly hung he was.

“So, allow me to fill in the rest of the story,” Jorthun continued, turning back to Kresh. “Feel free to correct me if I am wrong. When Haladane's brother killed himself, he and his father were already in your . . . service. You knew of his ability, you knew he would turn utterly fanatic when both his father and brother died, and you saw an opportunity. You would Farsee to watch over your pawns, he would use Mindspeech to direct them, and as a sideline to your campaign, you would help him get his revenge.” Jorthun cocked his head to one side. “The only question I have left is this. Did you
really
think that your ‘god' would allow him to become King's Own after he murdered Herald Amily?”

“Of
course
!” Kresh shouted, now losing any semblance of control. “Sethor is—”

“Impotent,” King Kyril snapped. “And as of this moment, bankrupt and out of business in this Kingdom. Prince Sedric, I will rely on you to take a detachment of the Guard down to the so-called Temple, and round up everyone you find there. We'll sort them out after they're in gaol.”

Sedric got to his feet with a speed that suggested he was as thoroughly sick of what the Sethorites had done as
any
of the women they had persecuted. “Aye, Majesty. We'll go now.”

Kyril turned to Kresh. “As for you, your position and title will not save you. The
first
thing I will do will be to have the Healers shut down your Gift, and that of Haladane. After that, I will shut down your Temple, confiscate everything in it, and turn the Temple itself over to the Sworn of Betane.” He smiled at the outraged look on Kresh's face. “I think they can make better use of a fortress than you. Though how they are going to move that ax—well, that's not my problem. Perhaps there will be a miracle. Every copper you have in your coffers will go toward repaying the women whose shops you ruined, and to the Sisters of Ardana. And then your punishment will
begin, as determined by the Council and myself. I promise you, it will not be an easy one. At the least you attempted three direct murders, and one indirect one. Then there are the vandalized shops, and the sacrilegious desecration of the Temple of Betane and the Scriptorium of Ardana. I do not think you will see daylight again, except through iron bars. Guards, take him away.”

Mags dropped the Truth Spell, freeing Kresh to say whatever he wanted. But he was utterly silent as the Guards took him to a cell, where there were Healers waiting to shut down his Gift, as they had probably already shut down Haladane's.

Then at the King's nod, the Guards took out the three would-be murderers, who after all, had needed to say nothing at all. Their punishment wouldn't be pretty either.
I wonder if they'll squeal, since their Priest is cooked.
Probably not. Fanatics only held firmer to their beliefs, the more they were proven wrong.

“Well,” King Kyril said, with a little smile of satisfaction. “That was well done, you four.”

“Four?” Mags replied, blankly. “Oh! Jorthun an' me an' Amily an' Nikolas. Thenkee, your Majest—”

“Kyril,” the King corrected, laying his crown aside on the Prince's throne. “That really was astonishingly well coordinated.
And
I should thank your Companions as well, of course.”

:Of course,:
Dallen said smugly.

“I really do think having Father act as King's Own, even if he isn't, is an awfully good idea,” Amily said slowly. “It felt wrong at first but now . . . it gives Sedric and me an extraordinary amount of freedom.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that, Amily,” the King replied. “Because I would like to be the first King of Valdemar in recent memory to abdicate in favor of his son, and having you and he firmly in harness together is a large part of that plan. Not immediately—” he said, holding up a cautionary hand at
Amily's gasp of alarm. “—not for some time yet. I would like a few more grandchildren before I do this. But within the foreseeable future, while I can still enjoy my freedom in reasonable health.”

“I approve,” Jorthun replied, smiling. “We three old men can leave the younger set to handle all the difficult matters while we sit comfortably, sipping brandywine, and complaining how they are doing it all wrong.”