Closer to the Heart (19 page)

It was that rarest of things in his line of work—a perfect night, a perfect place to listen, and the perfect perch to listen from. The night air was mild enough that he didn't need to hug the chimney for warmth. In fact, the men hadn't even bothered to light a fire, so their voices came up clear and easy to hear. It was an utterly cloudless night, and he could lie on his back with his legs tucked up and his feet comfortably braced against the false parapet and look at the stars while he listened.

:Wish Amily was here,:
he said to Dallen.

:She does, too,:
Dallen replied.

He was here for two reasons, mainly. One was to see if there was any gossip about one mine or another having bad luck of late—which could signal the fact that they were skimming the cream of their gems off and sending them elsewhere. The other was just to learn how these fellows did their business. He knew the mining end from the inside, of course, and he knew in general how to evaluate gems. But he didn't know it as these men did, who could tell you the worth of a particular rock down to the copper.

So he listened, simply absorbing the information, and watching the stars.

He did make a few notes about particular mine owners to concentrate on, as their fellows commiserated for a bad run or a shaft gone dry. This was mostly the first probe; he also needed to find out
so
much more about this town. It wouldn't be as hard as it was in Haven. For all that the buildings here reflected a high level of prosperity, this was little more than a large, wealthy village.

:That would be because the poor are concentrated at the mines,:
Dallen said, picking that thought right out of his mind.

:Course they are. Those're the only jobs here, 'cept the ones at this inn, an' the skilled ones. An' if ye got a skill, ye ain't gonna be dirt-poor.:
At least things were better for the miners now after the sweep through here when Cole Pieters' wicked ways had been uncovered. Cole was by no means the only mine owner who had kept his workers as virtual slaves, just the worst. Now, at least, the miners had decent homes to live in, enough to eat, and clothing that wasn't rags. That didn't make their jobs less dangerous, and it certainly didn't keep the mine owners from paying them as little as they could possibly get away with—but compared with how Mags had lived, this was paradise.

And likely it won't be hard to get 'em to talk.
He just had to figure out how to get onto the mine property, how not to get caught doing so, and how to talk to the miners without anyone seeing him.

Have to find out if they allow peddlers and the like into them mining villages.

Not for the first time, he missed Bear and Lena. Having a couple of Bards about had been very useful for getting eyes and ears into places where a Herald wasn't welcome. But then again . . . he wasn't a Herald at the moment, was he?

Wonder if we could get Keira flat
invited
out to visit these places? I'd have'ta go along as her escort an' all. When she was bein' entertained, I could go snoopin'. . . .

It was certainly an idea.

:How'd you fare today?:
he asked Dallen.

:Now that you ask . . . I've been doing some snooping myself.:
Mags did not ask how it was that something the size of a horse, and stark white, could go “snooping.” He already knew that Dallen had ways of not being seen that he could not use when he was with his Herald.

:Do tell!:
Mags replied, still keeping half of his attention on the increasingly inebriated conversation floating from the chimney.
:And what did you learn?:

:To begin with, there is an astonishing number of young heirs to these mines that have no marriage prospects . . . :

I
n the sitting room of Lord Jorthun's suite, Keira was holding court.

This was a sumptuous room by Mags' standards, although, of course, it didn't measure up to Lord Jorthun's manor. The furnishings were all antique, very heavy, unornamented, dark wood, softened with goose feather cushions in equally dark colors. Lord Jorthun would normally have been the one “presiding,” but he had taken a throne-like chair off to the side, by one of the windows that had a small, square table next to it. Keira sat in a similar chair, placed with its back to the fireplace. One of the young men stood leaning on the mantelpiece. Two were in window-seats. The rest were on various ordinary (though still heavy) chairs and stools, and one occupied a sofa on his own. Coot served as page-boy, which meant he was
right
there to hear everything, but so was Lord Jorthun. That meant that Mags was perfectly free to bugger off and do investigations on his own, but right now, things were
interesting enough that he was staying right here at the inn, acting as the second servant.

Lord Jorthun looked elegant, with just the right touch of dishevelment that suggested he was relaxed and enjoying himself. Keira was . . . splendid. She was wearing a gorgeous dark green gown that had been Lady Dia's, and suited Keira as it had never quite suited Dia. Dia had remarked without a hint of jealousy or rancor, that the color she had picked for herself made her look yellow, while it made Keira glow like an exotic jewel. Mags didn't know much about ladies' gowns, but he knew this much; the cut suited Keira as well as the color did, and it was modest enough and dark enough that it could pass for mourning. Lydia had tutored him through the ability to judge fabrics to the last copper, because knowing about the content of clothing told you a lot about the person wearing it. A gown of the latest style but made of cheap fabric would tell you that this was someone who was “reaching”—possibly far past her grasp. But a gown in an older style, but made of rich fabric meant this was someone who knew what she was getting and was willing to pay for it. He had no doubt that the gown Keira wore today was good enough to have been worn by Princess Lydia. And given that Lady Dia and Lord Jorthun were probably the wealthiest couple at the Court . . . likely Lydia had its twin somewhere in her closet.

Coot kept passing among the guests, offering top-ups to their wine-cups, and Mags followed him with hulled strawberries and single grapes heaped in a silver basket. You more or less had to offer something to eat, he supposed, but Lord Jorthun's plan was that the young bucks gathered here should get enough wine in them that they might start being loose-tongued. Strawberries would do next to nothing about soaking up the wine, of course. And offering them just underlined how wealthy Keira was supposed to be.

Jorthun was sitting back, playing his part to the hilt—that
of an indulgent father who might be enjoying the wine a little too much himself. Not so much that he was getting tipsy, nor so much that he was too talkative. On the contrary, he was mostly silent, merely sitting back in his chair and appearing to be a bit inattentive. Inattentive enough that he was completely missing all the flirtation going on.

He wasn't, of course. On the contrary. He was probably taking more mental notes than Mags was, and when this soiree was over, they'd all sit down and consolidate those notes.

Meanwhile Keira was playing her part to the hilt, being charming to everyone, and flirting with every young man equally.

There were seven of them. None of them were outstandingly handsome, which really didn't matter. Keira had already
had
a poor experience with an outstandingly handsome young man, and Mags had had a bit of concern before they arrived that she wouldn't be able to play her part as well if any of her targets had been good-looking. So that was one worry taken care of.

All of them were very alike in coloring, and it was apparent there had been a lot of cross-marrying in this part of the world, which was hardly surprising. The local mine-owning families had probably been intermarrying for as long as the mines had been here.

Their hair ranged in color from chestnut brown to a somewhat washed-out variation on the same color. They were all very tan. In this, they differed strongly from the wealthy young men of the Court. In this part of the world, being tanned meant you were well-to-do enough to be out-of-doors a great deal, and enjoying yourself in the sunlight doing things like hunting and fishing, rather than spending all your time underground or inside, sorting, grading, and cutting gems, or making them into jewelry. Of course, farmers and herdsmen were tan, too, but they'd never be mistaken for one of these fellows.

Mags was taking a particular fancy to one of them, who was
not
treating him like an invisible lackey,
was
trying to amuse Keira rather than impress her, and seemed to have a great many interesting things to talk about. His name was Tiercel, and his father was Mendeth Rolmer. Rolmer was not one of the gentlemen who had needed commiseration on a bad run of luck the other night, and he owned, not just one, but several mines. Mags hadn't yet been out to the Rolmer lands, but from the way Tiercel treated
him
, Mags fancied that Rolmer treated his mine workers fairly.

Tiercel had the typical local face—nose a bit too much like a hawk's beak to be handsome, cheekbones and chin both square, so that he looked as if he had been carved from a block of stone by an artist who either hadn't quite grasped that human faces have curves, or who was trying to make a point about the family connection to rocks and gems. His medium-brown hair was untidy—not the purposeful untidiness that some of the Court dandies sported, but as if his hair had a definite mind of its own and was determined to counter any effort to tame it. He smiled a lot, but not too much. He was drinking moderately compared to some of the others. Each time Coot and Mags came around with their burdens, he always thanked them, and looked into their eyes while doing so.

Mags actually felt sorry for him. He had come here, with intent, no doubt, to court a fine marriage prospect. He was very much taken with Keira. And this was all a sham. Poor lad, here he was, thinking he might have found someone he actually
liked
that his father would approve of, with no idea that his hopes were entirely in vain. It hardly seemed fair.

On the other hand, he was competing with several other young men who were just as much in the running—if this had been real—as he was. So his chances had never been outstanding in the first place. One out of seven, at best.

Mind on the job, lad,
he reminded himself. Tiercel could be
anything
other than what he appeared to be. Just because someone was young, it didn't follow that he was callow. And if his family was slipping gemstones out of their mines to finance the Menmellith rebellion, there was no telling what was really in his mind at this moment. He could even be eyeing Keira with the idea of siphoning some of
her
income to the rebels. In that case, it was literally his job to be accommodating and pleasant to everyone here in order to leave the best possible impression with Keira.

“. . . oh, no,” Keira was saying, in answer to someone's flattering statement that she must sing like a bird and play like a bard. “Father never wasted time on music lessons for me.” She laughed. “And I do mean the time would have been
wasted.
I can't tell one note from another. Fortunately, this saves me from having to suffer through many, many mediocre performances of other girls. Not that I leave, of course, but it's no worse than listening to them read. It doesn't matter to
me
if they sing like a mule and play like a chicken pecking out notes! I can't tell the difference anyway!”

They all laughed, as they were intended to.

“Quite right,” said Jorthun benevolently from his corner. “Gets it from me. Can't tell a Master Bard from a street-singer. Useful lessons, now, that's a different story. I made sure Keira had everything she wanted on that score.”

“And what do you consider ‘useful,' my Lord?” Tiercel was bold enough to ask, looking interested.

“History!” said Lord Jorthun. “Lots of useful things in history. If you know history, you're seldom unpleasantly surprised by what people do around you. And mathematics. Girl should know how to be able to check on her stewards and make sure they aren't cheating her. And shopping!”

The young men smothered laughter but a snicker or two snuck out. Jorthun merely smiled. “Oh, you laugh, but you won't laugh if you discover your wife spent a small fortune on
some shoddy stuff for gowns that won't last a year! Or gets cheated in other ways!
My
girl knows how to find the best of everything and get it bargained down to a good price, and she doesn't send some steward to do it for her, she does it herself!”

Now, if this had been a Court circle, the assembled young men would have had far different reactions to this statement. They'd have ranged from astonished to appalled. Highborn women just did not
do
that sort of thing . . . or if they did (like Lady Dia), they took care to keep quiet about it.

But this was not Haven, and most, if not all, of these young men had been raised in extremely practical households where at least the
men
were overjoyed to hear this sort of thing about a prospective object of courting.

Keira smiled, and not at all coyly. “I was a young woman who was wedded to a kind, but very old man, who bought me anything I fancied. The household accounts were entirely in my hands, and I could lay those hands on as much of the income of his estate as I cared to. Merchants who assumed I would squander my husband's fortune on trash and trifles turned up at the door every day. My husband wanted me to have pretty things.
Father
made sure I was able to keep from being cheated over those pretty things. Father had experts in all manner of things teach me how to tell the good from the bad, and how to price it all.” She reached across the distance between them and squeezed his hand. “He was a fine man, and so are you, Father.”

Jorthun chuckled. “And no one taught you how to flatter, my girl, you had that from birth.”

“Well, if I got a silver tongue it had to be from you,” she countered.

They bantered playfully like that for some time, and Mags finally realized that they weren't doing this to kill time, they were doing it to create a particular impression—the
impression that Lord Jorthun would approve of
any
young man who managed to capture Keira's fancy—and that Keira would not be easy to win, so they had best exert themselves in that department. But at least they were not going to have to fight their way past a protective guardian. All they had to do was win Keira herself.

You clever beggars.

He'd had no idea just what Lady Dia had been teaching Keira, and it was possible that some of this had come from Keira watching her own relatives. But Keira was putting on a masterful performance, and like every masterful performance, it appeared to be utterly unplanned and unstructured.

For that, she had his full admiration.

They brought the banter to an end on a natural note, as Jorthun asked Coot for a refill, and Keira turned her attention and bright smile to the company. And Mags could only watch with admiration as she manipulated them.

• • •

“Where'd ye ever learn t'lead fellers around like that, Keira?” Mags asked, after the last of the company had gone, leaving him and Coot to clean up the empty goblets and set the room to rights.

There wasn't much to clean up. The guests had been mannerly. Most of the work was setting the chairs back in their usual configuration facing the fireplace. The goblets had all been borrowed from the inn, which kept them for “gentry.” Coot was picking them up and placing them carefully in the basket that had held the strawberries to take back down to the kitchen.

“Dia,” Keira said, simply. “She pointed out that it was just
acting,
and I was always rather good at that as a child. I used to put on plays for mother and father, since we hadn't any
money to spare on entertainment, and only got to see things like that when father's liege-lord invited us to his manor. The part I am playing is one she outlined for me, I merely have to make up the right words for it.” Keira helped Coot with the goblets; poured the last of the wine into a carafe and added the wine pitchers to his burden.

“Dia is a good teacher, but
you,
my dear, are an apt pupil. I think you are going to make a capital agent for the Crown,” Jorthun applauded, no trace of inebriation anywhere to be seen on him now. “I, for one, am grateful to the impulse that led you to apply as one of the Queen's Handmaidens.” Jorthun remained where he had been the entire time; comfortably ensconced in his chair at the window. Then again, there wasn't much he could do; they were handling what little needed to be done. The last of the tidying up, Keira had said to save for the inn servants to do while she got her bath.