Closer to the Heart (31 page)

She stood up, silhouetted against the light of a small fire in the fireplace, and picked up a tray that had been on a table beside her. She brought it to him, and he sat up straight and began eating without any apology for poor manners. “Yes, Jorthun's men are away with his orders as to what parts they are to play. They went on horseback, and one of them joked that it was about time His Lordship supplied him with a better wardrobe and Attlebury would be as good a place as any to get it. They did not go alone, for yesterday when you fell asleep and Lord Jorthun's men were packing their gear, I realized that I already knew exactly who you needed for your Kirball replacement—you actually know him, Mags, he's father's man, Larek, one of the grooms in the King's stable.”

Mags snapped his fingers. “Aye, he's perfect, but I didn' know 'e was a Kirball player!”

“While you were gone, when you'd been kidnapped, he joined the North team. He's very good. I just told him that this was on father's business, which it is, and that he was to tell Lord Jorthun or Keira, and no one else, that he works for father, and do what Lord Jorthun tells him to do.” She sounded very pleased, as well she should be. He put down his food for
a moment and took her chin in his hand and kissed her thoroughly. He already knew why Nikolas had an informant in the stables; you needed one for the same reason you needed informants among the servants and the pages if you could get them. A stablehand knew when people took horses out of the stable, and when they got back, and if he was astute and trained by Nikolas, he would probably be able to make a good guess about where the horse went by what he found in its hooves. Having one of Nikolas's men helping Jorthun was the best possible solution there could have been. He would obey without needing to know just what “the business” was about, and he would keep his curiosity in check for the duration.

“An' 'ere I was worryin' 'bout 'ow ye'd manage, an' ye managed better nor I could'a,” he said warmly. “I should'a knowed better.”

“We are still very far from having anything that Aurebic can take to the Regency Council,” she warned him. “And the evidence you have is very flimsy stuff indeed. No matter how highly regarded Heralds are here, and how certain we are of what Mindspeech can do, I do not think that the delegation from Menmellith would accept what you allegedly pulled out of someone's head. But at least now we have a direction, and there's already a copy of the portrait on its way to father.”

“An' the delayin' tactics?” he wanted to know.

“Better than we could have dreamed. Last we knew, the party from Menmellith come to fetch the Ambassador back was caught in a torrential, two-day downpour.
They
couldn't move from the inn where they took shelter, and when the storm cleared, the road was practically impassable, with several bridges washed out.” Amily shook her head as if she couldn't believe the miracle. Mags scarcely believed it himself. “The King has decided that when they finally arrive, if there still isn't enough evidence in our possession to satisfy them, he's going to override anything they might say by pretending
he thinks they are here for our wedding.
They
won't be able to tell him no, and that will buy more time for father to see what he can find.”

“So th' weddin's back on then?” Strange, how calm he felt about it, as if this was just some new festival or other, something in which there was a minor part for them to play, but which was centered around something else entirely.

Well . . . it is. It isn't about us, it's about delaying tactics. The more we delay, the better off we are. Maybe if we delay long enough it will be so late in the growing season that even that idiot who started all this in the first place will think twice about trampling crops and starving people.

:Dream on,:
Dallen said, cynically.

:Maybe the Regency Council will decide they had really rather not fight a battle on two fronts?:

:Maybe,:
Dallen agreed.
:Assuming anyone on the Regency Council gives two hoots about the common folk. Or is a decent military strategist. Which is doubtful.:

:Aren't you just full of optimism today!:

“Dia has it all in hand. She can mount it on a couple days' notice, and we'll have at least a week's notice before they arrive.” She kissed him. “And of course, if it has to be postponed again,
we
don't care.” Her soft laughter made him smile. “Though it is a most amazing gown. It's going to become my Formal Whites. I have the feeling you will like yours just as much.”

He had to smile at that. Of all the things he was likely to actually use. . . .

“As if I'm likely t'need Formal Whites,” he scoffed. “Th' on'y time I'm likely t'be at Court's disguised as a servant. Or, jest mebbe, as our ol' frien' Magnus. An'
he
ain't likely t'be wearin' Whites!”

She smiled mysteriously, as if she knew a secret she wasn't telling him. “Well, you'll like them all the same. They'll make
you look like the amazing, handsome fellow you are, and not the ruffian Harkon or the ne'er-do-well Magnus.” She held her hand against the side of his face, and he turned it and kissed her palm.

Then yawned tremendously.

And flushed with embarrassment. Here Amily was telling him all manner of romantical things, and he
yawned
at her. “Dammit, love, I didn' mean t'do that!” he blurted, and yawned again.

She laughed, reminding him of yet another reason why he adored her. “You've just ridden nonstop for almost two days,” she told him fondly. “I've just stuffed you with the first food you've had since the sun went down yesterday.
Of course
you want to go back to sleep. Do.”

He didn't wait for another invitation; he just laid himself back down again and rolled over on his side. The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was Amily slipping into bed behind him and curling up against his back.

• • •

And that was the last good rest he had.

The Menmellithians, so the Heralds shadowing them reported, were
unbelievably
determined to get to the Capitol. Where the bridges were out, they hired boats to take them and their horses across, even going to the extent of blindfolding the beasts and making them lie down in vessels barely big enough to hold them and a rider, and being rowed across, one at a time. Where the roads were blocked, they either detoured around, or rolled up their sleeves and joined the road-clearers, without regard for rank or position. They were on the way, and since as yet there was no response at all from Nikolas, King Kyril had launched his last defense, the wedding.

Making good use of the idea that had served her well before, Dia was setting it in a giant tent in the case of inclement
weather, or on the Palace grounds in the case of good weather. She had ruthlessly dragooned help from every source that could be flattered, bribed or browbeaten into giving it. And she had timed it all so exquisitely that the little festival being held the day before the wedding proper would be starting just as the Menmellithians arrived at the gate. No matter what they believed, they would see a Valdemar that was in no way preparing for a war. And no matter what they wanted to do,
they
could not make a declaration of war. They were not empowered to do that—and in any land but Valdemar, they'd have probably lost their lives if they had. Their only function was to get Aurebic and bring him home, so the Regency Council could declare war without having their Ambassador become a hostage.

If they actually
could
make a declaration of war
,
now that Amily had talked the Rethwellan Ambassador, and thus the government of Rethwellan, quite out of cooperating with them. Of course, they wouldn't know that. They had left Menmellith long before the Ambassador of Rethwellan arrived home.

Mags was so proud of her for pulling that feat off that he hadn't bothered restraining himself when she'd told him about it. He'd picked her up and twirled her around until they both were dizzy.

At the worst, she'd bought them more time, and they wouldn't have to fight on two fronts. At the best . . . the Regency Council might rethink their plan, and give the Heralds more time to actually
find
whoever was behind this.

Of course, staging this wedding on such short notice meant that everyone recruited by Dia for this pageant—and it
was
going to be a pageant, rivaled only by Sedric and Lydia's wedding—was working nonstop, from morning till night on it. And meanwhile the business of Valdemar could not come to a screeching halt, so Amily and Mags were beginning to feel as if they each needed to be three people at once.

The gathering of information on everything
other
than
their current crisis was nothing that could be put off. First, there was no telling when some crumb someone dropped would lead them straight to “General Thallan.” And second, information, Mags had learned, was like bread. It was of very little use when it had begun to grow stale, and when it grew mold, no one wanted it at all.

He had made the rounds of his planted pages and had gathered nothing of any great use, so now he was Harkon again—the Harkon of the streets. And already today he'd gotten hints of a possible alliance between two gangs of thieves that would have unpleasant consequences if it went through, the identity and location of a fellow who was selling a dangerous intoxicating herbal concoction at prices that made it cheaper than beer, the identity of a very wealthy merchant who actually had a home up on the Hill who had made an exceedingly poor choice of mistresses, and the final piece of information that told him exactly who the new spy for Hardorn was.

Now, the latter was actually not much of a worry for him at the moment. Valdemar had been in a peaceful concord with Hardorn for a very long time indeed. Centuries. Nevertheless, every country generally kept informants in every other country bordering it, for the simplest of reasons; you couldn't always trust your allies to tell you the truth. But it was a very,
very
good idea to know who those informants were. The last one had left just before Nikolas had nearly died, and Amily became King's Own. Nikolas had not had the strength then, and later the time, to find out who the new one was. He'd left that up to Mags.

Today, one of the local lads who came by the shop to peddle what he'd learned had told Mags that a man who sent packets of letters concealed inside bars of soap to Hardorn was named Ethan Dalliger, and he had a shop on Gooseneck Lane.

So Mags was going to pay him a little visit and make sure
he was what that clever lad Provo thought he was. In the guise of Harkon, of course, who was himself a seller of information.

His directions took him into the aforementioned Gooseneck Lane, a quiet little side street in a middling part of town. It was not bad, certainly nothing like the slum where the pawn shop was, but it was not the sort of place where someone like, say, Tiercel Rolmer would feel at home. These were mostly small shops with living quarters above them; plastered walls whitewashed rather than painted, but in excellent repair. Most of the upper stories boasted flowerboxes at the windows, but most of those flowerboxes were full of thrifty herbs, not flowers. These were small merchants, making a small living. Good craftsmen, but not brilliant, getting by. No one here was in want, but no one here had much in the way of luxuries either. The fellow he had come to see was a seller of soap, candles, and oils. As he opened the door to the shop, he noticed something immediately; the only scent was of beeswax and the native, clean scent of plain soap. No floral or woody, spicy or green scents. And no colors, either. It was clear that these goods were utilitarian, candles ranging from plain tallow-dips to simple beeswax pillars, soap from the harsh grade used to clean floors and clothing to a finer grade used for bathing. All of it was neatly arranged around the shop; the cheaper goods were in barrels around the walls—tallow-dips in bundles of five and ten, cheap cleaning soap in large blocks so that chunks could be carved off and weighed. The more expensive candles were arrayed on shelves divided up into square partitions, with candles or bars of soap stacked inside.

The man behind the counter looked up expectantly as Mags entered. Mags spoke first, as “Harkon” would, with a tone of assurance. Harkon, after all, was a bold fellow, and felt that his time was valuable. In this case, he wasn't going to beat around the bush very much. “Little bird tells me thet ye does buyin' along'a sellin'.”

The shop had very good glass windows, and the light flooded the room. This actually put the chandler at a disadvantage. He could not see Mags' face, but Mags could see his, very clearly. The man allowed an expression of puzzlement to creep over his face, but his surface thoughts told Mags that he wasn't puzzled at all; he just wanted to wait until he knew if what Mags knew was worth having or not before showing his cards. “I am a craftsman. I buy such things as I need for my craft—” He spread his hands to indicate his wares. “Wax, rendered fat, lye. I do buy ash as well, but you don't strike me as an ash-seller.”

“I meant somethin' less substantial,” Mags said, leaning back against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. The last thing he was going to do was give up the advantage of having his face in shadow. “Like, f'r instance . . . I were t'know somethin' 'bout a lady lives up on Hill, say? Like, I were t'know thet she goes t'see a gemmun who ain't her husband ever' three days or so at th' Rose'n'Crown?”

Ethan's gaze sharpened. “A lady, you say? Who lives up on the Hill? Gentry?”

“Or a man. Say, a man what's been playin' a bit fast'n'loose wi' the trut', an wi' 'is partner's siller, down over t' Tailor's Court, iffen yer taste is more t'ever'day doin's. I mebbe don' look like much, but I got ears all over.” Mags touched his index finger to his ears and crossed his arms again. “All over. I heerd ye was most innerested in what goes on up the Hill. I don' get a lotta thet, but I gets some.”