Closer to the Heart (5 page)

“All right, young woman,” the judge said, calmly. “Let's hear what you have to say about this case.”

“Tuck may not be right i' th' head, but he been my frien' all m'life, an he niver hurt a soul!” she burst out. “It ain't in 'im! But that Cobber, ever since 'e moved t' Cabbage Row, all 'e done was torment Tuck! All th' live-long day, 'tis one mean trick arter another! An' Tuck niver said nor done a thin' 'bout it, niver raised so much as a finner t'defend hisself!!”

The blue glow remained strong and steady with every word she spoke. The surface thoughts Mags skimmed from her matched her words, under a wash of fiery anger. Mags was actually quite impressed with her self-control; most people who were as angry as Linden was would be sitting on Pellen's chest with a knife to his throat by now.

And Cobber Pellen was beginning to look very uneasy. Clearly matters were
not
going as he had planned, and he had finally figured that out. Evidently he was not terribly bright.

She stuck out an accusing thumb at Pellen. “That Cobber, 'e wanted Tuck's liddle shed what he got from his Ma, an' 'e wanted Tuck gone. 'E's been plaguing the life outa 'im; not jist yellin' an name-callin', but dirty tricks an'
'urtin'
'im! Bin goin' on since afore Midwinter, it 'as! An' Tuck, 'e just took it. 'Til Cobber come arter me, t'day.”

She peeled up her shawls and sleeves, and showed black and blue marks all over her arm. “'E figgered on makin' me
whoore fer 'im,” she spat. “'E ambuscaded me an' grabbed me an' I fought 'im an' 'ollered, an' thet's when Tuck come a-runnin'. Tuck mighta put up with bein' bullied, but he ain't
never
let anyone bully 'is friends.”

The girl was
ablaze
with anger now, and it was a good thing she had no Gifts, or Cobber Pellen would surely have been dead by now. She'd have killed him with the force of her mind alone. The rest of the people in the courtroom were absolutely riveted by the performance—the story itself was ordinary enough in this part of Haven, but Linden . . . Linden was utterly astonishing.

“An' even
then,
Tuck bare touched 'im! Tuck jist pulls Cobber offa me, 'olds 'im up by th' arm, an' gives 'im a shake till 'is teeth rattle, and throws 'im inter th' wall, then comes t'make sure I be all right. Next thin' I know, Cobber's hollerin' fer the Watch an' actin' like 'e's 'bout beat t'death, the friggin
coward.”
She shook her clenched fist at Cobber, who was looking frantically all about himself for a means of escape.

But there was no escape; he was surrounded by two men of the Watch and one of the Guard, all of them eyeing him with extreme disfavor. It was clear that Linden had won all of them over.

Even the judge.

:Nonsense, it was the Truth Spell,:
Dallen pointed out.

And in all that time, Linden's Truth Spell aura had kept blazing a bright blue for everyone in the courtroom to see.

“Bailiff,” the judge said, lazily. “The Truth Spell has told the tale. Cobber Pellen did not utter a single word of truth and we are all witnesses to that.

“I'd like you to place Cobber Pellen under arrest. If that suits you, Herald Mags?”

“Suits me jest fine, yer Honor,” Mags replied. “I kin think of 'bout a handful of laws he's broke, startin' with makin' false accusations an' lyin' t'the Court an' yer Honor.”

Bailiff Creed had happily taken the irons off the big man called “Tuck,” and now just as happily was slapping them on Cobber Pellen.

“Oh I can think of a great many more, Herald Mags. For instance, there is nothing illegal about a lady deciding to
peddle her wares,
as it were. And there is nothing illegal about her doing so under the auspices of someone else. But it is
highly
illegal to attempt to force a lady into such a life against her will. And there is the assault charge on her as well—” the judge turned from Mags to Linden. “May I assume you wish to press as many charges against Cobber Pellen as you are entitled to, Linden Pardorry?”

She had shaken her sleeve and her shawls back down over her bruised arm, and looked up at the judge. “Yessir,” she said forthrightly. “Thenkee kindly sir. I ain't gonna look down on some'un thet whoores, it's a 'onest livin' fer them as is 'onest 'bout it, but I ain't no whoore m'self. I pick up stuff, belike, an' take it t'Tuck, an' 'e makes likely trinkets an' I sells 'em.” As Mags removed the Truth Spell from her, and Cobber was “escorted” out of the courtroom to the gaol, she lost some of her anger. “'E's a dab worker wi' 'is 'ands, milord. 'e ain't stupid. 'e ain't right i' head, but 'e ain't stupid, 'e knows right from wrong, an' 'e's a magician at makin'. Ye'd marvel t'see what 'e kin make outa a liddle bit've nothin'.”

Tuck was still shivering in the corner, and Linden made an abortive move to go to him. The judge stopped her with a word. “I should like you to come with me, Linden Pardorry, and we'll find as many things to charge Cobber Pellen with as the two of us can prize up from your memory. And meanwhile—”

“I'll take charge've Tuck, yer Honor,” Mags said immediately.

“And so, since there is nothing but driblets of civil suits to hear, I adjourn the court.” Bailiff Creed returned at just that
moment, and the judge turned to him. “In the interest of making sure no one has to wait until tomorrow for justice, would you kindly get Judge Madows from his chamber and ask him to hear the rest of the cases?”

“Right away, yer Honor,” Creed replied, and took his truncheon and knocked it three times on the nearest bench. “All rise fer the honorable Judge Bryon!”

Everyone in the courtroom rose, and the judge offered Linden his arm quite as if she was a highborn lady. She took it with great dignity and the two of them left the courtroom, leaving Creed to fetch the second judge—and Mags to handle the terrified giant.

I
t actually didn't take Mags very long to calm Tuck down, once the poor fellow understood he was not in any trouble, and that Linden would be back to fetch him as soon as she was able. Mags sent a runner—one of his own boys from Aunty Minda's place—out after some cheap sweets, figuring that someone as childlike as Tuck appeared to be would be both pacified and comforted by the unexpected treat. The ploy worked as well as Mags could have hoped. By the time the judge was through with Linden and she came looking for them in the hallway, Tuck was full of spicebread with nuts, and licking the last crumbs from his fingers. He looked up expectantly at the sound of Linden's footsteps, and beamed at her when he saw her.

“'as 'e been any trouble, Herald, Milord?” Linden asked anxiously.

Mags chuckled. “Ain't bin none at all,” he assured her. “But ye got me curiosity a-goin'. I fancy goin' alongside've ye, an' seein' the bits an' bobs Tuck kin make.”

To his slight surprise, Linden frowned a little. “'Tain't jist bits an' bobs, Herald,” she corrected. “Ye tell 'im whatcher want, though it may take some long 'splainin' to 'im; once 'e gits it, an' ye give 'im what 'e needs, he kin make it. I tol' ye, 'a bain't stupid. 'is 'ead jest don' work like ourn.”

Mags kept his skepticism to himself. It would be more than enough if the addle-witted fellow could make some pretty trinkets with the right supplies; he could see to it that Tuck never ran short of what he needed, and make sure the results went somewhere they would fetch what they were worth. “Then you an' 'im could be some use t'me,” was all he said. “I'd admire t'see what Tuck kin do.”

Within half a candlemark, he had to completely revise his assumptions.

The “shed” that Tuck owned turned out to be a building that had once been a small stable, built to hold four animals. It served Tuck as living and working quarters, and what he had done inside those four plain walls was astonishing. This was clearly the work of years.

To begin with, every bit of it had been carefully, meticulously, even artistically reinforced. Tiny bits of wood and handmade brackets had been put in place to make the building as solid as any on the Hill. Then, it had been weather-proofed. Mags actually went outside to have a look at one of the walls when he realized just how much work Tuck had gone to, and there was no sign on the outside of the building that this was anything other than what Linden had called it, a “shed.”

But on the inside, Tuck had carefully pieced together an entire floor made of mismatched cobblestones and bits of wood. He'd weatherproofed using horsehair and plaster on the interior walls, exactly as was done in the best houses on the hill. From the look of things, he had waited until he had somehow gathered enough materials to fill in a section, done that section, and
waited until he had gathered enough for another section. Then he'd whitewashed the lot. The old hayloft had been devoted to a sleeping place; the four stalls were gone, although the posts supporting the loft that had anchored the stall walls were still in place. There was a workbench all along one wall, under windows just under the eaves that Mags marveled at—windows pieced painstakingly together from mere fragments of glass.

The place was heated by a remarkable stove; Mags couldn't make out exactly how it worked, but it was bolted and hammered together from scrap metal, and produced heat all out of proportion to its small size. The windows were fitted with louvered shutters clearly made of scrap wood; they were above head-height so it was unlikely anyone would ever see in here to discover just how well Tuck had fitted the place out.

In fact, those shutters were closed when they arrived, and the first thing Tuck did was open them to let in the light, using a long stick with a metal hook on one end. It was pretty clear he knew the dangers of letting anyone see what he had.

There was a little kitchen next to the stove, with beautifully mended pots and pans on the wall. Everything was so clean Mags would have been willing to eat off any surface, and so neat he reckoned Tuck could put his hand on whatever he wanted in the dark.

On the workbench, it was clear that Tuck had made nearly every single one of his own tools, all from scavenged materials, including a wire-straightener of amazing design, dozens of jigs, a saw-sharpener. . . .

On one part of the bench was a brooch, made of a pebble that was polished until it reflected light, held in a frame of wire, with the wire twisted around to the back—clearly it only needed to be finished into a pin for the brooch to be complete.

And Mags now knew where so many of the trinkets that had come into the pawn shop had come from. Here.

He could scarcely believe his eyes as Tuck proudly showed off his little kingdom.

“Linden,” he asked urgently. “'Ow many folks know Tuck kin do all this?”

“Nobody but me, an' 'is ma what's gone,” she replied. “If they know'd . . . people like Cobber, they'd 'aul 'im away and chain 'im to a bench an' make 'im slave fer 'em. It wuz bad 'nough with Cobber wantin' this shed, wi'out Cobber knowin' it were this nice inside. If 'e'd knowed . . .” She shook her head. “Reckon 'e might not've stopped at bullyin'. Reckon 'e might've gone t'murder.”

Mags nodded. Cobber might not have stooped to doing the murder himself, but it would have been easy enough to take poor Tuck off to some cheap tavern in the tanning district on the river, then arrange for the fellow to “fall in.” Most poor people couldn't swim. When could they take the time to learn? And teaching Tuck, Mags suspected, would have required immense patience and the ability to somehow keep him calm.

“This's flat 'mazin',” he said. “You was right, Linden. Tuck's got real smarts where some thins are concerned.”

Linden nodded. “Ain't
nothin'
'e ain't been able t'make, iffin 'e unnerstands whatcher need. Jist takes time gettin' 'im ter un'erstan'.”

“Tuck good?” rumbled the giant anxiously, looking from Mags to Linden and back again. For some reason known only to him, he had made up his mind that Mags was as much to be trusted as Linden. And from what Mags could read, dimly, his lost mother had driven it deep into his soul that
only
she and Linden were to be trusted.

Maybe it was the Heralds' Whites. Maybe Tuck's mother had given him that much, as well. Perhaps she had a notion it would be a good idea to give Tuck someone he was willing to run to for help in case she or Linden weren't around.

“Tuck very good,” Mags replied, and took a deep breath.
“Look, Linden . . . yer got any quarrel w' Tuck workin' fer th' Heralds?”

She shook her head, but looked puzzled. “No. But—”

He interrupted her. “Lissen. Th' more Tuck keeps makin' thins an' you go out an' sell 'em, the more like it's gonna be that somebody like Cobber figgers out what 'e kin do.” He held up a hand to stop the words she had opened her mouth to say. “I
know
yer careful. But it on'y takes one slip. It on'y takes some'un breakin' in here whilst yer gone. Kin ye keep 'im safe forever? Lookit whut jest 'appened! What'f there wasn't no Herald on duty when Cobber 'auled Tuck in?”

She closed her mouth, and looked thoughtful. He pursued his advantage. “So here's what I got ter offer. Herald's'll keep you an' 'im. We'll send down stuff on the quiet like, so's ye kin fix this place up all snug an'
locked
tight, an' make it comfy. We'll make sure ye git whatever ye want. An' Tuck on'y makes two kinds've stuff. 'e makes trinkets and shinies ye take t' Willy the Weasel t'sell, 'cause Willy don't ast no questions, an' we kin pay 'im t'keep 'is mouth 'bout you an' Tuck. An' Tuck makes special stuff just fer us.”

She blinked at him in confusion for a moment, then, before he could explain further, enlightenment dawned over her face. “Oh! Like lockpicks!” She sucked in her lip. “I thought 'bout hevin' Tuck make 'em, 'cause they sells good . . . but it didn' seem smart 'cause then people'd wanter know 'oo made 'em.”

Mags nodded. “Thet was smart, 'cause some'un would'a figgered it out. We need 'em, on account've sometimes we gotta get inter locked places and boxes. An' we'll want 'im t'make other things, like thet there stove, thet we kin take apart, see how she works, an' set up some'un t'make by big lots. Stuff that'll make thins better fer lotsa folk. On'y thing is, Tuck ain't gonna ever get credit fer all 'e kin do.”

She actually gave him a withering look. “Thin' 'e cares?
Thin'
I
care? You Heralds, you jest keep us cozy an' fat, an' thet's all we need.”

“D'ye live wi' Tuck?” he asked.

“Like sibs,” she replied without hesitation. “'is Ma arst me t'look out fer 'im, on account'a 'e looked out fer me when we was liddle. Once 'e started makin' thins, she 'ad no notion where t'sell 'em. Me, I been pickin' through trash an' ever'thin all me life, so I knows where t'sell about anythin', an' . . .” She let out her breath in a long
whoosh.
“Too much t'tell. It ain't no kinda story,” she said. “Jest folks gettin' by.”

For a moment, he wished he'd started his gang of street-orphans long enough ago that he'd picked up Linden. She could have been so much more. . . .

:And if you had, where would Tuck be now?:
Dallen pointed out.

“Ye know Aunty Minda's boys?” he asked, and she nodded. “Good. I'll be sendin' stuff t' you an' Tuck an' I'll use them t'fetch it. If anythin' turns up that one've them ain't bringin', it ain't comin' from me.”

“An' I'll send it away.” She nodded sharply. “Cobber might look fer a way to get hisself outa trouble by getting hot goods inter this place, then sendin' th'Watch.”

“Linden, yer a sharp gel. I like ye.” He grinned. She grinned back.

“An' I like ye back, Herald Mags, an' that's somethin' I niver 'spected t'say 'bout no Whitecoat.”

• • •

“And now what do you expect to do with your inventing fellow and his keeper?” Amily asked, amused, as they snuggled together in front of their fire that night.

“Introduce you to 'em, for one thing,” Mags replied. “And your Pa.”

“Why on earth?” she asked, sounding surprised, as the fire popped and crackled.

He kissed the top of her head. “Because, m'love, yer supposed t'be the King's bodyguard, an' I think it'd be a good notion if ye had a couple'a sneaky weapons like Bey had around about yer person. Yer Pa, too. An' me, that goes 'thout sayin'. Mostly, we gotta figger out how t'tell Tuck what we want.”

“I'd say firstly we need to figure out what we need,” she said, in a slightly admonishing tone. “Because if we don't know, how are we supposed to tell this poor fellow?”

“Oh, I already know the first thin',” he said immediately. “I want me some climbin' gear I kin hide on me. Then I want knives. Lotsa knives. Differen' kinds, an' all stuff that's hid.”

She craned her head around to look at him. “You've been rummaging through the Sleepgiver memories again, haven't you?”

“Got a reason why I shouldn't?” he countered. “Just 'cause they're killers fer hire, that don't mean they ain't got some good notions.” He grinned at her dumbfounded expression. “Well? Am I right?”

She shook her head. “You're impossible,” she replied, and kissed him.

In the back of his mind a voice chuckled, that was not Dallen's for once. It was his own, chuckling over the fact that back where that internal voice lived, there had been a fear that once he and Amily were “properly” married, things would get . . . dull. And they wouldn't find each other as exciting anymore. And that certainly wasn't the case.

. . . not in the least.

In fact, there was a sort of blessed relaxation, partly because he
wasn't
having to think about all the ways that wretched wedding could go wrong, but mostly because there had always been the lurking fear that something would
always
prevent it.

He firmly shoved into the dark depths of his mind the certainty that sooner or later he'd find a brand new fear, and enjoyed the moment, which shortly turned into something more than just a moment.

• • •

Mags got up earlier than Amily, and she waved him off drowsily. For once she was going to lie abed a little while longer. This was the only thing she missed about her “old life,” when she had been of no consequence—that she could no longer sleep late when she chose, nor stay up as late as she chose to finish a book!

When was the last time I read a book for pleasure?
she thought, a little mournfully, as she fluffed the pillow to make it more comfortable. It seemed forever.