Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy

by Mercedes Lackey

  She was right, though; it seemed to be of very limited use. Anything smaller than a rabbit just didn’t hear human voices in a way that allowed her to make sense of what was being said. But it did provide them bits of amusement, when she had spied on some of the Princess’ Ladies-In-Waiting up to a little harmless mischief, watching them through the eyes of a pampered, spoiled lapdog.

  As for Mags, he was slowly establishing a sort of routine. He had created all the new personas Nikolas thought he needed.

  Three were mere sketches, a set of hands in servant’s livery, one in the household of one of the Great Lords of State, one in the household of a very wealthy, but not highborn courtier, and one in the Royal Household itself. As he knew, when a household was not well-regulated, servants came and went all the time. At this point in time, it seemed that servants were less plentiful than unfilled positions, and as a result, a well-trained servant could find himself a new job as often as he liked. And at any rate, when things were busy—which was likely the time when Mags himself would want to overhear things—no one ever looked at a servant’s face, not even the people who were supposed to be keeping track. He could slip in at a feast, for instance, and no one would notice as long as he knew what he was doing and he was in the right livery.

  He had Willy the Weasel’s street-tough nephew, of course, and re-established Harkon in very little time at all. People remembered Harkon and respected his brawling ability. “Willy” himself—Nikolas—rarely went down to the pawnshop anymore. Harkon could swagger in for a few candlemarks, whenever the two fellows Nikolas had acting as the hired help “needed a more expert eye at assessing goods than their own”—or, in translation, when someone had information rather than goods to sell. At the moment, that wasn’t often. And if the need arose for him to pursue the gleaning of intelligence more vigorously, he could take over the night shift entirely.

  Then there was “Magnus,” the young cousin of Lord Chipman. “Magnus” was probably the most fun; Mags got to be convivial, apparently reckless, and a spinner of tall tales. He also got to be the fellow who bought most of the rounds at the taverns down in Haven. Magnus was very slowly ingratiating himself with his fellow highborn lads, the younger sons, the ones with too much time on their hands and not a lot to fill it, with winter coming on and outdoor pastimes out of the question. “Magnus” explained his familiarity with Haven as due to living there in an overcrowded household, and he was grateful to his “uncle” for inviting him up to share his space at Court. The others were restless, spoiling for something to do, preferably something with a touch of trouble about it. Magnus was more than willing to provide the illusion of trouble without the substance. He hadn’t led an expedition to a brothel yet, but that was just a matter of time.

  One benefit that hadn’t occurred to him at the time of inventing “Magnus,” but certainly was making itself apparent now, was his ability to throw a good bit of custom in the way of deserving innkeepers. When you could stroll into a tavern with a handful of your cronies, throw a big handful of silver on the table, and order drinks and meals—the fact that you had paid in advance meant that an innkeeper struggling on the edge of profit could afford to send a lad out for better provender than he had on hand. That, in turn, would make “Magnus’” friends come back on their own—and the profit from that one night would have made it possible for the innkeeper to be prepared for another such incursion. Injecting a little more prosperity into some of the less-prosperous parts of Haven always made him feel a little happier.

  At the moment, no one stood out as a real trouble maker—someone with a vicious streak, or someone who had ulterior motives for being at Court. Then again, that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone like that among the courtiers, it only meant that circumstances, which were confining “Magnus” to the lowest circles, hadn’t thrown him into contact with trouble yet. On the whole he would rather that trouble didn’t rear its head until he had himself more firmly established anyway.

  Then there was his “real” job . . .

  Which he was on his way back from at this moment, with his head hunched into his shoulders, his cloak wrapped firmly about himself, making himself as small against the wind as he could, given he was on Dallen’s back.

  There was always a need for Heralds down in Haven. The Prince, for instance, was on duty at the Great Magistrate’s Court of Appeals every afternoon; this was the court you could have your case taken to if you appealed the verdict from your first trial. Other Heralds were either on duty or could be called on at need for the district courts. Mags was one of those; he had a couple of days in the fortnight when he was on duty, and technically he could be called down from the Hill in an emergency, but practically speaking, the officers of the court knew to call on someone else.

  The job itself was not all that difficult; he invoked the Truth Spell when it was needed to sort something out. Cases that required the use of a Truth Spell were saved until he was on duty. Most cases in the court that he served . . . well . . . didn’t need anything nearly that complicated. People in that part of Haven were generally caught red-handed in whatever they’d done, from theft to murder. And his mere presence in the courtroom tended to make the truth come out anyway. It was civil cases where his talent tended to be needed, and in his district they didn’t get a lot of those. After all, in order to press a civil case, you had to be literate enough to file it, had to take time out from your work to plead it before a magistrate (who decided whether it was worth taking to court), then had to take time out from your work for the trial. You had to have motivation to file a civil case against someone when you were poor.

  Today, however, had been one of those days. It had been a situation where a quarrel between neighbors had turned into a feud, which had escalated into actual damages on either side. Each side claimed the other in the wrong, and it had taken using the Truth Spell not only on the claimants, but on the witnesses. That had been a right mess, and he figured he had more than earned his dinner today by the time it was all over.

  It was bitter, bitter cold today, with that strong wind, and he couldn’t wait to get back in the warm. Granted, it wasn’t as wretched as it had been up in the Bastion, but it was bad enough, and he wasn’t in his warm Field uniform, he was in Whites that were designed for winters where you weren’t at risk of freezing to death if you took a wrong turning.

  He was bundled up in his warmest cloak, relying entirely on Dallen to handle where they were going. The wind was behind them, at least, rather than trying to rip the edges of the cloak away from his body, but it was howling right up the street, being funneled by the buildings on either side. There wasn’t much traffic on the street; this was an area of residences, mostly. Two- and three-story, narrow houses, packed closely enough together that neighbors could pass things between their passage-facing windows.

  Dallen wasn’t plodding, but he wasn’t moving briskly, either. You didn’t want to move too quickly through here. There was no telling when a little might dart out of one of those narrow passages right under your nose.

  They were approaching his least favorite bridge over the river, which was still several blocks away, but already he was thinking glumly about how much worse it was going to be with the wind coming at him from every direction, which it always did on that bridge. Not to mention the spray from the rapids underneath. The best he could hope for was that there wouldn’t be a glaze of ice on the stones.

  The parapets at either side were barely knee high, and he never liked crossing it even in the best of weather. He knew why they were so low, of course; huge drays had to come down this street, bringing oversized goods up to the wealthier parts of Haven. This was the only bridge like it in the entire city for that reason, and the only place where the river could be crossed by such oversized vehicles. The river was on the downhill slope at this point in town, and looking at the foaming water from the arch of stone always made him feel as if he was likely to topple into it. When th
ere was more than just a few patchy spots of ice on the thing, he’d go halfway across town to avoid crossing it.

  He glanced up from under his hood, and saw they were practically the only people in sight. In fact, there was just one single person starting across the bridge ahead of him, afoot, shoulders hunched against the wind. He immediately felt sorry for the poor beggar, having to plod wherever he was going afoot in this weather. At least sitting atop Dallen there was a warm spot where his legs clutched Dallen’s barrel.

  And then, with no warning whatsoever, he heard the scream of a horse somewhere ahead, a crashing noise, and the clatter of hooves on stone. His head jerked up in immediate reaction, and he felt Dallen’s startled reaction beneath him.

  The hell? His first reaction was to try and figure out where the noise was coming from, because it didn’t sound good!

  From one of the side-streets ahead, a maddened horse, trailing the remains of a smashed cart, careened around the corner and down the street, heading toward the bridge.

  Instinctively, Mags rose in the stirrups, shouting and waving. Useless, of course; they were too far away.

  The fellow crossing the bridge never had a chance. The runaway galloped toward him, remains of the cart swinging wildly from side to side behind it, and shouldered into him just as he turned. He was sent staggering backward toward the parapet as Mags watched in horror, and the ruined cart finished the job by swinging into him and knocking him over the side!

  But there was worse . . .

  For in his head as the man was hit and fell, he heard an inarticulate shriek for help followed by silence as the man hit the water. And that inarticulate shriek had been in a very familiar Mindvoice.

  Nikolas!

  Years, now, of working together until their response to emergency was at the level of instinct had the two of them acting even as the runaway horse clattered off the end of the bridge and around another corner.

  Dallen launched into a frantic run, as Mags made himself small in the saddle and held on with everything he had. Desperately, he cleared his head, and he tried to Call Nikolas . . . and got no response. Nothing.

  Let him only be unconscious. . . .

  But even if his mentor was “just” unconscious, he couldn’t last for long in the foaming tumble of water down below, as the river dropped down the Hill.

  Dallen plunged down the bank to the edge of the river, pivoted on his heels with a sideways wrench that would have thrown an inexperienced rider out of the saddle and threw himself along the narrow path beside the churning water while Mags strained his hands holding onto the saddle and his eyes trying to catch sight of a body. As his heart froze, he saw nothing . . . nothing . . . and then, just a glimpse, a bit of back and an arm, limply tumbling along in the water.

  :There’s a place where it eddies a bit ahead. That’s our best chance,: Dallen said. Mags trusted him; Dallen’s knowledge of every nook and cranny of Haven was phenomenal. If they didn’t manage to fish Nikolas out soon. . . .

  Oh gods, what do I tell Amily?

  But he still wasn’t getting any response from Nikolas, despite his repeated mental calls. His stomach roiled with fear. This was a Herald’s worst nightmare; to know a friend as well as one of your own was in peril.

  Somehow Dallen put on a little more speed, moving with uncanny agility along the rough, boulder-riddled path. Now, more than ever, Mags blessed those hours and hours spent practicing and playing on the Kirball field. Without that practice, even Dallen would never have learned that kind of agility.

  Dallen’s hooves rang on the stone and hard-packed earth of the path, and the wind whipped at them. Mags reached up and unfastened his cloak, letting it be carried away into the river. When they hit the water, the dragging weight of it would be the very last thing he needed, and it could rip him right off Dallen’s back, or worse, get wrapped around Dallen and doom them both.

  :Don’t leave my back,: Dallen said.

  :Won’t,: he promised. Together, they had a chance; Dallen was infinitely stronger than he was, as well as larger, the better to plunge through the current. But if he got torn away from Dallen . . . there’d be two helpless bodies in the tumbling rapids.

  He felt Dallen suddenly gather under him, and knew that, although he couldn’t see it, they were nearing the place where Dallen thought they might be able to get Nikolas. He looked ahead; no sign of the Herald—

  :Behind—:

  He snatched a look over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of a tumbling back and head, and saw that they had gotten slightly ahead of their target. He kept his eyes locked on the body, as Dallen leapt into the water.

  They hit with a shock that was like being hit by lightning.

  The cold drove all the breath out of him, but he was ready for that, and fought for a breath as he strained upward to keep his head above the water. He had expected to be plunged under the water completely, but somehow—maybe because Dallen was so big he couldn’t go under the water—they got soaked, but kept their heads high enough to breathe. And Dallen had timed his entrance perfectly, for Nikolas literally tumbled into Mags’ arms in the next moment.

  He grabbed and hauled the Herald over Dallen’s withers in front of him, and as the water threatened to tear the limp and heavy body away from him, he flung himself over Nikolas, and hung on to the Herald and the saddle with every bit of strength in his arms, trying to keep the body pinned against Dallen’s withers with the weight of his own body. Dallen half-swam, half-leapt toward the bank, trying to use the current as much as he could.

  It seemed to take forever . . . surging up, getting a breath, falling back, getting soaked, over and over again. Waves beating at them and the current trying to tear them apart. His arms were on fire with cold and agony, his lungs burned from the water he couldn’t help but breathe in, and the cold had penetrated every bit of him.

  Then Dallen heaved up onto the bank, front legs, then a scramble and the hind legs. Only the high back of the saddle kept him and Nikolas from pitching back into the river. Then they were up on the bank, and safe, and Mags and Nikolas slid down off Dallen’s back—not entirely voluntarily.

  Mags hit the ground beside Nikolas’ unresponsive body, and rolled his mentor onto his back. He was white as marble, not breathing, and when Mags put his ear to Nikolas’ chest, he couldn’t hear a heartbeat.

  —

  Amily was bundled up to her eyes and halfway between Healer’s Collegium and the Guard Archives when suddenly the place exploded with frantic activity. Heralds and trainees erupted from every door in sight, and Companions raced out of the Field and Stable to join them. Amily felt her heart leap into her throat—for something terrible was surely happening!

  And then, suddenly, Rolan raced up to skid to a halt beside her. She looked up at him with relief. “Rolan! What—” she began.

  And then she heard the voice, in her mind, heavy with grief and sympathy. :I’m sorry, little one. I am so very, very sorry—:

  And then she looked with shock into his blue, blue eyes . . . fell into them . . .

  :I am so sorry it is this way for you, Amily. I Choose you.:

  —

  Mags didn’t hesitate, not for a moment. Not when Bear had drilled him for weeks on exactly what he needed to do in a case like this. Once spring had come, Bear had taught them all, him, Amily, Lena, Jak and Lita. The Breath of Life. Where Bear had learned it, he hadn’t said . . .

  That didn’t matter, not right now. All that mattered was Nikolas, and what he had to do, because he was not going to go home and tell Amily that—

  No. It was not going to be that way!

  Mags tilted Nikolas to one side, with his head on the downward side of the slope of the bank so that all the water ran out of his lungs. Then he rolled Nikolas back onto his back, put both hands over Nikolas’ breastbone and began pumping with all of his weight behind each push. Thir
ty pumps, and then he paused, tilted Nikolas’ head back, pinched off his nose, and breathed twice into his open mouth and down his throat, feeling Nikolas’ chest rise with the breath he blew in. Then he went back to pumping; thirty pumps, then another two breaths. Thirty pumps, two breaths. Over and over again, keeping count only of those thirty pumps and not how long it was taking. Because it didn’t matter. He would do this forever. All the while swearing quietly and prodding Nikolas’ mind frantically with his own.

  We have a chance. We have a chance. That water is cold, and cold water holds off death for a little while . . .

  That was what Bear had told him, anyway.

  Dallen lay down next to Nikolas’ body, and in a moment, he was radiating so much heat that his coat steamed, warming the two of them. That gave him more strength. Dallen wouldn’t have done that if there was no hope, would he?

  There was a clamor in the distance, but he ignored it. There was nothing for him now but this single task, and he must, he must do it until Nikolas came back to them.

  Thirty pumps, two breaths. Thirty pumps, two breaths. Mags was fiercely determined to keep it up until someone tore him away. . . .

  Then—

  : . . . Mags?: came a weak, thread of a thought. His heart leapt.

  :Nikolas!: he “shouted.”

  And that was when something huge and white shoved him away with its head, so that he fell over sideways, and he heard another Mindvoice in his head. A female one; one he didn’t recognize.

  :Live, Chosen! LIVE, Nikolas!:

  “Rolan—” he gasped, but of course he knew it wasn’t Rolan, not with that Mindvoice.

  And in the next moment, Nikolas coughed, coughed again, began to breathe on his own, and they were all swarmed by Healers and Heralds and. . . .

  Mags just got out of the way. On the whole, it seemed best. He fell over Dallan’s back, and just lay there quietly for a while as Dallen radiated heat with all his might, until Nikolas and the strange Companion were taken away and someone noticed he was still there.