Closer to Home: Book One of Herald Spy

by Mercedes Lackey

  This, evidently, had been one of her father’s duties; to sit in the King’s study with him over breakfast, and distill things like Duke Perrin’s letter down to a few sentences. She didn’t mind the sitting in the study; it was possibly the most comfortable room in the entire Palace; small, cozy and warm, with a pair of chairs that allowed one to sit at ease. She very much enjoyed the breakfast; obviously the King got the best of the best. But she was by no means certain she was . . . competent enough to tell what was important in these letters, and what was not.

  Then again, maybe nothing is, and he already knows that. Maybe he’s testing my ability to cut straight to the heart of a matter.

  “Majesty?” she said. “Is there something I can help with?”

  King Kyril rubbed his eyes with his right hand, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “No, nothing you can help with,” he said with a sigh. “But something you need to know about. Lord Kaltar gave notice a fortnight ago that he intended to bring his family up to their manor in Haven for the Midwinter Court.”

  “I remember,” she nodded.

  “Well, this letter is from Lord Leverance. Who intends to bring his household up to their manor for the Midwinter Court.” The King actually stabbed the offending letter with a paper-knife. “Kaltar’s household will be here within a day, so it’s too late to let him know, and Leverance’s letter was sent the day they set off, so it’s too late to stop them.” The King removed the letter opener and stabbed the letter a second time. Now she knew why his desk was scarred with knife-marks. “Damn and blast.”

  Amily was fully in sympathy with the King’s feelings. Everyone knew of the feud between the two families—although the number of people who knew the actual cause of the feud could probably be counted on the fingers of one hand. It had been going on for at least as long as Amily had been alive.

  For almost ten years, the King had managed to keep the two families apart, but it appeared that either by accident or malicious design, that was not going to be the case anymore. Privately, Amily expected that it was malicious design. Probably, so did the King.

  It would accomplish nothing to say so, however.

  “Well . . . why are they saying they are coming?” she asked, for she had not been privy to the contents of those letters.

  “Matchmaking,” Kyril said, sitting up a little straighter, and turning to eye her. “Lord Kaltar of House Raeylen has an only son he wants to marry off, and I have no idea what he’s looking for in a girl for the boy. Lord Leverance of House Chendlar has three daughters, and I do know what he is looking for; he wants a lad with money and no land for one of them, who’d be willing to give up his own family name and adopt Chendlar.”

  Amily blinked. “Is that likely?”

  Kyril snorted. “Chendlar isn’t that exalted a name. That’s what the feud’s about. Before you were born, Leverance’s sister was offered to Kaltar, rather bluntly, and Kaltar’s father was . . . less than diplomatic about the rejection, and Leverance’s father was just as harsh about the rebuttal. I believe that words like If you’d spent less time siring bastards and more time tending your fields you might not live in a hall that sings in seventy voices when the wind blows, and I have bitches with better pedigrees were exchanged.”

  Amily winced. “But. . . .”

  “But yes, under ordinary circumstances, that would simply turn the families into enemies without the bloodshed. Unfortunately, one of those aforementioned bastards decided to prove . . . something . . . to the old man. I’m not sure what the young fool was thinking, maybe that he would avenge the insult, but the short story is the idiot got himself killed, and the feud escalated.” Kyril ran his hand over his face in exasperation. “It spilled over into the streets more than once, to the point where my father had to assign the Guard to supervise every move every member of the households made outside of their manors.”

  “Perhaps with children in need of appropriate spouses, they’ll confine themselves to sour faces and muttered insults?” Amily suggested, without much hope. Then a thought occurred to her. “Perhaps you could insinuate someone into each household—friends for the son and the daughters? Then you’d at least get some warning if something was about to boil over. Mags has ‘Magnus,’ who would probably do very well for that task.”

  “Mags would certainly do as a local friend for the son,” the King agreed, and tapped his fingers on his desk, thinking. “In fact . . . he might actually be able to prevent some of those hotheads from starting altercations, if he manages to get enough influence on the boy.” He gave Amily a long, speculative look. “Who would you suggest for the daughters?”

  “Lady Dia Jorthun,” Amily said promptly. “She’s not so pretty that they’d consider her competition, and given her own lineage and marriage, they’d consider themselves flattered and lucky that she was taking an interest in them. And she was part of our little circle that kept Nikolas informed of what was going on among the children of the courtiers. She knows not only how to hold her tongue, but how to get other girls to confide in her.”

  The King made a note. “Lady Dia it is. I’ll speak to her myself, I know I can leave Mags up to you.” He let out his breath in something that was not quite a sigh. “This Midwinter Court is not going to be easy, but we just might be able to keep things from exploding into duels and fistfights.”

  “From the sound of things, Majesty,” Amily said slowly. “I think I would be grateful to keep it just to fistfights.”

  The King grimaced. “You’re probably right. But we’ll see. You never know what’s likely to happen.”

  Well, if there was ever a statement Amily was going to agree with wholeheartedly . . . it was that.

  —

  “Harkon” returned to the shop at midday, on the fourth day after he had dropped the boys off with Aunty Minda. He was pleased to find the door locked, and used his key, after giving the signal-knock he had taught Minda.

  But the door was opened for him, before he could push it open, and when he stepped inside, he had to repress a grin, for he scarcely recognized the younglings he had recruited.

  Or would it be better to have said, “rescued”?

  They’d all had their hair cut short, no surprise there; he’d have been astonished if anyone could have dragged even the coarsest comb through those matted locks. They were all now—inadvertently—blonds. The preparation for head lice Minda had intended to use on them had that effect, or so she had told him. Well, the blond hair would grow out, and meanwhile, it gave them a sort of pleasing uniformity.

  He’d caught them at their midday meal of bread and thick, bean soup, and already they looked significantly better than they had when he’d last seen them. They were all staring at him with expressions ranging from wariness to veiled fear, but he waved a dismissive hand at them. “Gerron wi’ yer food,” he said. “Aunty, a word.”

  Minda left her chair beside the fire, and he led her over to a bit of bench near the door. “Well?” he said. “How’re they shapin’ up?”

  “A few troubles,” the old woman said candidly. “Nay as many as we thought. There was some sass, but afore I could even say ary a word, one or another’f the other lads smacked th’ barstard acrost the head!”

  He nodded. That was a very good sign. “An thievin’?” he persisted. “When ye let ’em out?”

  “Nay so much as a pin,” she told him, sounding surprised herself. “I think their marster give ’em the cald grue about yon Guard. ’Struth, they spent a good bit of first day beggin’ me t’ tell ’em they warn’t goin’ thievin’!”

  “Well good,” he replied grimly. “Thet means I ain’t gonna have ta give ’em the cald grue m’self.”

  He stood up and strolled over to the boys, who stopped eating, some with the spoons halfway to their mouths, staring at him in apprehension.

  He looked them over carefully. The as
sorted used garments he’d bought for them, he’d purchased with an eye to making them look as uniform as possible. So they were all in plain black trews, and plain black tunics. Or—well, as “black” as used clothing could get, which meant a sort of charcoal gray. Nothing like Trainee Grays, of course. They’d all been supplied with thick felt boots with leather soles—felt was cheaper than leather, and with a couple of pairs of socks, a lot more forgiving, so the sizes didn’t need to be even close. And they’d all gotten black belts of heavy canvas, with messenger pouches to match. Under their tunics, they all had thick woolen sweaters knitted out of odds and ends of leftover yarn, or yarn salvaged by unraveling an older sweater and knitting it up again into a new one, so various drab colors peeked out at collars and cuffs. Hanging up on hooks along one wall were the wool-lined, canvas capes they would wear when they went outside.

  None of these clothes fitted well. In fact, it looked as if Aunty had erred on the side of “too large,” since shirt-sleeves and trews were rolled up and tied in place, and tunics held in with belts. Fortunately, all of those trews would have drawstring waistbands, but every one of these boys could probably have smuggled a bushel of apples in his pants. There were patches and darned places on every garment. Nevertheless, this was probably the warmest, best-dressed, and most comfortable they’d all been in their short lives.

  “So,” he said, raking them with his glance. “Ye’ve shaped up. Minda says ye ain’t givin’ her much trouble. Tha’s good, I won’t have ta toss any’f ye out.”

  The looks of relief that spread across the hunger-pinched faces told him everything he needed to know.

  “Now, from whut I know, ye’re all roof-runners, aye?” he asked.

  The boys exchanged wary looks. Finally Coot spoke up. “Aye, Cap’n,” he said, giving Mags the title common to those who ran theft rings.

  Mags nodded. “Here’s whut I wanta know. Are ye fast? Cuz I need boys whut’s fast. If ye ain’t fast, I’m holdin’ ye back till ye get fast. That means no extree dosh, no special favors, jest bed an’ bowl.”

  He was met with surprised blinking. It had never even occurred to them that he was going to give them anything other than the food, clothing and beds he had already! He nodded as they slowly came to understand what being in this gang was going to mean.

  Still eating, they huddled up for a moment, speaking to each other in low, urgent voices. He suppressed a grin, as he could sense what all this meant. Aunty Minda had put the fear in them, all right, fear of being thrown out! He’d chosen exactly the right woman for the job.

  After a few moments of talking, the boys turned back to him. He dug out a little notebook and a bit of pencil and waited, pencil poised above a blank page. One by one, they stated their names—or more precisely, the name Gripper had given them—and what it was they could do.

  “Aight,” he said, when they were done, perusing the page. “Grub, Flea, Ash, an Jo. Yer gettin’ held out fer now.” The four boys named looked disappointed, but also as if they had pretty much expected this. “Yer job—” he continued, pointing the pencil at them “—is t’practice runnin’. Tha’s what ye do. When yer fast, ye’ll join the crew. Rest of ye, I got three inns that’ll take ye on messenger’s bench.”

  In the simplest possible terms, he described what their job would be—which wasn’t really at all difficult. Take a message, run it to where it was supposed to go, get confirmation and run back. “But there’ll be lads that’ll try an’ cheat ye,” he warned. “So, allus get yer penny afore the start. Never agree t’get paid on t’other end. An’ never, ever, get inter a race, where feller says ’e’ll hire two on ye, an’ on’y pay the one thet gets there fastest. Unnerstand?”

  They all nodded.

  “Now, that there’s the open part’ve job. Like Weasel’s shop next door, all open an ’bove board. Right?” He chuckled, and so did they, because everyone knew that the Weasel was a fence as well as a pawnbroker. “So, on the quiet-like. Ye keep yer ears open. Ye hear summat ’bout a man’s business, ye tell t’me. Ye hear summat about summun or somethin’ gettin’ nicked, ye tell me. Anythin’ that seems innerestin’, ye tell me. If I like it, ye gets t’keep yer messenger penny. An’ t’make it easier, Aunty Minda’s gonna teach ye readin’ an’ writin’ arfter supper.”

  He had expected some groans, but instead, he got nothing but perked up heads and nods. After a moment, he realized why. These boys knew they couldn’t be messengers forever; a grown man couldn’t run as fast as a fleet and agile boy, especially not one that could scamper over rooftops to avoid problems in the streets, or take short cuts over fences and between parked carts. But a boy that knew how to read and write—well, he could get himself another respectable sort of job when he outgrew being a messenger. He could work at a shop, or in a tavern. He could work for a stall-keeper who was himself illiterate. There were scores of things he could do as long as he was literate. A boy that knew how to read and write would never go hungry again.

  That . . . had never occurred to him. Not until this moment, when he saw it in their faces, the moment that he told them that they actually had a future, because he was going to give them something that no one could steal from them, and that would always be useful.

  He hadn’t thought about that at the mine, when he’d been indifferently taught reading and writing by his master’s daughter. But then, at the mine, he’d never thought he would ever be free of the mine. And he hadn’t known the value of what he was being taught. These boys did.

  “Aight. T’morrow I’ll come for ye. Show ye yer stations. Aunty Minda’ll give ye summat t’eat fer nuncheon, an’ save it, don’ go gobblin’ it, ’cause thet’s all ye get till supper. An’ don’t go thinkin’ ye kin hold back pennies; innkeeper’ll be keepin’ track.”

  He wouldn’t, of course. The innkeeper had more than enough to do without keeping track of which messenger boys were going out. But the boys wouldn’t know that, and Mags was not inclined to lose any money for Minda, who was the beneficiary of this little business.

  “I’ll be back at supper t’hear if’n ye got summut of innerest fer me. Arfter that, yer on yer own. Ye kin choose t’slack off, but that means no chancet fer pennies, aye?”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” came the chorus. The boys all looked determined. And really, they should be. They had gone from being virtual slaves, to this. They’d be fools not to appreciate it.

  And if there was one thing Mags was sure of, it was that no boy who was a fool had survived for long under Gripper.

  6

  This was by no means one of the finest manors on the Hill. It was also in the section where the manors themselves were rather close together, with nothing in the way of lawn or ornamental foliage in the front, although they did have very nice long gardens in the rear. The gray stone building was old, and had not been renovated in the last hundred years, at least. To enter the manor, you had only to go up a set of five steps and you were right at the double wooden doors that marked the entrance.

  And once admitted, you found yourself in a somewhat dark anteroom that did not boast any sort of heat-source. Lord Leverance had elected to meet Amily there, and thus far, no one in the family was moving from the spot, although the three daughters were looking chilly and uncomfortable. At least I am still in my nice warm cloak, she thought, pitying the girls. All three looked very like their mother, with brown eyes, round, doll-like faces, and brown hair. Lady Leverance did not look particularly pleased to be standing about in the cold antechamber either, but she, at least, had a much warmer wool-plush overgown than her daughters. Looking from the eldest to her mother and back again, Amily guessed that her Ladyship had been no more than fourteen or fifteen when she’d had her first child. And from the research she had done in the Archives, Amily already knew it had been an arranged marriage. There was no love there . . . although there was no loathing either.

  Still, her Ladyship seemed friendly enough. Unli
ke his Lordship.

  Amily was holding tightly to her mask of serenity, even though “serene” was the last thing she felt in the face of Lord Leverance’s obvious and blatant disapproval of her. But he didn’t dare say anything. She was the King’s Own, after all, and having her turn up to welcome his Lordship to Haven and the Winter Court was the highest possible honor, short of sending the Prince or Princess Royal.

  But she could tell he didn’t approve of her, and she thought she knew why. She was young, and female. Or perhaps the level of disapproval was reserved more for the “female” part than the “young,” but put together, they represented both change and a reversal of what he considered to be the proper social order, and he was not at all pleased.

  She just hoped that what she had to say next was going to sweeten all this sourness, as she finished reciting the official message of welcome.

  “And as a token of his esteem, the King would also like to offer you the services of Dia, Lady Jorthun as an aid to your marital negotiations this season. She’s the wife of Lord Jorthun of Ayersmark,” she added, at the moment of blankness that crossed Lord Leverance’s face.

  Well, he might not have recognized Jorthun’s name, but he certainly recognized Jorthun’s Duchy of Ayersmark. His disapproval vanished in an instant—because, basically, the King had just sent along the lady ranked just below the Princess Royal in the Court to help with his matchmaking.

  Dia stepped forward, a smile on her pretty face. She was dressed expensively and exquisitely, her overgown of thick blue velvet, the sleeves lined in mink, the collar and hem trimmed in the same fur, a muff of blue velvet and mink, and her undergown of quilted and embroidered samite. There was absolutely no doubt that she was not sloughing off Lord Leverance and his family by wearing her second-best.