Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  “And if the supervisor had orders to bring such gems straight to the owner . . .” Jorthun’s voice trailed off as his eyebrow rose.

  “Sorters might have the same sorta orders,” put in Mags.

  “And there you go. The owner says something like I’ll see this goes straight to the Masters myself. And then it vanishes.” Keira put her winecup down, empty, and did not seem inclined to refill it. “But the workers are not paid by how much in gems they bring out of the mine, they are paid by how much time they spend mining—or crushing or sorting or sluicing. So they would have no reason to know it had vanished.”

  “So there ain’t no records t’look through.” Mags nodded. “Or rather, the records ain’t gonna show the missin’ gems.”

  “So the only way to know if such things existed and if one or more owners is passing them off is to find out from the supervisors, the sorters, or the mine owners themselves. Or, possibly, the sons.” Keira nibbled a slice of apple. “So my idea is to see what Jorthun and I can get out of them when they are at the Kirball game, or watching practices—or in the case of the sons, after the practices. We’ll have them all together in one place, which will be useful. And if we are the ones generously supplying the drink, we can make sure it is a bit stronger than they are used to.”

  “It ain’t a bad plan.” Mags’ furrowed his brows. “But is’t good ’nuff to make up fer me spendin’ so much time playin’ a game?”

  “Everything is a gamble, Mags,” Jorthun pointed out. “We ourselves are gambling on the odds that our source of the funds is here, and not somewhere else, peddling some other commodity.”

  Mags rubbed his head, which definitely was aching at this point.

  “But the truth is, you are the one at risk for wasting time, and not me, or Jorthun,” Keira admitted. “So really, what do you want to do?”

  Mags thought it over. Thought about how he was going to win the gratitude of all those people in Rolmer’s Roost if he did this. Thought about how the game would bring together a great many spectators at the Rolmer mines. Remembered what Nikolas had always told him—

  Two people can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.

  “Let’s try it,” he agreed.

  • • •

  Keira had sent out invitations to all the young men who had turned up before, and a few who hadn’t—this time, rising young men in the Cutters and Assessors Guilds. And fathers. There was not space enough in the sitting room of her suite for them all, but she had anticipated that, and had taken over one of the bigger rooms downstairs. Jorthun had a cask of something “very special” as he said laid in. Not strong enough to get everyone tipsy—they were saving the distilled spirits and the fortified wine for the day of the game—but certainly something strong enough to loosen tongues. And this time, invitations had also gone out to ladies—mothers and sisters. There was sweet wine for them, and cakes, while for the men there was strong cheese and salty snacks.

  Once everyone had come that had responded to the invitations, Jorthun, rather than Keira, stood up and gained the company’s attention by rapping on his glass.

  “We’ve asked you to visit us for two reasons,” Jorthun said, when the murmur of conversation had ebbed to nothing. “The first is that it seems only polite to introduce ourselves—although, by the miracle of gossip, you already know who we are, and very likely everything about us!”

  There was a moment of laughter.

  “But the other is that we have a solution to a small but vexing problem you have. Keira and I came to understand recently that you have been enjoying the sport of Kirball. But that sadly, you can no longer, because one of you—that would be Landen Wallis, I believe, over there by the keg—has had the misfortune to break his wrist, and there is no substitute for him.”

  Most of the gathering turned to look at poor Landen, who had one arm bound up against his chest. He flushed deeply, and looked profoundly unhappy. The surface thoughts Mags picked up from him got him Mags’ instant sympathy. He loved the game with a passion he had never felt for anything else, and worst of all, it hadn’t been playing the game that had cost him the use of his arm for a while. It had been dealing with a terrified horse during a thunderstorm.

  “Well, as it happens, we have the remedy for you, at least until Landen can play again in a moon or so,” Jorthun continued. “If you have no objection, Keira and I would like to offer the services of our man Harkon, who has played fourth rider on the Collegium Green team at Haven for the last two years.”

  Seldom had Mags ever felt the surface thoughts of a group turn round about so quickly. The initial reaction to services of our man Harkon had been negative, a sort of how dare he offer a servant! feeling shared by the young men on the two teams and their families, alike. Evidently, while it was perfectly all right for a servant to play one of the foot positions . . . it was not acceptable for a servant to be in the mounted role.

  But all that reversed when Jorthun said played fourth rider on the Collegium Green team at Haven. The thoughts of the family members were a bit vague, more along the lines of “if he’s good enough for the Collegium, I suppose we can accept him.” But the young players? Far more enthusiastic. In fact, several of them started toward him. The thoughts spilling out of their heads were of admiration and desire to find out what he knew and what he could teach.

  That was especially true of Merdeth Hara and Malcon Laon, the two young men who had actually seen the Collegium teams play. Mags was extremely glad at that moment that he had not used the name of “Mags” here. Even if they had been concentrating on the Trainees who’d been playing, and not the foot or the horse, they certainly would have heard tales of “Herald Mags” who had been such a wicked good Kirball champion.

  It was Keira’s turn to speak, since now people were beginning to talk, and it took a woman’s high voice to carry over the crowd noise. “Father and I mean to say, if this suits you, we will be happy to do without Harkon so he can help you bring back your beloved pastime until your real player can come back to his team! Take your time and think about it, and let us know. Now please, enjoy yourselves.”

  It was absolutely clear to Mags that no one was going to need to “think about it.” Medoes Kiren, the captain of the team with the missing man, was already most of the way across the room, and when he reached Mags, he held out his hand in an entirely egalitarian manner.

  “Harkon is it?” he said, as Mags clasped his hand. “Well met, my good man. This is no end delightful! We’ll be very pleased to take your services—”

  “Master Medoes, I want ye t’know, I do know m’place,” Mags said, earnestly. “Off the field, I be just Harkon, Lord Jorthun’s man.”

  “But on the field, I damned well hope you’ll be a demon on horseback,” replied Medoes Kiren, as the rest of the riders gathered around and nodded eagerly. “Thing is, Harkon, it’s a damned dull life for us fellows, out here in the back of nowhere. Then along came Kirball, and well! It was as good as a war without anyone dying!”

  Mags allowed himself a little bit of a smile. “I kin see thet, Master Medoes. Well, I ’spect all ye young masters are right quick an’ clever an’ smart, ’cause ye don’ last long on the field iffin ye ain’t. So if I knows summat that ye don’t, be sure I’ll give ye the knack of it. When kin we start a-practicin’?”

  “By the gods, Harkon, you are a fine fellow! A toast, lads!” Medoes exclaimed, holding up his glass, as his friends did the same “A toast to Harkon, who has saved us!”

  Mags dropped his head and did his best to look bashful, which was what these young men would think proper in a servant being so singled out for attention by his “betters.”

  They all drank down their wine and Mags refilled their glasses. “As to when, why tomorrow!” said Medoes. His eyes shone with pleasure. “We’ll all send over some horses, so you can take your pick, right, fellows? That way you’ll have trained beasts, that
will only need to get used to you and we can start really playing right away!”

  A murmur of assent from the young men of both teams followed that.

  “Make sure you get six. We don’t want you handicapped by having to play with an exhausted mount,” Medoes continued. “Do you prefer tall horses, or ponies?”

  :Ponies, Mags,: Dallen said immediately. :I can handle their tempers, and ponies are better in the scrum as you know.:

  “Ponies, sirs,” Mags said, this time bringing his chin up and looking them all in the eyes. “I be a scrummer, sirs, an’ I ain’t never backed down from a good mash.”

  “I like you more and more by the moment,” Medoes exclaimed, his color high and his eyes sparkling—and Mags sensed very little of that was due to the wine. This fellow was utterly passionate about the game. He almost lived for it.

  :They are all second, third, and fourth sons with very little to do except try and find good girls to marry, and wait for their fathers to find them some job or other in the family business,: Dallen told him. :You’ve seen the like at Court. Except there is a great deal of mischief the young men at Court can get up to as you found out. There’s not a lot that these lads can do out here that wouldn’t be found out before the day was over. That leaves them with hunting—and you can’t hunt in the spring—and fishing—and you have to have the temperament to fish—cards and dice—and none of them dares lose much or their fathers would have their heads. Horse racing, well, that’s possible, but they are too well bred to race the horses themselves, it isn’t much fun to watch someone else ride your horse, and again, if they lost money, their fathers would be furious. They’d probably be happier if they were poorer. But now they have Kirball. Small wonder they live for it.:

  Mags could certainly see that. It made perfect sense.

  He continued to serve the guests all evening, making certain that the young men did not monopolize his time asking about plays he had made and plays he had seen. This was a very careful dance on his part; one false move, one slip that made it appear that he was not the born servant he was pretending to be, and he risked their mission here. Harkon, of all of them, was the one who dared have no questions asked about him.

  When the last of the guests finally cleared out—it was the Medoes lad, who urgently reminded him that he was going to get about a dozen ponies arriving in the morning to sort through—he felt as exhausted as if he’d done a roof-run across most of Haven.

  “The advantage of hiring this room is that the inn servants will take care of the ruins, Harkon,” Jorthun said, as Mags made an abortive move to pick up a goblet. “I feel strongly in need of a nightcap and my bed. These festive evenings wear me completely out.”

  “Aye, m’lord,” said Mags and held the door open for him.

  “I’ll join you in that nightcap, Father,” said Keira, and followed him out, leaving Mags and Coot (who was yawning and trying to hide it) to bring up the rear.

  When the door was closed on the rest of the inn, Jorthun got himself a glass of spirits of wine—something he seldom indulged in—and poured one for each of them. Even Coot, although he gave Coot only about half a tiny glass.

  “Well, that came off better than I could have hoped,” said Jorthun, sitting himself down and sipping his glass. “It’s always a tricky thing when you barge into an established order and propose to shake it up, even a trifle.”

  “Aye that,” Mags agreed, and threw himself into a window seat, taking care not to spill the precious liquor in his glass. He savored a few drops. “I was mortal glad of my particular Mindgift. At leastwise, I could read th’ crowd.”

  “Well, we took a chance on a roll of the dice, and they came out in our favor,” Keira replied. “How do you reckon tomorrow will be?”

  “Easy sailin’,” Mags told them, feeling much more confident now that the worst was over. “Dallen had a few thins t’tell me ’bout this lot.”

  He explained in a few words what Dallen had imparted to him, and Lord Jorthun and Keira both nodded in agreement. “So now, Dallen reckons, long’s I don’ get uppity, I got ’em like puppies followin’ the pack-leader.”

  “To you and Dallen and the morrow, then,” said Jorthun, raising his glass high. “And may the odds continue to favor us.”

  “Amen to that,” Mags said fervently, and downed his glass.

  The stableyard of the inn was crowded, but not with the horses of incoming and outgoing patrons. There was a string of ponies, and about a dozen handlers, lined up on the hard-packed earth of the yard. There were also a lot of onlookers, enough that you could reasonably call them an audience. Mags could sense Dallen’s presence somewhere nearby; hiding, although it never ceased to amaze him how something as obvious as a big, snow-white horse could manage to hide. That was good, he was going to need every bit of Dallen’s help he could get. He really wished Amily was here now. Her Gift of reading animals would have helped tremendously.

  :Just put one hand on each pony’s shoulder, and let me see what I can see,: Dallen told him soothingly. :I’m confident we can get six good mounts out of this lot. They sent you good ponies, Chosen. None of them are too old, nor too young, none have been injured, and none of them have vicious temperaments. I think they’re all mine-pony stock, which is good for us. Mine-ponies need patience.:

  Well, Dallen would know. During Kirball matches, while he communicated with the other members of the team, and read the surface thoughts of their opponents during a match, Dallen was the one who kept track of the horses. He was the one who always knew if the ball was under the hooves of the ordinary horses during a scrum, and whether a mount was getting nervy about being crowded up against the fence.

  Eighteen ponies were lined up in the inn yard, with more people loitering about than Mags had cared to count, watching him make his selections. He walked out into the yard, ignoring the impromptu audience, and surveyed the ponies slowly. Physically, they were pretty much of a piece; their colors varied about as much as rocks did, their coats were coarse, and they were strongly muscled. None of them wasted energy fidgeting, which was a good sign; you didn’t want your horse wearing himself out before the game even started. They all seemed patient. Without looking in their mouths, he couldn’t tell how old they were, but if he’d been sent good prospects, and it looked as if he had, they were all somewhere between five and ten. It was going to be Dallen’s job to pick out the ones that had the feel for the game.

  Until he had come on this journey, he had ridden a horse—as opposed to a Companion—no more than two or three times in his entire life. He had never been allowed nearer the mine-ponies than sleeping under their barn. He had always assumed, based on the behavior of the poor abused mine-ponies that they were stolid, dull things, capable only of going where they were led. It had never occurred to him before he joined the Kirball team that mere horses could have likes and dislikes and the temperament for something, but it was true. Now he knew better. He’d watched his non-Trainee friends schooling, training, and choosing their Kirball horses, and the outstanding ones had been utterly brilliant. There were horses that played because they were well trained, and horses that actually enjoyed what they were doing out there.

  He put his hand on the shoulder of the first, a dun-colored gelding, who didn’t startle or even twitch, just flicked his ears in Mags’ direction. Then the pony turned his head slightly, and looked Mags in the eye, then snorted with what sounded like satisfaction and went back to watching the others.

  :Him,: Dallen said, almost instantly. :He’ll be perfect. That snort was because I pictured you during the game. He doesn’t want to be hitched to a cart, he wants to compete. He’s played before, and the only reason he’s been sent to you is because I think his rider likes taller beasts.:

  “This one,” Mags said, and the pony was led away, and Mags passed on to the next. He got a piebald one next, then another dun with black socks and a black mane, then a cream, and
a black.

  For a moment, as he was choosing his final mount, he was afraid he’d have to settle for five instead of six—but the very last pony in the string, a cheerful little bay who nuzzled him as soon as he set his hand on the pony’s shoulder, proved to be as satisfactory to Dallen as the first had been. There was a murmur of satisfaction from the crowd, quite as if they had been mentally picking the same beasts as Mags was, and then they all dispersed. The innkeeper had graciously volunteered stalls for the ponies without being asked, so once they were put up, Mags went to pay them each a visit. He knew from talking to the riders on the Collegium teams that it was important to actually get to know your mounts before you asked them to engage in something as potentially violent and dangerous as Kirball.

  Unlike his friends who had not been Trainees, Mags had an edge.

  He stepped into the stall of the first one he’d picked, the dusty dun. :This is Jess,: Dallen told him. :He likes the spot where his bit of a blaze is to be rubbed, not scratched. Right now he is wondering if you know how to rub correctly, and if you might have a bit of sweet about you.:

  “Well, Jess,” Mags said, rubbing the indicated spot. “You an’ me are gonna be partners fer a bit. Dallen tells me yer keen on th’ game. Thet kinda makes two of us.” The pony sighed and leaned a little into the rubbing, but kept one eye on him. Not wary, just interested. What was coming next from this new human?

  Of course, he knew very well that what Jess heard was babble Jess babble babble babble. That was fine, the important thing was that Jess be used to him, the sound of his voice, the feel of his hands, and that the pony associate all of these things with someone to be relied on and trusted, with comfort, with steadiness. Horses valued reliability and steadiness. Horses valued trust. When Jess’s eyes started to half-close, Mags picked up a brush and began running it, and his hands, over every thumb length of the pony’s body, pausing to carefully pick up and gently set down hooves, and get itchy spots with the brush as Dallen instructed him. Then, to finish—as Dallen also instructed him—he breathed softly into both of Jess’s nostrils, then gave him a piece of carrot. :You give him the most intimate part of your scent,: said Dallen. :Your breath. They breathe into each others’ noses, when they trust each other. When you do the same, that speaks to their hearts.: