Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  “You don’t?” Of course Jorthun knew this very well by now. But he was going to lead Rolmer gently down the path he chose without Rolmer ever realizing he was being led.

  “Oh no, it wouldn’t be fair to the mine-owners! After all, rocks are not like crops, not intrinsically valuable in themselves, only in how other people regard them. And the Crown is nothing if not fair! No, they are just pretty rocks until they go to market. So until then, if we like, we are permitted to store as much as we want against times when the mine is not doing too well. We have a tradition that we only store the really spectacular stones. Would you like to see?”

  Mags sensed Jorthun’s interest—and of course, neither Mags nor Jorthun had known until now that mine owners typically did store uncut gems against hard times. “I would indeed,” Jorthun replied. “I didn’t get the little tour of your sorting rooms that Keira did.”

  I wonder why these windows don’t have bars on ’em? Mags thought—because he would have thought that if the valuable stones were stored here, this would have been the best protected room in the house. . . .

  Which would give away the fact that there’s somethin’ here to protect, he realized in the next moment. His thought was confirmed when Jorthun said, with admiration, “Now that is a truly cunning design, Rolmer! I don’t suppose the creator is still alive?”

  Mags was shocked. He had not heard the sound of anything moving in there. All he could guess at this point was that Rolmer had done something to reveal a hidden vault door. Opening it was evidently so routine for Rolmer that he hadn’t even thought about it. Surface thoughts only gave a vague hint of a cupboard-sized area, hidden between the walls.

  “Now, don’t be expecting a robber’s cave. We don’t keep masses of gems in here, we only keep the really unusual specimens,” Rolmer cautioned. “Mostly the eyepoppingly large ones, but there are a few with some flaws that make them interesting curiosities, and people often pay more for the interesting ones than they do for the big ones.”

  There still was no sound of anything opening. But Jorthun bit off an exclamation. Jorthun was incredibly controlled when it came to not leaking things, but the impression that Mags got was of dazzling crystals, fist-sized and bigger, that had been carefully cleaned but otherwise left untouched. Jorthun’s thoughts were full of beautiful colors and flashes of light.

  “This . . . is amazing,” he said, finally.

  “We’ve been extraordinarily lucky, actually,” Rolmer said modestly. “We’ve never had to touch the vault, as we have never had a time when the mines weren’t producing at least adequately. Well, we almost never had to touch the vault. My grandfather sent some nice bits as our contribution to the war in Vanyel’s time, since we didn’t have any trained fighters. And we did contribute some stones recently to General Thallan’s needs.”

  What the hell? Every hair on Mags’ head stood up. He was pretty sure that Lord Jorthun was feeling the same, but the man’s voice remained absolutely calm. “Asked you to help too, did he?”

  “Well, it certainly isn’t the Guard’s fault that the harvests were so poor last year in the south, and it seems harsh to cut their allotments just because the expected taxes didn’t come in. It was very clever of him to ask for donations to cover the loss. I’ve got more than enough in that vault to keep this household going until we found something new to profit from even if the mines failed tomorrow. Which they won’t. I could certainly spare a dozen this size.”

  :Jorthun!: Mags thought tightly, thrusting his words into Jorthun’s mind. :Get him talkin’ ’bout this Thallan character! I need a face!:

  “That is extraordinarily generous of you, Rolmer,” said Jorthun. “My contribution was in fodder and meat-on-the-hoof from my Home Farm. Did the General seem at all anxious to you? I think he was a bit upset that I didn’t dip into some hidden vault of my own and present him with silver bars.” Jorthun laughed. “He should have known better than to come to a man whose fortune is in his farms. Still I did contribute a very pretty packet-worth.”

  Well, now, if ever, was the time it was ethical to use his Gift to read the thoughts of someone else. Mags concentrated as hard as he could, slipping into Rolmer’s head and waiting to see an image, a memory of this General Thallan—because he didn’t recognize the name. At all.

  :Nor do I,: said Dallen.

  The memory swam into view and started to ebb away, slipping out of Rolmer’s slightly wine-addled thoughts. Dammit! Mags thought, struggling to follow it. It was like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands.

  “He presented me with a stack of official papers about as thick as my thumb,” prompted Jorthun. The memory suddenly solidified and Mags snatched for it.

  Rolmer laughed. “Oh, aye, he did me, too, and I was so nervous at dealing with the man that I nearly dropped them all.” In Rolmer’s mind’s eye, the memory scrolled forward; the stack of very official-looking documents, with all the appropriate seals dangling from them by ribbons. Mags memorized them all . . . but the seals looked authentic. Especially the one from the Seneschal and the Lord Treasurer, explaining the dearth of tax revenue and the need to economize. Then the memory moved to the General’s face as he caught the documents that Rolmer had inadvertently fumbled. The General was frowning; his demeanor was that of a stern, impatient man who was not in the least used to having to come to people he considered beneath him for favors. And he looked like a man with a temper, a man who knew how to use those weapons he was wearing. Small wonder Master Rolmer had been nervous.

  It wasn’t anyone Mags knew, and he could tell from Dallen’s reaction the Companion didn’t know this man either. He felt every muscle in his body go tense with the need to find this man, and shake the truth out of him! This . . . pillaging of Rolmer’s treasures had certainly not been at the behest of the King, nor the Lord Martial, nor anyone commanding the Guard known to Mags. So who was he? And where had he gotten all those official-looking papers?

  The one thing that Mags was sure of was this: this was the man who’d bought all those weapons and smuggled them to the Menmellith rebels. He was no closer to knowing why, but at least he knew who, now.

  He didn’t dare move, not yet. There might be something more to learn. How in the names of all the gods was Jorthun remaining so calm?

  “Now this stone . . . I kept because it was such a curiosity. It’s just common rutilated quartz, but have you ever seen the filaments line up like that before?”

  “By the gods, it looks like a golden star, or a sun-in-glory or something,” said Jorthun. “Am I right in guessing something this unusual, you could ask what you cared to and someone would pay it?”

  “Quite right,” replied Rolmer, as Mags felt as if he was on fire with the need to get out of there, get on Dallen, and head back to Haven. “Absolutely correct. Those golden threads aren’t anything valuable, not gold at all—not even something like fool’s gold. But you’d swear they were threads of pure gold, and formed up in that star shape like that, well, I could probably ask as much or more for it than any other stone here. And get what I asked, too.”

  Jorthun actually laughed easily. “Well, that is the trick of it. You can ask all you like, it’s the getting that’s the hard part.”

  “Now look here—” Rolmer continued. “Look at this citrine. Absolutely flawless and as big as your fist. You could do a full set of completely matching stones out of this one, and you can’t do that too often, let me tell you.”

  The two men continued to natter about stones as Mags slowly inched his way out from under the window, then slipped more quietly than any cat around to the side of the Great House, where the deepest shadows were. :Dallen! How quick kin ye get here?:

  But the Companion surprised him with his answer. :Not yet, Mags. There is no good reason yet to rush back, and then cause questions about where you are. We don’t know that this “General Thallan” hasn’t left a spy or two planted in Attlebury, an
d if you vanish with no explanation, any competent spy will smell a rat. Confer with Lord Jorthun on the way back to the inn. We need him to manufacture a reason for you to be sent back to Haven. He and Keira certainly should not leave the area—Master Rolmer might remember what he has revealed tonight, and the gods only know what he’d make of all of you dashing off. He might assume you all are thieves sent here to get him to reveal the secrets of his vault. He would almost certainly alert the local authorities and if he doesn’t have a spy in the town, this “General” almost certainly has one in the local Guard. We must go carefully in this. Get your livery back on, and go back to the festivities.:

  Dallen was right of course. But it took every bit of control Mags had to go back to the carriage, change his clothing in its sheltering darkness, and rejoin the staff in the kitchen. By this time the remains of the feast had returned to the kitchen, and Mags was urged to help himself to suckling pig, roast onions and apples, and the remains of the fancy sweet that had been served to the family and their guests. “What don’t get et be goin’ inter a fancy pork pie fer th’ fambly,” said the Cook, who already had what he needed laid out to make the treat the next day. “Wishet they’d hunt pig in spring oftener.”

  “That’d be pressin’ luck, Cook,” one of the house servants pointed out, as Mags nibbled on pork and bread, and reminded himself that Dallen was right, that nothing would be gained by letting his anxiety get the better of him. “Got lucky this ’unt. Them pigs was wallerin’ an’ still stuck i’ mud. Iffen they’d’a been up an on their trotters, ’twould’a been a differen’ end t’tale.”

  :Dallen, do you think you can possibly reach Rolan and tell him what we discovered?: Mags asked, suddenly thinking of a way he could accomplish something right now.

  :I can certainly try. At this distance, what I can tell him will be bare bones, however.:

  :Bare bones’ll do,: Mags replied. :I druther ye could send ’im th’ face too, but bare bones’ll do.:

  Dallen’s “presence” in his mind withdrew a little, by which Mags knew that the Companion was concentrating with all his might on reaching the King’s Own’s Companion. But at least now something was being done, and that was a comfort. He was able to settle and pretend that everything was normal, and even regale the kitchen staff with a Kirball story.

  Coot, meanwhile, being utterly oblivious of everything that had just happened, was joyously stuffing his face full of what must have been the best food he had ever eaten in his life. He was eating suckling pig as if he was never going to get to eat it again in his life—which was very probably true—and the Cook was aiding him in his endeavor to eat himself into a state of comatose bliss. Every time he finished a piece and was licking his fingers clean of the rich fat, the Cook slipped another bit onto his plate.

  Of course, the Cook was doing that with everyone in the kitchen to an extent, but evidently he did not like Coot’s perpetually skinny state and was determined to do what he could to put some meat on the boy’s bones.

  Finally just as Coot reached satiation, Dallen spoke up again. :I was just able to reach Rolan and give him the name and what we had discovered. He confirms that there was no such sanctioned outreach, asking for voluntary donations on behalf of a mysteriously underfunded Guard. He also confirms that he does not personally know of a General Thallan.:

  Mags sipped at his mug of beer. :Now that I think on it, th’ man’d be a damned fool t’use ’is real name. But from ev’ thin’ I saw in Rolmer’s head, he’s some kinda leader an’ fightin’ man. So why’s ’e doin’ this? Is it even possible ’e’s with the Menmellith rebels, an’ ’e’s managed t’get enough clever bits t’gether t’pass as a Guard General?:

  :Anything is possible. I don’t know how he’d get those seals, though . . . :

  Mags mulled that one over, and had a thought. :Iffen ye could get the seals off somethin’ else, a clever lad could fasten ’em to new stuff.:

  :Or a clever lad could make molds out of the seals and make a new stamp to make all the seals he liked out of it,: Dallen mused. :They wouldn’t fool anyone who knew what the seals looked like or what tampering looked like, but they’d fool someone like Master Rolmer who wouldn’t be allowed to look at them for very long in any case. I’d bet this “Thallan” deliberately made him nervous so he wouldn’t do more than quickly read all the documents he was given.:

  :If that,: Mags agreed. He would have said more, but he caught sight of Harras waving to him from the doorway. He reached out and shook Coot’s shoulder gently, as the latter contemplated the remains of a sugared pastry swan, as if he was trying to figure out if he could force a few more crumbs into himself.

  “Time t’go lad. Milord an’ milady need us.” Coot looked up; Harras, satisfied that they were both moving, left, presumably to return to the carriage.

  Coot moved with reluctance, and who could blame him, given he had just had the best meal of his entire life? But Mags could not get to the carriage fast enough.

  There was a lot that was going to have to be decided on the way back to the inn. Much as he would have preferred to, he could not follow his instincts alone.

  Makes me wish I’d done this solo. But if he had, would he ever have gotten this far, this fast? Probably not.

  But next time . . . and there would be a next time . . .

  Dammit. I’ll do what Jorthun advises.

  “Dallen was right, Mags. We cannot abandon our personas and go dashing back home,” Lord Jorthun said, as the carriage took them back through the darkness. Harras was making good speed, considering the only light was from the two lanterns on the front of the carriage, but Mags was impatient for them to be back at the inn. “There is almost certainly a spy somewhere in Attlebury; I cannot think how this pseudo-General would have known who to approach with his proposition otherwise. If we debunk suddenly, without a messenger turning up, that spy will certainly think this is suspicious, and who did we just visit? One of General Thallan’s victims.”

  Mags sighed. “At least we know Master Rolmer ain’t in on it,” he said. “That’s one blessin’ in all this.” They all swayed back and forth with the rocking of the carriage, but at least this road was smoother than the ones they’d taken getting to Attlebury.

  “True enough, and I would have felt very badly for the entire family if he had been,” Jorthun replied. “Very badly indeed. As it is, he seems to be an ordinarily shrewd man who was defrauded by someone with a very plausible tale indeed. Now, let us concoct what we can as a good excuse for Mags, at least, to leave.”

  “Yer stayin’ then?” Mags asked.

  “I think we must.” Jorthun coughed slightly. “The problem with concocting a good excuse for all of us to leave, when up until now we’ve only shown great enthusiasm for staying, is that we’d have to involve a lot more people in our secret. Even bringing in other Heralds is not a good idea, given that the King asked us to keep the current crisis among ourselves.”

  Dammit, he’s right. Mags had thought of contacting whatever Herald was closest and asking him or her to send a messenger that they could pretend bore an urgent message calling Jorthun and Keira home. But to do that, he’d have to reveal that they were here on a private task for the King at the very least. Or I could ride Dallen a couple of towns away an’ hire a messenger an’—that’s gettin’ too complicated. Too much t’go wrong.

  “There is likely more to learn here. It will have to be learned the hard way, of course, careful observation and questioning, but I think we stand a good chance of accomplishing things if we remain.” Lord Jorthun shifted his regard to Coot. “Coot, we shall have to rely on you, solely, as our information corridor to the servants and common people. Can you do that?”

  Coot scratched his head. “Reckon I can try it. That wuz part’a m’job fer Harkon; listenin’ an’ tellin’ ’im whut I heerd. I’m purdy good at rememberin’ things.”

  “Good.” Lord Jorthun nodd
ed in the darkness of the carriage; Mags had excellent night vision, but even he could just barely make out the shapes of his companions. “Keira is already making do with one of the female servants as her handmaid; do you think you can make shift to be my valet?”

  “I bin watchin’ Mags, reckon I kin.” Coot laughed a little. “You ain’t th’ most demandin’a masters, milord.”

  Jorthun answered that with a laugh of his own. “Probably not. There have been times when I was playing the valet, after all. I actually can make shift for myself, but there is an image to be maintained here. So, now all we need is the excuse to send Mags off. What shall it be?”

  “It’d have’ta be somethin’ that weren’t terrible urgent, or ye’d have sent me afore this,” Mags mused. “But it’d have’ta be somethin’ that cain’t wait till ye go home.”

  “And something that was urgent enough to warrant taking the Kirball champion away from his game,” Keira pointed out. “We more or less promised him to the Kirball team, and we have established ourselves as considerate masters. So whatever this is to be, it must be something that cannot wait.”

  “Not an illness on the part of either of us,” Jorthun thought aloud. “A Healer would certainly be called from the House of Healing right here in Attlebury, and we would never deceive him.”

  “Nor running out of ready money; Master Rolmer would just invite us to stay with him until an ordinary messenger went back to Haven and returned with what we needed,” Keira pointed out.

  Jorthun tapped his foot on the carriage floor. “This is a pretty little puzzle indeed.”

  “What ’bout somethin’ ye figgered ye’d do, when ye got back, only ye’ve stayed longer than ye reckoned to, on account of ye’ve been havin’ such a good time?” Mags offered. He didn’t know enough about the lives of the wealthy to hazard a guess what that might be, but maybe Jorthun could take that as a direction to go in.