Closer to the Heart

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Thank you, Lady Dia,” Sedric said warmly. “You never fail to come up with original solutions to our problems.”

  She smiled again, and stood up with Sedric’s assistance. “Perhaps it is because I have come to trust my canine friends more than most people,” she replied lightly. “Amily, if you’ll go tell Aurebic what’s coming, and help him prepare his suite for his new friends, I’ll get the pups. Oh, and when we are all done, I am going to want you two for wedding fittings of a most athletic kind.”

  “Uh—excuse me?” Mags stammered, not at all sure what she meant.

  “My dear Mags, you don’t really think I planned to truss you up like a flower arbor do you?” This time she laughed. “I’ve been working with Amily and my seamstress to make sure that not only will you both outshine Sedric and Lydia . . . you’ll be able to outfight them in your wedding outfits, should it come to that.”

  “Dear gods,” Sedric muttered. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t.”

  It seemed that someone was trying to split Mags’ head in two with a blunt chisel at his left temple. Someone must have already tried to split it at the back, because there was a dull ache there as well. He cracked open an eye, and immediately regretted it, because the light sent another stabbing pain in through his eye-socket. He didn’t even have time to register anything except that it was light and it was far too bright before he had to close his eyes again.

  But that wasn’t the most disturbing part. The disturbing part was that he didn’t know where he was. He had no idea how he had ended up here. In fact, right now he was having a hard time even thinking.

  And the last thing he could remember was. . . .

  It was hard to remember anything, his head hurt so badly. But there was a sense of urgency in remembering, because . . . because . . . because if he’d been hurt, he should be at Healer’s Collegium, and he certainly was not there.

  So . . . work it through.

  We had that meetin’. Then me’n Amily got lunch. She had t’go do Lesser Court. I had t’go check wi’ Tuck an’ m’lads. Late afternoon, Dallen sez Amily wants t’meet me at Lady Dia’s an’ we put on the weddin’ kit, an’ Lady Dia sent us off t’the garden t’spar with Lord Jorthun’s Weaponsmaster in th’ kit. . . .

  It was slowly coming, as he thought through step by step of their day. Sparring in what—outwardly at least—appeared to be highly formal and impractical garments had been hilarious. Especially when Amily pulled on two tabs on her skirt that kirtled it up above her knees. The poor Weaponsmaster had been taken completely by surprise by that, and hadn’t known where to look. Amily had scored three times on him before he recovered. They’d found out just how practical the gorgeous garments were, even though they were having to be very careful about spoiling them.

  But the nearer in time he got to now, the harder it was to think. Which . . . was beginning to feel sickeningly familiar. This wasn’t an injury . . . or perhaps it was more accurate to say, this wasn’t merely an injury.

  Not again. . . .

  He could. . . .vaguely . . . remember the Weaponsmaster leaving, and he and Amily setting off on a walk around the manor’s surprisingly extensive grounds. And that was where the memories ended, and the pain wouldn’t let him get any further. Which would match with a head injury. When you got hit in the head, you often got memories shaken right out of you.

  I need Dallen!

  But when he tried to Mindspeak to Dallen . . . the strange, soft wall he hit inside his head was also sickeningly familiar. Oh yes, he had hit this particular wall once before, and it had nothing to do with someone trying to crack his skull for him.

  Which meant he probably wasn’t anywhere he recognized, and very probably not among friends.

  Goddamnit. Amily an’ me’ll haveta change our names t’ Mags and Amily Victim. Or mebbe Mags an’ Amily Hostage. I’m’a gettin’ right sick’a this. How come ever’thin’ has t’start wi’ “an’ let’s crack Mags over th’ head an’ carry ’im off”?

  He rolled over on his side without opening his eyes, and heard a clank, and felt something heavy around his left ankle.

  Well, that was confirmation he would rather not have had.

  “Oo! An’ let’s chain ’im up! ’e loves thet!” Lord Jorthun had told him that humor was a good way to keep fear in check. Might as well try it.

  When he cautiously cracked open his right eye, and waited patiently for the pain to ebb and his blurred vision to clear, he finally saw that he was in a tiny stone cell with a door made of stout iron bars. There was a single lantern placed outside it. There were no windows, and there was a manacle and chain around his left ankle, attached to the floor some distance away.

  Although it was difficult to tell, he thought there was probably enough chain that he could get to every part of the cell itself. ’Ow nice of ’em. Make me feel right at ’ome.

  All right. This ain’t m’first Kirball game. He closed his eyes, waited for the pain to ebb a little more, then prodded, forcefully, at that “soft wall” between himself and Dallen. This time, he knew from experience that whatever drug he had been given—and he was sure he had been dosed with something—it was interfering with Mindspeech, and it would wear off. Every time he “poked,” it felt as if he got a little closer to piercing that wall, or that the wall itself got a little thinner.

  He wasn’t feeling quite the same symptoms he had with the drug that the Sleepgivers had forced down his throat, so there was that. Thank the gods for small favors. At least it ain’t them. But Bear had told him that many drugs had the side effect of dulling or blocking Mindspeech, and most Healers knew all the ones that did that that were known in Valdemar. They had to, after all; they never knew when they might have to treat a Herald. Most of the time, you didn’t want to block Mindspeech, so you needed to make sure the drugs you were giving him wouldn’t do that. But if the Herald in question was hallucinating and broadcasting, you most emphatically did. No one wanted to share in your fever-dreams, not even those closest to you.

  With his eyes still closed, he carefully moved his right arm and hand upward and backward until he could feel the back of his head. There was definitely a tender spot there. No, more than tender. A lot more than tender. Damnit! Someone had definitely bashed his skull for him, and maybe had cracked his skull. That would account for the headache. Bastards. Why didn’ they just come up to us an’ ask politely? Whatever ’appened t’ the genelmunly art’a trickin’ some’un inter a trap?

  He brought his hand down and felt around himself. Canvas, padded canvas in fact, and beyond that, stone. Clean stone. No grit, no slime, no dirt. Well, whoever did this wasn’t all bad. . . . He seemed to be lying on a crude mattress of the poorer sort, canvas stuffed with straw. Which was a damn sight better than stone.

  And from the smell—which was just clean, cold stone, with not even a hint of rat urine—he wouldn’t have any nasty visitors.

  First things first.

  So he lay quietly and kept probing at that “barrier,” as he felt more and more awake (and, alas, more and more miserable with the pain). And finally, after a span of time he could not measure, he heard something, as if in the back of his thoughts. Faint and far off, and horribly anxious, Dallen was calling his name, over and over.

  :Here,: he called back. :Here.: Over, and over, and over himself, until finally, he heard, stronger, and clearer, a joyful response.

  :Mags! Where are you?:

  :Dunno. Looks like a dungeon.: He cracked his eyes open again; the light didn’t hurt so much now, and he got a good look around before he closed them again. :Don’ look like anyone’s used it fer a while. Clean. Dry. No rats. No bugs. Whoever “they” are, they left me on a mattress an’ didn’ change m’clothes. Took all m’weapons, though. E’en m’wrist knives an’ the trick sheathes. How long I been out?:

  :All yesterday evening, all night, and most of today. So they can’t have ta
ken you too far. But I can’t tell where you are, other than “not too far to Mindspeak with.”:

  Pity, that. But unlike Farsight, Mindspeech didn’t really come with a sense of what direction it was in. :Well, start movin’. Ye’ll know when I get fainter that yer movin’ away. That’ll be a start.:

  :Don’t try to teach your grandmother how to boil an egg, brat,: Dallen said testily.

  :I’ll gladly trade places wi’ ye, horse,: Mags replied. :Ye kin have m’cracked pate, too.:

  :Is Amily with you?: Dallen replied.

  :Not in this cell.: He opened his eyes again, but all he could see were the stone walls of the cell, and the door made of iron bars, with the lantern right outside the door, sending light into the cell. :Not that I kin see.: He refused to panic. They’d been together. Dallen—and presumably Rolan—did not know where she was. It was logical to assume that she was somewhere nearby and had been given the same drug he had been. :Rolan cain’t reach ’er? Lemme try.:

  :Wait. . . .:

  He waited. To be honest . . . he had a feeling that if Amily had been badly injured, or worse, he would know. So he did as he was told, and waited. If he breathed very carefully, and just . . . accepted the pain . . . it wasn’t quite as bad.

  :Rolan has her. She’s been hit on the head and drugged, like you.: Relief washed over him in a wave.

  :All right. Let me know when Rolan can actually, like, talk to ’er.: She’d been treated as he had been. She was probably right here somewhere. There was a reason why they had been taken, rather than just murdered, and that implied whoever this was had a reason to keep them alive.

  Once again he opened his eyes, and this time took a better and more thorough look around the cell, by moving his head very carefully. There was a pitcher and a cup in one corner, actually quite near him, and within relatively easy reach. Moving slowly so as not to jar his head, he got himself up, supported on one arm and elbow, and reached for it. There was cold, clear water in the pitcher; all his borrowed Sleepgiver memories told him how to detect the vast majority of drugs by taste, except when they were covered up by heavy spices, and so far as he could tell there was nothing in the water. He ignored the cup, and drank it straight from the vessel. But slowly. Very slowly. He knew now he had been a long time without water, and there were consequences to gulping it all down at once.

  :She’s in the same sort of cell you are.: Dallen sounded relieved. :I think you must be together.:

  “Amily?” Mags called out, and not softly, either. There was no point in keeping their captors from knowing he was awake, after all. And if they knew, they might send someone to deal with him, and he’d get a chance to find out what was going on.

  “Mags!” Amily called back immediately, and the relief in her voice made his eyes sting a lot, and his throat close up for a minute.

  “I thin’ yer in the cell right next t’me,” he told her. “Assumin’ m’head ain’t clean addled from gettin’ coshed. I’m gettin’ right tired’a this. We gotta stop gettin’ kidnapped.”

  “I agree with you completely,” she replied. “Is there water in your cell?”

  “Aye.” He knew better than to caution her about drinking carefully; as Dallen had said, don’t try to teach your grandmother how to boil an egg. “We might’s well keep talkin’. Sooner or later, some’un’ll ’ear us, an’ mebbe we’ll find out what this’s all about.”

  :Mags. Amily says there are lockpicks hidden in the waistband of your trousers, several very strong, flexible sinews you can use to strangle someone that you can pick out from underneath the silver embroidery on the front, a knife in your left boot sole, a short pry-bar in your right boot sole, the hem of your tunic is padded with a long, extremely strong cord that should bear the weight of both of you, and your belt has four curved pieces of metal and a wire that can be bound together into a grappling hook between the outer leather and the lining leather. She also has more useful things about her person.:

  It was a good thing that there was no one there to see Mags at that moment, because his jaw just dropped with astonishment. :How in the name of—:

  :She and Lady Dia worked with Tuck while you were gone. She says that they were all concerned that there were times when the two of you had run off without any weapons at all, or ones that could be taken from you. She had intended to surprise you with the information later.:

  :Well, she surprised me all right. Tell Rolan to tell ’er she’s a bloody genius. An’ I hope that ain’t literal.:

  “Anythin’ else in yer cell?” he called, not wanting to make too much time pass between bits of conversation just in case someone was listening. Whoever had them might or might not know how Gifts, particularly Mindspeech, worked. He probably did not know what Mags’ and Amily’s Gifts were as that was not common knowledge. Really the only people likely to know what your particular Gifts were, were those you had told yourself, or your immediate teachers.

  Better not assume too much. Assume he figgers we kin talk to each other an’ Dallen an’ Rolan. If he don’ know that, bonus.

  “Just a hole in the floor.” Her tone was dry. “Nice of them. Well, at least it isn’t a bucket.”

  “There’s that, I s’pose that keeps ’em from havin’ t’clean th’ cells out,” he said, and then heard footsteps approaching, echoing through the stone hallway. Hallways? There were a lot of echoes. This must be a big place, with a lot of cells.

  Amily must have heard them as well, for she fell silent. Mags went back to his mattress and sat there, cross-legged.

  The footsteps were slow and deliberate. From the sound of them, the walker was a man. The sound suggested weight, so he was either overweight or heavily muscled. And from the way he was walking, Mags guessed that he was using his slow approach to deliberately induce apprehension or anxiety in his prisoners.

  Mags had plenty of that, and he bet that Amily did, too. Still, he couldn’t, shouldn’t betray that. To be greeted with neither might throw their captor off a bit.

  So Mags composed himself, controlled his expression, and simply listened as the steps drew nearer. Don’t show anythin’. Make ’im do all th’ work. Make ’im have all th’ slips.

  Finally the footsteps stopped. The walker was just out of sight, beside the door.

  Do I talk first, or let him? There were advantages to both. But the man was staying silent, and out of sight, and appeared to have the patience to wait him out. Whereas Mags was dealing with a pounding head, and not a lot of energy.

  Finally he decided. “Ye already know I’m awake. I’m kinda curious t’see m’host.”

  A chuckle drifted in through the door. “Well. What if I’m not anxious for you to see me?”

  “Then go ’way an’ lemme go back t’sleep, an’ ye walked a long way fer nothin’,” he replied.

  “Hmm. A point. And how is your head?”

  “No worse’n I got playin’ Kirball,” he said truthfully. “Ye should try it sometime. I’d like ter see ye on th’field. Learn a lot ’bout a feller in Kirball. They do say th’ true nature of some’un comes out i’ th’ game.”

  “Do tell,” the speaker replied, dryly. “I suppose you would say that.” And then he stepped in front of the door.

  Of course with the light from the lantern behind him, there was nothing at all to be seen of his face. But Mags didn’t need to see his face; the man was instantly recognizable given the memories he had from Master Rolmer, and from the general silhouette, he knew that this was the mysterious “General Thallan.” Which was something of an unpleasant shock, since he had assumed that “General Thallan” was somewhere in the south, not so near to Haven.

  But all the time the man had been standing there, Mags had kept tight control over his expression, so he was certain he showed no more than a calm interest. “So, I don’ suppose ye got somethin’ fer m’headache? Or at least somethin’ t’eat?”

  The m
an at the door regarded him without moving. Impossible to read his expression, of course, since his face was hidden by the shadows, but Mags could easily read his surface thoughts, and it wasn’t that hard to get even deeper. He was annoyed that Mags was calm. He was even more annoyed that Mags wasn’t groveling, or begging. He had expected both. Evidently he did not know Heralds very well.

  :Dallen, tell Rolan to tell Amily t’be a ice-girl wi’this lad. Annoys ’im no end.:

  “I’m rather surprised you are thinking of your stomach at a moment like this,” the man said, with just a hint of testiness in his voice. “I thought you were supposed to be terribly clever. Are you so dull you haven’t considered the repercussions of the fact that you are in my custody?”

  Mags shrugged. “Wut else am I gonna think of? Ye got me locked up in ’ere, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, an ye ain’t ’xactly supplied me wi’ Bards an’ dancin’ girls. Besides, been a long time since I et.”

  That annoyed the man even further. This was a good play. Get him irritated enough and he might just spill something. “You might like to know that now that you two are missing, that play-pageant of a wedding has been called off. There is no reason for Ambassador Aurebic to remain a moment longer. As soon as the delegation from Menmellith arrives, he will be constrained to leave by them, and as soon as they are past the border, the Regency Council will declare war on Valdemar. Valdemar will be forced to hold the border at least. And meanwhile I have supplied the rebels with another lot of arms. The true King, Astanifandal, is heavily in my debt at this point. And he is well aware that by the time he takes his throne back from that child, much of the cropland will be ruined, and he will require still more aid. He will be willing to pay quite a price to get that aid.”