Closer to the Chest

by Mercedes Lackey

  She sighed. “And he wins again.”

  “Or she,” Mags reminded her grimly. “Or she.”

  A day. Three. A sennight. A fortnight. And still nothing had happened up on the Hill, except that the weather had grown hotter, and courtiers had settled into new configurations of trust, or rather, lack of it. But people were minding their manners, at least to the extent of not fighting openly, possibly because it was too hot to fight openly. Instead, they were figuratively walking on eggshells around each other, and gathering in tight little cliques.

  This had not discouraged the female Trainees from river-bathing; if anything, it made them more defiant, and their bathing-costumes more abbreviated. The ladies of the Court, however, were more mixed in their reactions. Some had decided to shy away from river-bathing altogether, some only did so at dusk, when the near-dark preserved some of their modesty, and some had joined the female Trainees in their defiance, concocting similar “bathing outfits” of lightweight breeches and shirts.

  Down in Haven, Mags had investigated three more shop break-ins, to no end. All three had been accomplished in the dead of night, there were no witnesses, of course, and no reports of any disturbance in the night. As with the first six, the owners of the shops turned up to open them, and discovered the destruction.

  By this point the reports of the vandalism of the shops had come to the attention of the Lesser Council, and Mags was asked to report on it all. It felt very odd indeed, to be standing in front of a table full of important people and giving a report, when one of those people happened to be his own wife.

  It was the first time he’d ever been before either of the Councils; he wouldn’t have known this was the Lesser Council had not half the seats at this horseshoe-shaped table been empty. And he would not have known who was missing had Nikolas not told him beforehand.

  The Lord Martial was not here; this sort of business internal to Haven was not in his purview. The same held for the Seneschal. Several of the Guildmasters were not here either, though if it had been Mags, he would have been, and he considered them very foolish for thinking that this sort of thing could not happen to one of the members of their Guilds. None of the heads of the Bardic, Heraldic, or Healers’ Circles were here; Bardic didn’t care, Healers’ was not involved, and the Heralds were already represented well enough by Amily and her father. The Lord Mayor of Haven was not here either; things had not yet gotten to the point where he felt he needed to make an appearance at the table; he was trusting to the Watch, the Heralds, and the King to see that he didn’t.

  So although some of the owners of the vandalized shops were in other Guilds entirely, everyone had agreed to have their interests represented by the heads of the Mercantile Guilds.

  The Council Chamber was a bit dim, as white curtains had been drawn over the windows to reflect as much heat outward as possible. As with most of the Palace, the walls and floor were polished wood, and behind the King was a tapestry of an enormous map of Valdemar. It was embroidered, rather than woven, so at least changes to that map were slightly easier to make than having to reweave entire sections of it.

  Mags stood in the center of the horseshoe, all eyes on him as he made his report. Never had he been so careful with his words and his diction as he was now. None of these people knew him; they’d weigh the importance of what he said in part by how he sounded. He had thought he would be nervous, facing such an audience, but he hadn’t been. If anything, he’d been gratified that they had simply listened, attentively, and had not pelted him with questions.

  “. . . we’re all at our wits’ end down there,” he concluded. “The Watch has put on extra patrollers, but they can’t hire just anyone for the job, people’s backgrounds have to be investigated, and they’ve got to be doubled up with a Watchman with experience, so that’s been going slow.”

  “Could we send some Guard down to patrol as well?” Amily asked.

  “We could, and we should,” the King said immediately, much to the relief of the representatives of the Mercantile Guilds.

  “If you’ll allow, Majesty,” Sedric said, before his father could add anything to that. “Lydia and I have decided we are going to assist those whose stocks were destroyed out of our household budget. She told me this morning that she would much rather have a prosperous herbalist or apothecary than a new gown.”

  The two representatives of the Mercantile Guilds looked very gratified. The King smiled, and Mags knew what he was thinking—first, that Sedric was going to make an excellent King, and second, that he and Lydia were going to purchase themselves a great deal of good will with actions like this. That boded well for their reign, when they came to take the Crown.

  Which’s about the only thing good comin’ out of all of this. The owner of the third shop—a glassmaker—had been so emotionally shattered—not unlike the fragile contents of her shop—that she had cried on his shoulder until she needed a Healer, and he couldn’t blame her.

  He was somewhat impatient to get all this over with; he’d established a new persona of an out-of-work common laborer, and had just joined the general worshippers of Sethor. He was hoping for some sort of lead out of the place, since it was certainly a gathering place for malcontents. The persona was an easy one to stay in; he said nothing, but listened a lot, with an air of respect and agreement, and did his best to impersonate a man who was a natural follower.

  “Thank you, Herald Mags,” the King said, as if sensing his impatience, although he was sure he had given no sign of it. “Now, I believe our next order of business, at the request of the Lord Mayor, is to bring in watering carts to dampen down the streets and ease some of the heat?”

  Mags didn’t wait to hear anything else. He bowed himself out, and headed for the stables, where Dallen was waiting, already saddled. If he got down to the inn quickly enough, he could change into Geb Lackland, and be at the Temple in time for the noon distribution of bread for men out of work. Only men were allowed to collect said charity, though, unless the acolytes distributing the bread happened to know that any women who turned up were collecting on behalf of a sick or injured husband, father, or brother. It was a great opportunity to grumble a little, and listen a lot.

  Within moments, he was in the saddle and riding out of the Gates, with a friendly, commiserating nod at the Guards there. At least in this heat, Heraldic Whites were cool. The dark blue uniforms of the Guard must have been pure torture to wear.

  Very careful monitoring of surface thoughts had told him that his ruse was holding. And maybe, just maybe, since he had begun laying hints that he’d been out of work long enough he’d be open to doing just about anything, it would be a chance to worm his way deeper into the workings of the Temple. Probably the Sethorites had nothing to do with the Poison Pen up here on the Hill. But the shops? So far as he was concerned, they were his primary suspects, given what he’d been hearing from them for the past several days. Maybe it wasn’t being done “officially,” but he’d be willing to bet that at least the lower tier of the priests knew about it and were winking at it.

  :Too bad that Teo is busy,: Dallen observed as they headed down the Hill. :He’d be very convincing.:

  :Iffen he could keep a straight face,: Mags replied, remembering how Teo had reacted only a few short sennights ago to that lot of louts in the tavern who had been spouting the same sort of garbage, just more crudely.

  :Hmm. Good point.: Dallen adroitly avoided a child who ran after an escaping kitten right under his nose. :I know why you want to go down there, though, and it has nothing to do with working your way into the hearts of those Sethorite idiots.:

  :Oh? Really? Why’m I goin’, then?:

  Dallen heaved an enormous sigh. :It’s the coolest place outside of the river. And I wish I could sneak my way in there myself.:

  :Well, don’ give away my secret,: he replied. :Or every Herald in Haven’ll be puttin’ on old trews an’ canvas shirts an’ pretendin
’ t’ hate wimmen. Even the wimmen.:

  • • •

  I think this may be the coolest place outside of the river, Amily thought, as she lounged in a springy chair made of woven reeds, and waited for the last of the Handmaidens to arrive. They were meeting in that lovely, shaded gazebo on top of one of the round towers on Lord Jorthun’s manse; the stately house was at the top of the Hill, and the gazebo was three stories above that, so it caught every little breeze. Since the last time she’d been up here, the gazebo had been furnished with reed screens that could be let down on all four sides, so no matter where the sun was, the inside was completely shaded. There were plenty more of those woven-reed chairs, as well as linen-covered cushions. There was a servant stationed up here whose only job was to periodically wet down the reed screen on the windward side of the gazebo, so that the breeze coming through was cooled even further. Quite frankly, Amily would have been just as pleased to conduct all of her business up here and not leave until fall.

  With no one to see them, the Handmaidens had all stripped down to their shifts, and Amily did not blame them one little bit. She’d have done the same, had her linen Whites been any heavier. As it was, she had the sleeves rolled up and her boots off.

  When the last of them had settled, and fans had been handed round to augment the breeze, Amily spoke. “All right, ladies. Is there anything new since your last report? Besides the heat, that is.”

  “I think the heat is the only thing that’s prevented a murder or two,” replied Keleste, a deceptively frail girl who could best men twice her size in the Weaponsmaster’s lessons. “If I could distill the venom down there”—she pointed her fan at the distant Palace—“I could poison the entire Kingdom.”

  Solemn nods all around. “The heat’s keeping people from acting, but it hasn’t kept them from talking,” agreed Joya, a little dark-eyed, fox-faced girl. “When our ladies aren’t trying to nap through the heat, they are gathering in cliques and gossiping. We’ve all been comparing notes. Aside from personal enmities that existed before all this started, it seems the majority of them have settled on a handful of suspects. I know of two in particular. Lady Herra and Lady Amberly.”

  Amily nodded. That was to be expected. Both ladies were unmarried, had lived at Court most of their lives, had been spinsters the entire time and showed no interest in acquiring husbands.

  They had enough money to live independently, and at some point both of them must have done something to earn themselves permanent lodging in the Palace, otherwise they wouldn’t be here.

  Perhaps they are distant relations of the Queen. They are in her Court, after all. Amily was a bit vague about the Queen’s Court; it wasn’t anything she had ever had much to do with. The Queen was as private a person as a Royal could be, and had never, to Amily’s knowledge, meddled in politics. Most, if not all, of her ladies were personal friends or relations, who also had reputations for staying out of politics.

  I imagine that makes things rather restful for Kyril, Amily thought, knowing his beloved will only tender advice that has no private agenda.

  :It was the choice she made when they married,: Rolan informed her, as one by one the Handmaidens chimed in with what their particular ladies had said about Lady Herra and Lady Amberly. :She’s been giving Lydia some very good advice on that head, since they are both ordinary women, not highborn, wedded to someone who is both Royal and a Herald.:

  Amily made a mental note to see Lydia more often after this. If being a Herald married to a Herald was hard, how much more difficult was it to be someone who was not a Herald but was wedded to one?

  She bent her mind back to the business of listening to the Handmaidens. Lady Herra had been rather waspish about the river-bathing, and the costumes (or rather, the lack thereof). She was already known for her deadly barbs before this; she had a sharp wit and an equally sharp tongue and knew how to use both to effect. Now the resentment of those who were not nearly so clever had an outlet. “Sour spinster, they’re saying, and something deeply wrong there, as if not being married means you’ve probably got a rotten brain,” Joya continued. “And part of it may be to get back at her for all the stones she’s cast in the past, but some of it is making more reasonable people nod and look thoughtful.”

  Lady Amberly, on the other hand was distinctly unfeminine, to the point of wearing breeches as often as she wore skirts or gowns, and there had been dark whispers about her before this. “Well, you know they’re saying she’s shaych, though she’s never so much as flirted with a chambermaid,” observed Keleste. “But what that has to do with hating women, I haven’t the slightest. I should think it would mean the very opposite if it was true, and if it isn’t, why should being mannish make you despise women enough to send them into hysterics?” She shrugged eloquently. “Not that any of this makes sense. People are afraid. Someone knows their secrets, they don’t know who it is, and they are desperate to find out and hush her up. It’s all stabs in the dark, and I suppose we should be glad no one’s bled from them yet.”

  “You’re right, both of you,” Amily told them. Knowing that even if the whispers about either of the ladies in question had been true—which they weren’t, as Amily knew from her father—that shouldn’t have made them candidates for the Poison Pen. After all, if Lady Herra had something to say to someone, she came right out and said it, in as public a place as possible. She would be the very last person in all of Haven to confine herself to writing nasty letters, meant only for the eyes of one.

  And as for Lady Amberly, while she was standoffish, and far more interested in horses than in people, there was nothing to suggest the religious fanaticism the Poison Pen displayed, much less the vitriolic hatred of her own sex.

  “Anyone else?” Amily asked. The rest offered up their gleanings of the gossip. It wasn’t much. Just four more names came up as suspects, including Helane and Lirelle, Lord Lional’s girl-children, for no better reason but that half the women down at the Court were inflamed with jealousy, and their excuse was, “Well, none of this was happening before they came.”

  Which was selective memory, as Amily herself knew very well. She’d gotten letters, and probably so had they, in the sennights before the arrival of Lord Lional and his family.

  “And do any of you think any of the Court is to blame?” she asked. It was a calculated risk; although Dia and Steveral were ninety percent certain that none of the Handmaidens was the Poison Pen—there was still that ten percent. But if one of them is our culprit, now would be the chance for her to cast doubt on someone else.

  One and all, they shook their heads. “Not the ladies we serve, anyway,” said Joya. “And not their husbands. And . . . all right, maybe I am being extremely naive, but as horrid as those letters are, it takes a kind of mature immaturity to write something like that, don’t you think?”

  Amily shook her head. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  “I don’t think anyone younger than us would be able to write something like that,” Joya explained. “Oh, I don’t mean they couldn’t write obscenity, because they certainly can, but there’s a feeling to those letters I can’t quite explain. The sentiments are pathetically childish. But the mind expressing them is mature; it’s been holding in these grievances for a long, long time, and now it’s letting loose. I think it must take decades for that kind of hatred to settle in and fester into something that could create those letters.”

  They all fanned themselves, attentive, but silent, while Amily thought that over. “I’d tend to agree with you,” she said, finally. “But I can’t think of anyone in the Court who fits that picture.” She looked around her, and the Handmaidens all shook their heads.

  After a little more talk, she left the Handmaidens enjoying their relatively cool, idle hour, and headed back to the Collegium. And it was only when she got there, and caught sight of a tall, thin girl in what could have been a Trainee uniform—except that it was blue, no
t gray, green, or rust-colored—that she remembered there was a group up here on the Hill that she knew little to nothing about.

  The so-called “Blues.”

  :Rolan?: she thought, as she altered her steps to the Seneschal’s office. :Tell me about the Blues. I know I was one myself, technically, but I never wore the uniform, and the only people I ever socialized with were Lydia’s crowd.:

  :There are three sorts of Blues,: Rolan reminded her. :The first sort are the children of people here at Court—like Loren and Lirelle, Lord Lional’s children. And like you. The second sort are the children of courtiers and the wealthy who live on the Hill, but not at the Palace. Lydia was one of those, if you’ll recall, as were many of your friends. The third sort are the “Blue Scholars.” They are extremely intelligent young people who have earned the right to study here. Some are supported by their parents, but those who are from poorer families are often sponsored by religious groups, and there are the “King’s Scholars,” who’ve been supported by the Crown for two hundred years, at least, if not more.:

  :Thanks, Rolan,: she said gratefully. Well, these were certainly dark horses, at least to her. She didn’t think any of them could be the Poison Pen but . . .

  . . . sponsored by a strict religious group . . . suddenly exposed to how things are at the Court and Collegia . . . and learned enough to cite those mythological man-eaters . . . could one of them have just snapped and broken out in a rash of religious mania?

  It seemed unlikely, but at this point, she had to consider the possibility and eliminate it.

  The question was, how?

  :And where are they living? That would answer some questions.:

  :Raise more questions than answer them, I’m afraid,: Rolan replied regretfully, as she reached the relative coolness of the Palace, and ducked inside with a sigh of relief. :Some live in the Palace with their families. Some live on the Hill with their families. Some are boarded with the families of Blues they have become friends with on the Hill. Some live in some of the nearby Temples. And some have been put up in otherwise unused servants’ quarters in the Palace. There’s two living in Mags’ old room at the Companion’s Stable right now, in fact.: