Closer to the Chest

by Mercedes Lackey

  Well, this is not the time to think about that, she reminded herself, and with that, reached over and grabbed the upstream rope, hauling herself hand over hand to the bank. Her spot on the rope was quickly taken by someone else.

  Some people brought towels with them; she didn’t bother. She knew she’d be bone dry by the time she reached her quarters, and she didn’t particularly care who saw her in cut-off breeches, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tacked in place, and sandals. So what if she was the King’s Own? A little slovenliness was hardly going to damage the dignity of the office, especially since she couldn’t be told from the Trainees at any distance. And as for the Poison Pen, well, if he was watching her, he was welcome to rail at her for being some sort of harlot all he wanted. In this heat, she very much doubted that any man would look at her with lust. Unless it’s lust for my cooler clothing and my hat.

  Sure enough, by the time she reached the shelter of her own door, her bathing gear was dry enough to fold up and leave on a stool for tomorrow, and her hair dry enough to comb out. She put on a clean shift and braided her hair in a single tail down her back.

  And now for the part of the day I have not been looking forward to . . .

  The Poison Pen letters had slowed, but not stopped. They were all coming from down in Haven, paid for and dropped off one at a time at post-locations all over the city. They were still printed on that same, coarse, cheap paper, but were enclosed in an ordinary-looking outer sheet and sealed with proper wafers, so it was impossible to pick them out from the regular correspondence. At least no more were being slipped under doors or dropped in through windows, so the vigilance of all of her careful watchers had paid off somewhat.

  Amily picked up the first from the pile, frowning. It was directed to one of the Bardic Trainees who had gotten ones like this before—a general wish that she would fail spectacularly and become a disgrace and an embarrassment to her entire family. Since pigs would fly before that happened, the Trainee in question usually found these little notes hilariously funny. The next few were more like that, directed to the Healer, Bardic, and Herald Trainees most likely to graduate to full status some time before the end of summer.

  Then came an entire bouquet of stink-blossoms for the lovely Helane, rescued from the fire by her little sister Lirelle and delivered directly to Amily. :Oh my . . . : Rolan said, “reading” the letters through her eyes. :All that is lacking is the obscene pictures illustrating the acts described. Whatever occasioned all of that, pray?:

  :According to the Handmaidens, there are at least five young men who are betrothed—actually betrothed, and not just in some stage of prebetrothal negotiation between two families—who are bringing Helane gifts and flowers. Hence the obscenity. Evidently our ugly friend is convinced that those gifts are payment for a lot more than a smile or permission to sit beside her.:

  Rolan considered that for a moment. :And of course, that explains the various punishments in the afterlife they are consigning Helane to. How did she take this?:

  :Bravely, actually. Lirelle says that she’s frightened, but determined not to show it, and determined not to allow these filthy things to drive her into seclusion.:

  Lirelle had gotten a lot more detailed than that, describing how her sister had burst into tears, then exclaimed, “I’ve done nothing wrong, and I’m not going to act as if I have!”

  And Amily supposed that technically, she was correct, although she probably could be doing more to discourage those young men now that she knew they were betrothed to other girls. But on the other hand, she wasn’t the one who was betrothed; technically it was up to the young men in question to behave themselves. Or at least tell Helane about the fact that they were not free. She supposed that for someone who had been living in a rustic environment, with no one marriageable anywhere near enough to engage in pre-courtship, all the games and flirtations of Court must be very exciting. And betrothals are broken all the time, if the parents decide there’s a better offer out there. She recalled one poor young man several years ago who had barely gotten settled and used to a girl before his father broke the thing off and flung another girl at him. So, really, Helane had done nothing at all wrong except, perhaps to accept the gifts. Then again, it depended on what the gifts were. A pretty ribbon was a serious present to a girl living down in Haven—to someone here at Court, it meant no more than a flower.

  At least there were no more alarms in the night . . .

  There was another sealed message on the bottom of the stack, and Amily frowned at it. She didn’t remember that one being there when she’d left for the river . . . but it was on creamy parchment, and sealed with the Royal Seal, so she relaxed, and opened it.

  As you know, there is a yearly reception scheduled just before Midsummer for the heads of all the religious houses in the City, the letter read, in Kyril’s distinctive, angular handwriting. Despite the plague of letters—in fact, in part because of it, I am determined that we will hold this event as we always have.

  Amily felt her jaw drop open a little. Surely the King wasn’t serious!

  :Oh dear. This seems ill-advised.:

  But it appeared that he was. Quite serious.

  The Council officially knows nothing about the outrages up on the Hill, they are only officially aware of the vandalized shops down in Haven. I am certain that at least some of them have friends or relations who have been so graced with the Poison Pen letters, and for all I know, some of the female Councilors themselves have gotten letters, but they have said nothing at all to me, and I think it is important that we keep up the appearance that all is normal. It is only a single night, and it is a small gathering by Court standards. None of the Court are invited. So I think we can manage to pull this off without anything untoward occurring. And more to the point, I think we must. We cannot let this unknown madman or madwoman dictate our actions.

  In principle, Amily agreed with him. But in practice?

  This is going to be a nightmare.

  There was more. Please meet with me at mid-afternoon; we will assemble in my suite and move somewhere private and cool from there. With everyone drowsing away the heat, no one will notice that we are having a private meeting.

  Mid-afternoon—was now. She sighed. So much for that nap.

  • • •

  “This is going to be a nightmare,” Nikolas said, flatly.

  He, too, had gotten one of Kyril’s notes, and the first thing he had done when he’d read it was to gather up Amily, wake Sedric from his nap, and bring them all together at the King’s Suite. From there they moved to a little unlighted cubby of a room in the basement of the Palace, just under the Royal Quarters. Her father had the forethought to bring candles and a striker with him, and set them in two sconces, one on either side of the door.

  At least it was cool down here. They were all sitting on storage chests, which was a very peculiar sight to say the least. They were very stout, very heavy storage chests, with formidable locks, and she couldn’t help wondering what was in them. Heirloom weapons, perhaps?

  :Amily, I’ll tell you later. For now you do have a meeting.:

  Amily wrenched her wandering thoughts back to the conversation.

  “I told him, Niko. I told him, myself. This is a stupid idea.” Sedric crossed his arms over his chest, still a little sleepy-eyed. “Father, I love you, and if I didn’t love you so much, I would just wash my hands of this and let you do it.”

  “It’s not a publicly known gathering,” the King replied, not at all put out by his son’s rebuke. “But I can promise you that if we don’t have it, some very prominent people in Haven will be wondering why, and from wondering to themselves, they will probably start wondering out loud. Right now, we’re managing to keep the Poison Pen quiet. Cancel the reception, and that won’t be possible anymore, and sure as I am King, someone will link the shop-wrecker with the letters up here. Amily, what is the word down in
the city?”

  “So far, the vandalized shops are all people know about,” Amily said, slowly. “Mags has all his children listening for just the sorts of rumors we could expect if more got out, and so far there’s nothing. Even what happened to the Sisters of Ardana hasn’t been linked to the shops, and absolutely nothing about what happened at the Temple of Betane has gotten bruited about.”

  “There, you see?” Kyril hit the top of the chest beside his leg. “So far, no one has been putting two and two together. But if we cancel this reception, they might start to. Especially if some of the Councilors start to talk.”

  “I still think it’s insane,” Nikolas replied, making no attempt to hide his exasperation. “But I can see I can’t talk you out of this. If we hadn’t thoroughly vetted all the Palace servants during the Sleepgiver debacle, I’d have insisted that we put them all to the Truth Spell.”

  “At least that much good came out of that five-year mess,” Amily pointed out. “We can at least be certain of the servants and the Guard.”

  Sedric just threw up his hands. “If you are going to insist on going through with this despite our council, then Amily and Mags and I will have to see what we can do to make sure our guests don’t find obscene notes under their napkins.”

  “Or worse,” Nikolas said, grimly. “Obscene notes are the least of my concerns. Jorthun says—” But then he stopped and shook his head. “Never mind. We’ll just have to do our best to see that nothing happens.”

  • • •

  The reception was the last thing on Amily’s mind as she headed for her rooms. It had been another long, long day, and it wasn’t over yet. It wasn’t only the amorous who were heading out to Companion’s Field at night; it was stuffy, humid and hot tonight. There were plenty of Trainees who were having trouble sleeping in the heat, and were taking bedding out to bunk down under the trees where the ground always stayed cool. And how could she blame them? She couldn’t exactly confine them to their rooms on the basis of a burned effigy and a bonfire of clothing rescued from the rag-bag. Rolan told her that the Companions had divided them all up, and were keeping a sharp watch on them. Even the foals had their assigned Trainees to watch, and if it meant the Companions were drowsing all day in the heat after being up all night, so be it. Rolan assured her they didn’t mind.

  She doubted that last statement, but if the Companions were choosing to sacrifice their sleep, she wasn’t going to discourage them. It meant one less thing she needed to worry about.

  But Mags had gotten in early from down in Haven—there was something going on at the Sethorite Temple tonight that was not open to mere plain worshippers—and she was hoping that nothing was going to interrupt a quiet evening together.

  “Amily!” came an urgent call out of the darkness, utterly shattering that hope with the anxiety that was in Lirelle’s voice. “I’ve been looking for you since just after supper!”

  Since she, her father, the King, and the Prince had all been stuffed in that storage room together until supper, and after supper she had been consulting with a couple of the Handmaidens, that was not a surprise. “What’s wrong, Liri?” she asked, stopping where she was on the garden path, right next to a lantern. She peered into the darkness, but couldn’t see anything.

  “It’s Katlie,” Lirelle said, finally coming into the light from one of the lanterns in the garden. Her young face was a mask of worry. “She hasn’t come in, she’s not in her room, she’s not in any of the libraries, and no one’s seen her since before lunch! She should be in her room!”

  “You’re sure?” Amilie asked.

  “I’ve asked everyone, even some of the servants. The last anyone saw her was before lunch. Kaven said he saw her then, she looked really pale and sick, and he asked her if she was all right. She said it was just the heat and he shouldn’t worry about her and just walked away.”

  :I’m telling Mags,: Rolan said immediately. :It could be nothing, but we can’t take that chance. She might be ill, and have fainted somewhere on the grounds. Or it could be . . . she’s been getting Poison Pen letters and she hasn’t been laughing them off.:

  That was exactly what Amily was afraid of. :Tell everyone,: she corrected. :Tell Mags to coordinate searchers. I’m going to go check the Gate Guard, in case she decided to run away, or go down into Haven, or something. Maybe someone invited her to stay the night in a cooler room.: “Lirelle, come with me, please,” she said aloud. “I may need you to introduce me to your fellow Blues.”

  She half-ran to the nearest Gate; Lirelle sprinted along beside her. By the time they reached the official Gate to the Palace, Rolan thundered up to join them, his mere presence adding importance to their questions. The Guard looked a little startled to see them. “Sir, have you seen Katlie Gardener?” she asked as Rolan pawed the ground a little, his silver hooves shining in the lantern-light. “Did she go down into Haven?” Please let her have gone down with friends, maybe someone from one of the Orders . . . With so many of the religious houses being constructed entirely of stone, like the Sethorite Temple, they were ever so much cooler, and if Katlie hadn’t been feeling well, perhaps someone had invited her down to sleep overnight where she would be more comfortable.

  The Guard checked his book—thank the gods we started these checks before this!—and shook his head with regret. “She’s not in my book. Perhaps she went out by one of the other three gates?” There was a postern gate usually used only by Heralds, plus a pair of gates big enough to allow in delivery wagons, and if Katlie had left to go anywhere but the manors on the Hill one of those would have been more likely for her to take. Amily nodded, put both hands on Rolan’s back, and vaulted herself up into place. She held out her hand to Lirelle, who looked at it as if she had no idea what it was.

  “Put your foot on mine, take my hand, and I’ll pull you up behind,” she said trying not to show any impatience. “I don’t want to have to come looking for you after I check the gates.”

  Lirelle did as she had been told, and in a moment Amily had her perched securely behind. “Put both your arms around my waist and hang on,” she ordered, and the second Lirelle was secure, Rolan launched himself toward the postern gate, which was the nearest. They pounded through the patches of light defined by lanterns amid the darkness, and Amily cursed herself for not getting to the Blues sooner.

  Her heart was already sinking, and it just went lower and lower as checking the other three gates gave the same result. With one small difference. The Guard at the third gate said that he often saw her out at night, walking about alone. “She tried to leave from here two nights ago, and I thought she just looked . . . wrong, Herald. Strained. Nervy. So I lied, and told her no one her age was allowed off the grounds after dark without leave from a teacher. Did I do right?”

  “I think you must have,” Amily told him. And we’ll have to make that a rule now, dammit. Without prompting, Rolan turned back toward the Palace. As soon as she got within sight of Healer’s Collegium, it was clear Mags had already been working. There was a crowd of people milling about in a group in the herb garden, most of them with torches. Mags and Dallen as well as several other Heralds were with them. She and Rolan galloped up to them, but before she could ask anything, one of the Handmaidens, Joya, held out a sheaf of far-too-familiar papers to her, wearing a grim expression. “I searched her room on Mags’ orders,” Joya said, as Amily slid off Rolan and accepted them. “And I found these.”

  “You’re going to fail and disgrace your family.” “You deserve to fail, and the gods will see to it.” “How dare you think you can be as good as a boy?” The letters were all short, and all abusive. “You stole the place that should have gone to a smart young man.” Perhaps those had not affected her as much as the Poison Pen had wanted, because there were only a few in that vein.

  But he clearly found a theme that produced the reaction he wanted. “You’re ugly, fat, and horrible, no wonder you are here, no man
would have you.” There were many, many like that, asking her if she was really a boy pretending to be a girl, if her parents had sent her away because they couldn’t bear to look at her, and enumerating in detail everything that was physically “wrong” with her. “You can’t be a proper woman and you can’t do what a man can do, give it all up, fat girl.”

  Amily felt sick, but there was worse to come. Because now that he had Katlie’s attention, he had her exactly where he wanted her. “You should throw yourself off a tower, and rid the world of a useless blob.” “Kill yourself so no one ever has to look at your fat face again.” “Take poison, and give someone who deserves it a chance.”

  Wordlessly, she passed the letters to Lirelle, who read them with horror, as she turned back to Mags. “Mags, can you tell how long she’s been getting these . . . things?” she asked.

  “Prolly since the letters started,” he said. “An’ I don’t think they’ve let up—”

  “But why didn’t she tell us?” Lirelle wailed, looking as if she felt she was somehow personally responsible. “Why didn’t she show them to us after you Heralds told us all about them?”

  “Because,” Joya replied, her dark eyes clouded with thought—or memory. “When you are being endlessly persecuted and bullied, that is the last thing you want to do. At least, that’s how some people react. She probably thought it was one of you, didn’t know who to trust, and like a wounded wild animal, she was afraid to show her wounds because she feared you would all turn on her.”

  “But—” Lirelle said, anguished. “We’d never—”