Closer to the Chest (2 page)

Teo reached up and gave a final chuckle as he wiped away a last tear. “Oh, aye. Funniest t'ings I heerd in ages. Be ye a comic show? On account'a I'd pay t'hear all that palaver agin.”

The would-be toughs had shrunk back once Mags and Teo had revealed their true natures, and now the ones at the rear were stealthily making their way toward the door, leaving their erstwhile leader and two of his friends standing there uncertainly. The leader tried to bluff anyway, unaware he was being rapidly deserted. “Th' hell ye say! I say—”

Now he looked around. And the speed at which his bravado ran out of him made Teo laugh all over again, reaching out to support himself on Mags' shoulder.

“I . . . ah . . . say . . . oh . . .no . . . we was jest . . .” He began backing up, as his two final friends made their escape. “. . . jest . . . talk—” And here he fell over a bucket and tumbled into the noisome rushes.

Teo lost it. He doubled up and howled with laughter again, as the poor fool scrabbled backward, away from the giant madman, managed to get to his feet, and tore out of there, running as fast as his legs would carry him.

Teo collapsed, choking with laughter, back down to the bench. And that was when Mags made up his mind that it was time to put Teo to the test. He'd known Teo for the better part of a year now. He knew Teo was kind to children, animals, and generally all weak things. He knew Teo was as generous as a man of slim means can be—if he'd been in the same position just now as Teo, it would have been
Teo
tipping beer into
his
mug, and passing over the uneaten pocket pie. He'd entrusted Teo with several small secrets, and Teo had not betrayed them.

:I agree,:
said Dallen in his mind.
:He's proven that he is
trustworthy, he's good at your back, and he deserves something more in his life. Besides, I like how he thinks.:

Well, that settled the matter.

“Teo, ye got some time?” Mags asked.

“Aye. Boss ain't 'spectin' me back any time soon, an' I don' reckon on gettin' a happy welcome when I tell 'im 'is coney done a scarper.”

“Good,” Mags said. “Nuncle ain't at th' shop right now, an' I got better beer by a sight than they got 'ere. Not ter mention, I gotta nice quarter-wheel uv cheese, some nonions, some reddishes, bread from this mornin', an' some pears what ain't too bruised.”

Teo perked right up at the mention of the beer, and it was clear that by the time Mags got to the pears, his mouth was watering. By Mags' reckoning, a man as big as Teo was probably often hungry. “Reckon thet sounds real good,” Teo said, tentatively, proving that Mags was right. “Wut's th' ketch?”

“The ketch,” Mags said, slapping him on the back (and not moving him an inch), “Is thet I got a bizness proposition fer ye, an' I want ye feelin' good when I make it.”

“Then I'm yer man,” Teo declared. Mags chuckled, and led the way back to “his” part of town.

•   •   •

:This might be the only time in the history of Valdemar that there has been two King's Owns,:
Amily thought, from her place behind the Prince on the dais.

:That's not . . . entirely . . . true,:
Rolan objected mildly.
:You are the King's Own. Your father is merely providing guidance to you, and advice and friendship to Kyril. You are still the King's Own. The
only
King's Own.:

:It's true enough, so far as everyone else is concerned,:
she replied, glancing over to where her father, Herald Nikolas, stood where she should have been, behind the King.
:Just look
at that. And look at
them.: She let her gaze drift across the room, apparently idly, actually noting the place and expressions of each and every person in the Court, from the courtiers ranged on either side of the aisle to the people waiting at the end of it for their turn to be presented, to the Guards standing at stoic attention at their appointed places.
:If you said “King's Own” to any of them, they'd respond with “Herald Nikolas.” And you know that I'm right about that.:

Silence for a moment on her Companion's end, while she automatically checked the newcomers nervously approaching the Throne. Were they
too
nervous? Were there slight bulges in their clothing where a weapon might be? She wished for the thousandth time that her Mindspeaking ability extended to reading
people's
minds as well as animals.

Like Father. . . .

:Do you resent this?:
Rolan asked.

No bulges, and their nerves were all because it was clear that the clothing was new, stiff and uncomfortable, and Lord Meriman, his wife, and twin daughters had never in their lives been to Court before and now, at the last minute, they were all overcome with the conviction that they hadn't practiced their Court bows
nearly
enough and they were going to look like fools—

Amily moved just enough to catch the eyes of both Lord Meriman and Lady Felicity, and she smiled, warmly, reassuringly. Their eyes widened with surprise, then a little flush appeared on their cheeks, they smiled tentatively back and they relaxed, just a little, with the feeling that they had a friend on the dais. Prince Sedric, who had taken this all in, smiled warmly as well, further relaxing them. Then it was their turn, and they pulled off their Court bows flawlessly, the girls with the artless grace of the young, the Lord and Lady with confidence. Nikolas murmured something to the King, and the King congratulated the couple on their recent anniversary.

Then they moved off, flushing with pleasure and the
success of their presentation, and it was on to the next, a stodgy old self-confident Guildmaster who clearly felt he was the equal to or the superior of anyone here. No weapons, but an outfit that was only a hairs-breadth from being so ostentatious as to be in appallingly bad taste. The corner of her father's mouth quirked just a little.

:No,:
she decided.
:Not really. I'd have been so far out of my depth if I was in his place right now that I'd have been half in a panic and I would never remember all the things I'd been supposed to memorize about these people.:

But . . . yes, she did resent it a little. Because, once again, she was
Nikolas's daughter
first
,
and not only was she not generally thought of as the “King's Own,” if she wasn't wearing Whites people would forget she was
Herald
Amily.

On the other hand . . . the alternative to this situation would be that her father would be dead, and she'd be struggling—and probably failing—to take his place.

And the most important part of that equation was,
her father would be dead.
Even if she had resented this situation a hundred times more than she actually did, she would
never
want that. Even now, when she remembered how near a thing it had been, her throat closed up, she went cold all over with the echo of that dread, and she started to shake.

He's very much not dead,
she reminded herself, and shook it off. She cast her eyes over the crowd again, and wondered if anyone out there suspected her mixed feelings. Or if there were those who thought that she
should
be champing at the bit with resentment.

:Of course there are. People do like their gossip,:
Rolan said tolerantly.
:And you know if there is nothing to gossip about, they'll make something up.:
She managed to not roll her eyes, but she heartily agreed with Rolan's statement. That was perhaps the one constant here at Court.

Court was being held today in the Greater Throne Room, which tended to get used unofficially for any time large
numbers of the courtiers wanted to mingle together and weather or season rendered the gardens less than ideal. Officially, it was used to greet important visitors to the Kingdom, like Ambassadors or even the occasional—never in Amily's lifetime—Visiting Royals. Since the royalty of other lands never visited Valdemar unless there was a possible war or marriage-alliance on the horizon, she was just as glad such a situation had never occurred in her memory. It was also used for these twice-monthly formal Receptions, those occasions at which people were formally Received by the King. This could be when they had been elevated in status, or had a new family member to present. It could also be when they had never officially presented themselves to the King; there were plenty of highborn who lived so far from Haven that the journey to Court and back was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. When merchants and craftsmen rose to the level of Guildmaster, they came to be presented, at least the ones in and around Haven did. And there was an odd subset of people who had risen to great fame in one way or another—poets or other writers, for instance, famed artists, famed inventors, people who had done something extraordinary, or heroic—who could ask to be presented as well.

Strangely enough, no one in any of the three Collegia ever seemed to see the need for presentation. Perhaps that was because they had been up here on the Hill for the better part of their lives, mingled with the Court a bit (sometimes a great deal more than just “a bit”) and saw the Royal Family at its most casual. Once you have seen the King ducking his head in the watering trough outside Companions' Stable after a hard workout, or had trounced the Prince yourself in a bout under the eye of the Weaponsmaster—well, you didn't lose
respect
for them, and they didn't lose one particle of the honor to which they were due, but you didn't have that peculiar sort of awe that made the regard of a crowned head a rare and special thing.

The last of the highborn who would spend the warmer months here at Court were just now trickling in for the summer season; like the time around Midwinter, this was an opportunity for arranging marriages. For some, who wanted to keep a sharp eye on their estates, Spring meant planting and birthing, Summer brought haying and harvests, and the noble who felt anxious for his land did not want to leave it at such a crucial time. For others, Spring meant melting snow and rains and bad roads, and they didn't care to leave until traveling was less arduous.

And here came Duke Henley, who was in the latter group. He didn't need to be presented, since he was very well known to the King, but he never lost the opportunity for a formal exchange of greetings. “He thinks it's his right,” Nikolas had explained to her this morning. “As if the King has a certain number of allotted fractions of candlemarks to acknowledge the importance of certain highborn, and he is bound and determined to get his share.”

As she had expected, he bowed to the Prince, ignored her, greeted the King effusively, and Nikolas in passing.
Then again, for most of his life, Father was King's Own, and that's what he's used to.
She tried to remember anything about him other than what her father had told her, and failed.
I wish, back when I was tucked up in a window seat at the back of the Court and hardly anyone but my friends even acknowledged my existence, I had spent more time paying attention to what was going on at the front of the room. It would have been the perfect time to learn about
everything
and
everyone.

But then, who would ever have thought the little scholarly cripple would be a Herald, much less the King's Own? Certainly not her.

Duke Henley was certainly taking every single one of his self-allotted fractions of a candlemark. The King seemed more amused than anything else, and no one was showing any impatience. She relaxed a little, and once again wished she could
Mindspeak with others. The Prince and her father, at least. And behind Duke Henley she could see the unmistakable figure of old Lord Anslott, who did not approve of mere females doing
anything
other than being “Proper Wives and Mothers of the Race.” At least Duke Henley would only ignore her. Anslott would snub her if he thought he could get away with it. Lord Jorthun had observed once that “If Anslott ever had a single original thought in his head, the poor thing had probably died of loneliness before he ever got a chance to articulate it.” Everything Lord Anslott did, said, or thought was dictated by umpteen generations of Anslotts before him.

:And isn't that the saddest way to live?:
Rolan asked.
:You should really feel sorry for him. Every time he sees a new thing, he shies like a nervous colt, then takes the bit between his teeth and bolts for the safety of the barn. His whole life has been lived in a state of fear, because even
his
world changes, fight it tooth and nail though he may, and there is nothing he can do to stop the change.:

She chewed that over in her mind a while. None of that had ever occurred to her. She still didn't
like
Anslott, but . . . given the circumstances, she could feel sorry for him.

A bit.

And the Duke was bowing himself down the aisle, and here came Anslott, his face fixed in his perpetual scowl, doing his best to look right past her.

:All right. I feel sorry for him. But not too much. If he's going to live in terror, he brings it all on himself, after all.:

•   •   •

“So gen'rally, all I needs t'do is keep m'ears open an' pop by the shop oncet or twicet a week, an' tell ye whut I heerd?” Teo said, as he cleaned his fingers of sticky pear juice by the simple expedient of licking them clean.

“Tha's all. Tell any on us here, it'll git back t'me an' Willy
'ventually,” Mags replied. “Iffen ye come acrost anythin' particular juicy, git here soon's ye kin. There'll be extree fer that. Otherwise, it's a reg'lar siller a week, an' more iffen it turns out t'be a lead Willy kin sell.” This would be Teo's last “trial,” before Mags revealed his identity and recruited him into his network of informants and helpers. If Teo brought leads that Willy the Weasel could sell to thieves—well, Mags would keep him on as a source, but never let him into the network. But if Teo did the opposite—brought warnings Willy could take to the Watch and Guard, well, that would be the last sign he could be trusted with Mags' true identity.