Closer to the Chest (5 page)

Mags blinked. “Ye can
do
that?” he asked, both fascinated and revolted.

“It takes a Mindhealer, and you have to convince every senior Healer at the Collegium, but yes,” Jakyr told him, a little grimly. “Perhaps you aren't aware of a rather mordant saying among the Healers?
Those who know how you are put together can easily take you apart.
It's not done often and it's
never
done lightly, but it is possible to shut down nearly every Mindgift there is. The closer those Gifts are to Empathy—and the Bardic Gift is very close indeed—the easier it is for the Healers to close it down.”

“Huh.” Mags considered that. “Reckon it's a good thing we got Companions, then.”

“And it's a good thing anyone with Bardic Gift is generally identified quickly and sent here,” Lita replied. “Though I do wish there was a Bardic form of the nagging conscience that is a Companion.”

“But that doesn't always work either,” Amily pointed out. “Look what happened to Tylendel!”

Before Mags could think of anything to say, Dallen put in his word.
:That will never happen again,:
he said, and the tone of his Mindvoice was such that Mags would never have dared to argue with him. And from the looks on the faces of
Amily, her father, Jakyr, and the Dean, their Companions had said much the same and with the same emphasis to them.

Which led to a moment of extremely awkward silence, as Lita looked around at their frozen faces. “Well,” she said, finally, breaking that silence. “I do believe the Companions have had the last word.”

“They generally do,” Nikolas replied, dryly.

“But that just underscores what I've been saying, and emphasizes something else that occurred to me that I dearly wish the Bardic Trainees had,” Lita continued. “Certainty. That's something that Heraldic Trainees and Heralds
always
have. They
know
what they are doing—the job, that is—is the right thing to do. If I had a copper for every candlemark I've spent reassuring anguished Bardic Trainees—yes, and Bards too!—who are caught in the stranglehold of a crisis of conscience, I would be the wealthiest woman in the Kingdom. Do you realize how rare that sort of certainty is in life?”

Mags snorted. “Oh, sure, we know we're doin' the right
job.
But that don't help with other things. 'Specially not personal stuff. We muddle through that all on our lonesome, an' let me tell you, when you're used to bein' told what's what, an' all of a sudden the critter you're relyin' on for advice clamps his horse-teeth down an' won't say a word, it's downright aggravatin'.”

:Shall I call those Trainees over to play sad songs now?:
Dallen said, mockingly.
:Would you like a handkerchief to sniffle into?:

:Quiet, horse.:

“Ye-es,” Jakyr replied, ruefully. “As I know all too personally. You can feel the weight of disapproval, but of
what
? They won't say. And you don't find out until
after
you've made a hash of your personal life.”

“As I was told rather sternly when I was a Trainee, it is not the Companion's place to interfere in our personal lives so
long as we are not affecting anyone but ourselves,” Nikolas said, with a long look at Rolan, who only snorted. “Though it seems to me that they are very
flexible
in that interpretation.”

:We're right here, you know. Rolan and I can very well get up and leave you without backrests.:

“And then we'd just be talking behind your backs,” said Mags, Nikolas, and Amily, all at the same time, while Caelen nearly choked on a laugh.

“It's all right for you,” Jakyr added, looking remorsefully at Caelen.
“You
have never put a foot wrong in your life.”

“But for a Herald I have led an extraordinarily dull life,” the Dean replied serenely. “The most adventure I ever had when out on circuit was fleeing from a troupe of bandits.”

“No ill-conceived romances? No misplaced trust? No hijinks or shenanigans?” Jakyr inquired, looking incredulous. “Dear gods, Dean, you are a dull fellow.”

The Dean bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the fact. “But then, what I was actually doing out in the field was very time consuming. I didn't even have time for a life, much less getting myself into trouble. The circuit I had required an unbelievable amount of personal managing. It was all little villages, with no central authorities at all, so
I
was what passed for a central authority. The Border had just been expanded—at their request—to include them, and they were incredibly anxious that they not do anything wrong and somehow cause us to withdraw our protection again.” He spread his hands wide. “Ten years of that made it clear to Herald Parthen that I was capable of handling his position, so he put in my name as the sole candidate and when he died, I suddenly found myself managing the Heraldic Trainees, and I managed us right into the new building and the methodical training system.”

Huh. So it was Caelen behind changin' from the old way t'the new Collegium way.
That was something Mags had not known.

“So you gave up havin' a life t' do the job,” Mags said aloud. “But if we ain't got a life, how are we s'pposed to understand regular folks that
do
got a life?”

“Ah—now there's the question, isn't it?” the Dean countered.

“Perhaps we shouldn't expect to have a life,” Jakyr sighed. “But you're right, if we don't have
something
apart from being a Herald, how can we expect to treat people with—” He waved a hand vaguely.

“Compassion for their foibles and follies and mistakes?” Amily offered.

“Something like that. We can't exactly go around being little plaster gods, after all,” the Dean agreed. “Which is probably
why
the Companions don't interfere in our personal lives. You can't have sympathy for someone else's mistakes if you've never made any yourself.”

“I thought you just said that you had no life while out on circuit,” Jakyr retorted.

“Ah!” Dean Caelen held up a finger. “But I didn't say a word about my Trainee days, now, did I?”

•   •   •

The conversation drifted on to Trainee pranks; Mags and Amily had nothing to contribute, really, but the Dean, of all people, turned out to have been a notable jokester. Finally someone noticed that the musicians had packed up and gone, and so had almost everyone else, and the group broke up. The Companions ambled back over to their stables, being perfectly capable of opening the stable door and tucking themselves up in the stalls, and Mags and Amily shook out their rug, beat the ants out of their cushions, and headed back to their rooms.

“That was fun,” Amily said, in tones of immense content. “I wish we could have evenings like that more often.”

“Ah, but didn' Caelen say Heralds don't get a life?” Mags
retorted with a chuckle. “Though I reckon we have more of a chance at it than most.”

“Well . . . yes and no,” Amily replied thoughtfully. “When you think about it, most people spend almost every waking moment working, just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. The mere idea of being able to have a whole evening to listen to music and talk with friends would be as fantastic as flying to the moon to them.”

Mags already had his arm around her shoulders and he gave her a squeeze. He didn't have to think about it too hard; he knew, from his forays down in the poorer parts of Haven, and from his own past, that she was absolutely right. “Reckon we ain't so bad off, then,” he replied as they got to the greenhouse door. “Reckon it's 'cause Caelen an' Jakyr an' even your Pa had it good as kids?”

“Very likely,” she replied, as they tossed their burdens into the box by the door where they were usually kept. “Going down into Haven to help Bear opened my eyes to quite a lot. Sometimes it opened my eyes to things I would rather not have been aware of—but then, Rolan Chose me, and now I know it's a good thing that I found out about abuse and hardship that made me angry and unhappy.”

He smiled in the darkness of the sitting room, and was about to say something, when she put her finger against his lips. “And right now, since we have the option, I would rather not talk about anything unpleasant. We're actually in our rooms together at the same time, there's nothing wrong, and the night isn't that far gone and
nothing
had better interrupt what I have in mind!”

And since she made it quite clear what she had in mind . . . he was not about to make any
objections.

O
nce a seven-day, if his little collection of urchins had nothing urgent to report, Mags collected them all together and took notes on whatever they had gathered since the last time they'd reported to him. Today was that day, and he turned up in the morning, before breakfast. Before the runners went out, he came to Minda's place to collect his information. He sat on a stool in the middle of the former shop next door to the Weasel's pawn shop and gravely took down notes as each child faithfully recited the “doin's” to him. Most of what they told him was redundant, most of it was information he already had from other sources, but this was all training for
them,
and he took down every word, and at times stopped to question them more closely about details. He always took the reports of the “senior” children first, the ones who had been in his service longest, so the newest could learn by listening. There was a lot for them to learn, and not just what it was that Harkon wanted them to watch for. They learned how best to give a report, and what details Harkon would want. As the others
listened, they also learned how to make reports that were concise and clean. They learned from his responses what he considered valuable information—including what things he felt were worth paying a little bit more for.

He had a new group this time, another lot of seven bedraggled urchins he'd taken wholesale from yet another idiot who thought he could get away with running a gang of mistreated child-thieves. This lot hadn't been allowed to do anything yet other than eat, rest, and accustom themselves to the idea that with Aunty Minda and Harkon, they'd never be beaten (unless they had transgressed one of Minda's few rules), never be clothed in rags, never sleep cold and rough, and never go hungry again. Gradually Mags would integrate them into his runner network, unless they proved to be uncommonly bright. In
that
case, he'd assign them to schooling exclusively, for a literate youngster could get any number of superior jobs, and a literate informant in a runner's job was priceless. Already he had half a dozen youngsters in apprentice positions around the city, another half dozen had places as servants among the highborn, and he looked forward to the day when he'd have as many informants as Nikolas did. One of his prize pupils was Coot, from the first gang he'd liberated. Coot was the lad in charge of the day-to-day operation of the runner-service now, with all the runners reporting to him at his very own office in what had once been a hot-sausage-stall squeezed in between two prosperous inns. As a sausage stall it had not been able to compete once one of the two innkeepers had taken a notion to open up a window on the street selling leftover meat on loaf-ends, and jugs of beer—bring your own jug. As the counter of a messenger-dispatching service it did a brisk business.

The runner-service was turning a profit, too, now, and Mags was very proud of how Coot was handling it.

So now, this new lot of skinny, bruised, ill-treated littles was getting to see “how things was done fer th' Cap'n”—the
“Cap'n” being what the very first group had decided to dub him, probably because the ultimate authority they had known (and feared) on the street was the local Captain of the Watch.

They never called him by his real name, and never referred to him as a Herald. Most of them had never seen a Herald except at a distance before Mags had revealed himself to them, and
all
of them knew that the fact that “Harkon” was also a Herald was a secret none of them was to divulge.

Not that anyone would likely have believed it if they had. Harkon had too definite a reputation down in this part of Haven for anyone to do more than guffaw at such a ridiculous notion, and probably send the child off with a box to his ear for being an outrageous liar.

One by one, the rest came up to him, made their reports while he took notes, and collected their pay. The newcomers watched the others interact with him wearing varied expressions ranging from skepticism to awe—the awe when extra copper bits and even a small silver piece got doled out. Finally the last of them had made his report, and the lot swarmed Aunty Minda, who decreed that “Ye kin et, now,” and began ladling out porridge and cutting thick slices of bread and giving them a smear of butter and jam. The new littles had been here long enough to know that the food wasn't going to vanish, no one was going to take their shares away from them, and there would be plenty to go around, so while there was the expected jostling that would go on in any group of children, be they low or highborn, there was no frantic scrambling to get a share of the food. In fact, some of the new ones had begun to make friends among the established group. Both groups mingled together to eat; it was easy enough to spot the new ones by how thin they were, and how their “new” clothing was much too big for them.

He liked to stay—pretending he was going over his notes—to watch them eat. Of all the things he had done, rescuing these children from near-slavery and terrible hardship made
him the happiest. He couldn't claim to have been personally responsible for rescuing his fellow mine-slaves—that had been due to Jakyr and the other Heralds—so he did his best to rescue and support as many other wretched little mites as he could.

The last of them were just mopping up the last bits of porridge with their last bites of bread when one of the seasoned runners came bursting in, frantically looking around, his face suffused with mingled alarm and relief to see that Mags was still there. “Harkon!” he exclaimed, “Hatchet, Dog-Billy, an' Rufus is on th' way here, wi' some paid bully boys, an' they reckon t'—”

Mags held up a hand, to quiet the boy and hush the rest of the children, who reacted with terror to the names of their former captors. “It don' matter none what they
reckon
t'do, because they ain't gonna do it, an' they're gonna be sorry they tried. Pagen, git th' Watch. Minda, git the littles below. Trey, git up i'rafters; I wants a witness.” As Minda pulled up a hatch in the center of the floor and herded the children down into it, the runner obeyed Mags' orders to him, and scrambled up into the exposed rafters where he could observe, safely out of reach, and escape through the door in the roof at need. While they all did as they had been told, Mags sauntered over to the fireplace and removed a small lead ball from a cracked bowl of more of the same. These balls were small enough to conceal in his hand, but larger than the round clay balls the children played rainy-day games with. Definitely too large to be swallowed, and just about the right size to use as shot in a sling for a strong child, which was what a very select few of the children were allowed to do.

While he was there, he also took up a staff that had been leaning against the mantelpiece. Of course, he
could
use the weapons he had on his person, but he didn't actually want to kill these men.

:I've sent a Herald to alert the Watch,:
Dallen told him.

:Good, I sent Pagen off after them, and Minda will send someone, too, so this will give us a head start.:

The cellar was not a potential trap; a properly made tunnel ran between it and the cellar under the pawn shop. Minda would send the most responsible of the children up into the shop to first alert whoever was working there, then run off over the rooftops to find the Watch just in case Pagen couldn't locate them quickly. When Mags was through with the three instigators, the Watch would have a nice little package to take off to gaol.

He was absently regretting now that he'd gotten a little bit lazy with these three; in all his other forays into thieves' dens to free their child-gangs, he'd taken care to beat the thief-masters to a bloody pulp before announcing to the lads that
he
was taking over the gang. That had been more than enough to prevent any retribution. But his reputation had begun to precede him, and with this lot, he'd decided to wait until the thief-masters had gone before he broke into the filthy, drafty hovels they were keeping their gangs of boys in. Once there, all he'd done was to make sure none of them were actually chained up and announce he was there to recruit them, figuring the children would follow him without needing to be terrified into doing so. It had worked all three times; the decent prospects for redemption had all been more than willing to go with him, while those with stickier fingers had scarpered off.
Not
turning their erstwhile master into a quivering heap on the floor set a good example, he'd told himself, and he had been sure that Harkon's reputation would make those “masters” think twice before having a go at him.

Evidently not.

It was quite out of character for them to turn up in broad daylight, but then, he reckoned they intended to make a “statement” about Harkon's fearsome qualities or lack thereof, and how
they
did not intend to let him take what was “theirs” and flip a finger at them.

So it appeared he'd have to beat them to a bloody pulp after all.

:My, aren't we self-confident.:
He ignored Dallen's sally for a moment, as he planned out his moves. The three bosses would be leading their hirelings. They wouldn't be able to go through the door three abreast, so they'd have to let one lead, then the other two would have to squeeze in behind the first. They'd never been here, so they would take a few moments to get oriented and focused on him. Those few moments should be all the time he'd need.

:The only question I got is whether or not their hired thugs are gonna pile on me after I get the three bastards down,:
Mags replied.
:I'm figurin' they won't. I'm figurin' they got paid enough t'make a show, but not enough t'risk gettin' hurt.:

:And if you're wrong?:
Dallen asked.
:Purely an academic question, of course . . . :

Well, he'd tie up the door taking out the leaders, and that would buy him a bit more time if the mercs got enthusiastic. Time was all he needed. The Watch was already on the way.

:By then, I reckon the Watch'll be here, so likely at the worst I'll get off with some bruises.:
He might have added more, but just at that moment the door crashed open, and there they were, Hatchet, the grizzled, greasy-haired brute, coming first through the door and ending up in the middle, Dog-Billy, the filthy, ugly one squeezing in on the right, and Rufus, the bald, scarred fool on the left.

Of the three of them, Dog-Billy was the most dangerous, because he was no little crazy, and utterly unpredictable. Besides that, there was not a single soul in all of Haven who would mourn if he died, and he was so foul Mags really didn't want to touch him, even with a six-foot pole. So it was Dog-Billy who got the lead ball pitched into his throat before Hatchet could open his mouth to say anything.

Dog-Billy went down choking, clutching at his crushed
larynx, as the hired thug that had been crowding in behind him stared in dumbfounded disbelief. Hatchet and Rufus were staring, too, but not for long. Mags took two long strides toward them and drove the end of his staff up between Hatchet's legs before the bully-boy had any idea what he was doing. As Hatchet doubled over, clutching at his abused privates, Mags reversed the staff and brought it down on the back of his head, felling him. And before Rufus had time to react, Mags cracked him alongside his head, dropping
him
to the ground.

There were six hired thugs standing there just outside the door now, staring at him in shock. He grounded the staff, and looked them up and down.

“So, what'd these idjits give ye?” he asked calmly. “'Cause I kin do better.”

They exchanged a look, equal parts shock and calculation. Finally the rightmost one answered. “Five copper each in 'and. Five more when—” He shrugged, saying without words,
well,
that
isn't going to happen.

Mags dug into his belt-pouch and came up with six of the smallest silver pieces, each one of which represented twice what they had each been paid already. He tossed the coins at them; they snatched the money out of the air. “Get out,” he suggested. “'Less any on ye either wanta
meet
th' Watch or
bring
the Watch.”

It appeared that none of them were interested in either prospect; the doorway shortly held nothing but air.

With Hatchet and Rufus unconscious, Mags examined Dog-Billy without touching him. It appeared that he had figured out how to breathe again, so maybe Mags hadn't actually done him permanent damage, but he was still choking and gasping, his hands still clutched his throat and tears of purest pain were cutting furrows through the grease and dirt on his face. “Guess, ye'll live,” he said with regret, picking the lead ball up from where it was rolling around a little on the floor, just as the Watch arrived.

Now the Watch of this district knew him; knew him not only as Harkon, but as Mags, so they didn't argue when he loudly proclaimed that the three men on the floor had come there to “interfere with m'bizness,” and had tried to attack him. Mind, that actually was telling the strict truth—they had, and they had. In Mags' mind, it was always better to tell the truth than make something up you'd have to remember later.