Closer to the Heart (14 page)

In due course, Jorthun and Keira emerged, Mags and Coot sprang into action again, and they were on their way.

Keira was awake now, and the four of them discussed every
aspect of the coming job that they could think of as the coach bounced and rolled over the rutted road. Jorthun was particularly concerned with making certain that Coot was prepared for what would essentially be—to him—living in the country.

But poor Coot was only getting more confused by the moment. Finally Keira sat up a bit straighter as the coach lurched over another rut, and said, “This is ridiculous. Instead of trying to make poor Coot into what he
isn't,
why don't we simply work with what he is?”

Jorthun furrowed his brows, and offered Mags a flask of water. Mags took it gratefully. “I'm not sure I follow, Keira. . . .”

But Mags understood exactly what she meant. “But how's a lady with money supposed to have come across a street waif an' taken him up? An'
why
would she?”

Keira laughed. “Because I am eccentric, of course. As to how, let's work out a story with enough truth in it that it will be easy to remember. Coot, did you get any education at all?”

Coot nodded enthusiastically. Nothing pleased him better than to be able to show off his reading skills. “Aye, m'lady. Harkon sent me t' Brother Elban at Alia of the Birds, on account of I was hevin'—
having
—problems an' 'e recked Brother Elban could sort 'em out.”

“Well then, there you are.” Keira nodded. “I like to do little acts of immediate charity. I went to Brother Elban after my husband died and asked if he had a boy he could recommend as a hallboy. He offered me Coot. Coot did so well and was so very good at keeping pickpockets and thieves from me that I promoted him within the month to my personal page.”

Coot took up the tale eagerly. “An I'm good at thet, on account'a my old master was a thief an' tried t'make me thieve, too. But I wouldn' hev none'a thet, an runned away t'Aunty Minda.”

Jorthun's mouth curved up in a broad smile. “I believe, young man, that Mags should promote you further in his
ranks. You have a natural ability at weaving truth into an entirely different sort of cloth than it actually is.”

“Not t' mention 'e's a fine breaking-and-entering an' upper-story man,” Mags added. “It's already in th' plan, Lord Jorthun. Once this job is over, I figger t' place 'im temporary-like in a page or footman's position so 'e can learn all that 'e needs to know t' fit in with household servants, and then we'll see what other skills 'e can acquire.” Mags was not keeping as tight a level of control over his speech as he usually did when speaking with the highborn; he needed to have a certain touch of the common about him in order to fit in with “fellow servants.”

Coot beamed. Mags was very happy with the young miscreant. In Aunty Minda's hands, and under Mags' eye, he had blossomed. He'd been extremely good at thievery, so much so that his former master
had
set him to do more difficult jobs—like the theft of a spurious silver vase that had been the bait in a trap Mags had laid for one of those boys. But his heart hadn't been in it. Once given the chance to “go honest” Coot had never looked back.

Good food and a comfortable, warm place to sleep, regular baths, and clothing that wasn't made of rags, had all turned him from a skinny, snot-nosed, filthy urchin no one would trust with a bent pin, to one of Mags' best runners, and someone who had been consistently chosen over the others to carry valuable messages and parcels. But he'd put on a growth spurt, and was being chosen less often these days—people in need of runner-boys generally picked small, nimble ones, under the impression they could dart their way through traffic faster than the taller, lankier ones. So Mags had been about to place Coot as a hall-boy to continue his education in becoming an all-around informant, but it had been obvious Coot's addition to their party would be of tremendous aid, so he'd added Coot at the last minute, and promoted one of the others into the place Coot would have taken.

“I like this,” said Lord Jorthun. “There is no reason why Keira should not have done something of the sort. It makes her look soft-hearted, which is not a bad thing, considering we want the gentlemen of this district to underestimate how shrewd she is.”

“Ye'll have t' fight some,” Mags observed. “On account'a yer a city-lad. But I don' think we coulda drilled ye t'show country in the little time we got.”

Coot sniffed disdainfully. “I ain't feared of no fight,” he said. “Less'n it's 'gainst some giant. Then I ain't feared t'run.”

“If you have to run, come straight to me,” said Jorthun. “Or Mags. Make sure your foe follows, so don't run too swiftly.”

“Ah!” Coot brightened up. “An' let 'm cotch me an' mebbe get in a lick'r three. Then ye kin get
'im
thrashed, an ev'body knows ye ain't takin' no truck wit' people messin' wit' yer sarvants.”

“Precisely.” Jorthun beamed. “Mags, I am more and more impressed with this boy of yours by the moment. May I take him in hand when this is done with?”

Coot's eyes went as big and round as dinner plates, and Mags felt his own eyes widening. “I'd be more'n happy t'turn 'im over to the Master,” Mags said. “This is uncommon kind of ye!”

“Nonsense. It's been far too long since I had a sharp lad to train in the Game. I can't take on more than one at a time—but once we decide Coot is polished, then send me a half dozen more and I'll pick out another.” He turned to Coot. “And because I am a master that likes his man to know what direction this is going, boy, I have in mind to train you up as Mags' spymaster. You'll be in charge of others, and take on the riskiest and most dangerous of tasks. Does that suit you?”

“Does
it!” Coot looked fit to burst with excitement and pride.

Because at his age, he doesn't even think about death . . .
Mags thought, with a sudden burst of misgiving.

:But by the time he'll be risking death, he'll be well aware of the hazards, Chosen,:
Dallen reminded him.
:And he'll have been taught by the best. You rescued him; he wants to pay you back. He'll never be a Herald, but let the boy be a hero in his own way. He has the right.:

Dallen was right. And Mags ruthlessly pulled his mind back to the present. There was very little risk even of bodily harm in this venture, at least for Coot. And even that was no worse than every city-bred servant faced when coming out to the country.

“Very good. We'll speak of this when our task is over.” Jorthun settled back against the cushions of the coach. “Now, since we are concentrating on you, young man, we need to give you a thorough drilling in your duties as Keira's page. When you are the page in a small household like hers, you generally have the combined tasks of the page, the hall-boy, and the general errand boy. So let's speak about shoe-cleaning. I understand you have never done it. . . .”

• • •

Over his lifetime, Mags had made his bed in many places and in varying levels of comfort. The worst, of course, had been in the mines; bedded down with a heap of other children on whatever straw, leaves and dried weeds they could scavenge, covered with the tattered remains of blankets too ruined for the mine-ponies to use. The best, well, that had to be snuggled in that lovely bed next to Amily. This was somewhere in the middle.

They arrived at their first inn after dark, but before the horses had any chance of stumbling. Keira and Lord Jorthun were whisked off to a private room to be fed the best the inn had to offer. Mags brought in their traveling bags; with ears about, Lord Jorthun merely told him to get himself and “the boy” seen to.

So Mags brought Coot in to the common room, where the serving girl seized on them at once. They both were given tall mugs of ale, two rough plates full of stew with bread piled on top, and told to take a seat in the common room where they fancied. Fair treatment so far as Mags was concerned; Coot was thrilled. This was a different sort of food than Aunty Minda served the gang; different herbs, and it was thicker than Minda's soups. Aunty Minda was careful with bread, since she had no real oven and it had to be bought. The serving girl had heaped three thick slices on top of his bowl, and told him “There's more iffin ye wants it. An' drippins.”

“We'll be havin' more bread an' drippins, iffen ye please,” Mags said for him. “The lad's still a-growin'.”

The serving “girl”—who was older than Mags by at least a decade—grinned and winked. Mags led Coot over to a table that was only half full. He nodded affably at the fellows already there, who looked to be locals enjoying their pint. They nodded cautiously back. Mags sat Coot across from him and started in on his food. A moment later the serving girl brought about half a loaf and a little crock of dripping from the roasts for Coot to dip the bread in. Since Aunty Minda never served roast
anything
—she did serve good healthy food and lots of it, but roasts were for people better off than they were—this was Coot's first taste of dripping. He ate until he nearly popped; the girl kept coming by to see that he was eating well and nodded at Mags in satisfaction. “Yer master sez not to stint,” she told him with approval. “Must be a good man.”

When Coot had eaten until he could not swallow another crumb, the girl took a moment and led them to the chamber they would share with other servants. There was one big bed; two fellows were already in there, and thankfully were not snoring. Mags carefully took off his trews and tunic, folded them, and put them at the head of the bed to use as a pillow. Coot watched him and did the same. “Outside or inside?”
Mags whispered. Coot surveyed the strangers in the moonlight coming in through the window. “Outside?” he said, making a question of it. Mags nodded and took the inside. Both of them rolled up in their cloaks, then pulled the blanket on their side over the top of everything.

He'd had worse beds. This one was vermin-free, not too lumpy; the blanket was warm enough when you added the cloak, and the other two men were like a couple of hibernating bears and didn't stir. The rest, well, neither he nor Coot were carrying anything to be robbed of, so he calmly went to sleep.

He woke when his bedmates rose before dawn. One of them touched his shoulder. “Best get a-movin' iffen yer want fust brekker, mate,” said the fellow when he turned over.

“Well, thenkee kindly fer the warnin',” he replied, and shook Coot awake. All four of them pulled on their outer clothing, and trooped out into the common room.

It was much less full this morning, what with the locals gone. The serving girl—a real girl this time, not much older than Coot—put bread trenchers down in front of them beside wooden bowls. The coachman joined them in time to get a bowl and a trencher. Moments later she came back and spooned pease-porridge into the bowls and slid bacon and fried onions onto the trenchers. She came back a third time with mugs full of hot ale, and then returned to the kitchen, not to be seen again.

Everyone dug in. The bread was left over from last night, a bit stale now which was why it was being used as trenchers, but with the bacon grease and onion juice soaked in, it was tasty enough. Coot certainly didn't look as though he intended to complain.

Then the coachman went out to ready the horses, and they waited. And while they waited, Mags sensed Dallen prodding tentatively at his mind.

:How was your night?:
Mags asked.

:Tolerable. There's a Waystation, so I had a nice sheltered sleeping spot, and it's not that hard to get into the feedbin even without hands.:

Mags considered that.
:Lord Jorthun says we're taking a lodging of some kind in Attlebury; the local Waystation can't be that far, and I can take Coot out and we'll get you set up comfortably. After that, he'll know what to do, and if I can't get out there to make sure everything's to your liking, he can.:

:I knew you'd figure something out. How's your backside?:

:Wishing it was planted in your saddle. Why in the name of all the gods do the highborn travel like this? It's torture!:

:Because riding in the rain or snow on a common horse is worse torture. At least when it starts raining today, you'll be dry and reasonably warm.:

Mags did not ask Dallen how he knew it was going to rain. If Dallen said so, it probably would. He just hoped that the rain wouldn't turn the road to mire. The last thing they needed was delay on this trip. He would have said something else, but he caught sight of Lord Jorthun in the doorway to the better rooms in the inn. He leapt to his feet.

“Coot, go an' tell Coachy his Lor'ship's ready,” he ordered, then went to collect the traveling bags. He and Coot stowed them while Lord Jorthun and Keira lingered over a last cup of something.

“Coach,” he said, when the bags were stowed. The coachman looked down from his perch on the box above the carriage. “Me bones say it's gonna rain.”

The coachman nodded, and cracked a smile. “Ta fer th' warnin', lad,” he replied, and extracted a waxed and oiled rain-cape from a storage place on the roof of the carriage, strapping it into the seat next to him to have at hand when the weather started. “If it be fine, an yon youngun'd fancy time up wi' me, say th' word. Iffen th' road's good, I'll gi' 'im a turn at the reins, belike.”

Coot's eyes went huge again.
“You would?”
he gasped. “Oh
thenkee
sor!”

“Hark—m'lor' an m'lady's comin',” the coachman warned, as Jorthun and Keira appeared in the doorway. Mags and Coot hurried to put down the footstool, help them both in, then stow the stool and hop in themselves. Then they were off.

“Sleep all right, sir?” Mags asked conversationally. Jorthun and Keira looked at each other and burst out laughing.