Closer to the Heart (21 page)

“You can when you have four generations of insanely detailed record-keeping, my lady,” Tiercel told her with a smile. “My family seems to have the head for such things. But come along, let's go to the sorting rooms, and then the sluice-rooms.”

Sorting rooms, Mags was prepared for. But . . . sluice
rooms?
In Pieters' mine, the sluices had been out in the open, and it had been bitter work in the winter. . . .

There was a long, low building they were heading straight
for, stone-built, like everything else here, but with enormous windows.
Glass
windows! Made up of many, many small panes yes, but still—more glass than wall!

“Good gracious. . . .” said Keira, staring at them.

“Yes, yes, I know, more glass than most have in their manors,” Tiercel chuckled. “But this, my lady, is the heart of our operation. We obtain the best prices because we grade our stones ourselves. And for that, we must have light, and plenty of it. But if we left the walls open, without windows, our people would freeze in winter and make mistakes. It is better to pay once for improvements, than to pay many times for mistakes.”

He tied his horse to a post outside the door, and Keira waited while Mags dismounted, tied his up, tied hers, then helped her down. He followed them at a discreet distance, and saw what he expected to see; long white tables at right angles to the windows, with people sitting at them, sorting the rough gemstones, sometimes carefully freeing them from their matrix with small pick-hammers. This was just like Cole Pieters' sorting room, except that here the people looked perfectly healthy, not at all work- or careworn or looking nervously over their shoulders. They looked well-fed too.

“This is an amethyst mine, my lady,” said Tiercel, waving at the first table, which was covered in rough, purple stone. “But we bring
all
our stones from all our mines here to be sorted. Pol, is there a particularly nice piece on the table today?”

The man at the table full of amethyst looked up and smiled. “Oh, aye, Tiercel. Sorted this handsome bit out not moments afore you come in.”

He handed Tiercel a beautiful, deep purple crystal as clear as water and dark as wine, about the size of the end of his little finger. Tiercel handed it to Keira, who took it and exclaimed over its beauty, then handed it back to him.

Tiercel beamed at her. “This is the finest quality of gemstone, my lady. Not a pennyweight in a hundredweight is of this quality. Most are like this.” He fished a piece out of one of the sorted piles. Larger, paler, and cloudy. “These are beautiful in their way, to be sure, and will give someone a great deal of pleasure. But
this
—” he held up the flawless piece “—
this
is what our reputation is made on.”

Keira took it from him again and held it up to the light, then once again handed it back. “Truly beautiful, even without anyone forming it into a stone for setting. I had no idea.” She nodded at Pol. “You, sir, must be very talented.”

The man blushed a little. “Well, my lady, it do take a good eye and a mort of experience, I like to think.”

“Now, a rare piece like the one you showed me—that is obviously going to the cutters. But what of the rest? Like this one?” Keira asked, touching, but not picking up, a clear, pale lilac stone.

“Clear ones go to the cutters. Cloudy we cut into cabochons—those are the domed gems you see in inexpensive jewelry.” Mags noticed that he had not said “cheap” or “common,” and appreciated the nuance. “Generally, the deeper the color, even cloudy, the more it is worth.”

He took Keira on to another table, where a woman was sorting citrines. Mags examined the room itself without bothering to hide his interest—Keira might be the one getting the tour, but there was no risk in looking about curiously himself. There were a lot of things he noted about this place. The fireplaces at either end that would keep it warm in the winter . . . the jugs of water and a tumbler to drink out of beside each sorter . . . the fact that several of the sorters were clearly victims of accidents in the mines. This was nothing like Cole Pieters' sorting sheds. This was a good job, in a good place. Perhaps it didn't pay as well as doing the mining itself, but it wasn't as dangerous and difficult either. The sorters all looked
contented—and again, healthy when you ignored their missing limbs or other healed injuries—and most of all, not in the least intimidated by the presence of their Master's son.

After Keira had seen several more sorts of stones being sorted, they left, and moved on to the next low, long building. Outwardly it was like the one they had just left—except for the waterwheel, being turned by a small donkey, lifting water up to a sluice at the top of the building.

And except for the fact that the building was narrower, much narrower.

They went in. And there were the fireplaces at each end, and rows of children on either side, sorting through the gravel washed down the sluice. Dozens of sharp eyes and clever little fingers at work in the water.

But these children had pink cheeks, and weren't showing bones through their skin. They were well clad in soft canvas smocks over their shirts, and canvas trews, and wooden clogs. Mags stared at those clogs for a moment, as he fought down a sudden surge of envy. What wouldn't he have given for a pair of clogs and the nice, thick, handknit woolen stockings these children were wearing! His feet ached with the memory of the painful chilblains he'd suffered in winter . . .

“These are the sluices!” Tiercel shouted over the splashing water. “We bring out the rough and the obvious gems to send to the sorters. Then, we bring out all the rest, break it into gravel, and take it here, and the children look for the smaller stones. Even the smallest piece can be valuable if it is clear and of good color. Say hello to Lady Keira, children!”

The children all looked up at once and smiled, or waved, or even called out a hello according to their natures. Mags was shocked to the bone. Cole Pieters would
never
have so much as acknowledged that the children who worked his sluices were
there,
much less that they were living beings, much less
that they were children. As for asking them to say hello to a visitor?

:Mags, you cannot fake this sort of thing. You cannot force children to look happy. This is . . . a good place, and good people in it. Whatever else you discover, keep that in mind.:

Mags was still feeling dazed as he followed Keira and Tiercel to the Great House. They all paused at the front door, and it was only then that Mags found his voice and was able to think of the proper thing to say. “My lady,” he managed. “Would you prefer me to serve you, or remain with the horses?”

“My good fellow, go and take your ease in the kitchen,” Tiercel said, kindly. “The grooms will get the horses. If you wish, feel free to roam about the village. I'll send a boy to fetch you when your lady is ready to leave.”

Mags bowed. “Very good, my lord,” he said, and held the door for Keira. Then he pondered his next move.

The kitchen I think. That is where the gossip is. . . .

Even Cole Pieters had not been able to stop that.

T
he only kitchen that Mags had ever been in that was better run than this was the one serving the Palace. And this one was a tie with the Collegium's for second place. The Collegium was not quite as well organized, in no small part because it was partly staffed by Heraldic Trainees who often had no more idea of what to do with a strange vegetable, or how to clean and stuff a chicken, than Mags had of how to make lace.

There was one hard and fast rule in every kitchen run like this one: find a place to stand that was out of the way until the head cook acknowledges you. Because until then, and until he or she decides what to do with you, you are an obstacle and a nuisance getting in the way of the important business of preparing food.

The room itself was all of the same stone as all the other buildings here, although, as in the sorting and sluicing sheds, there had been no effort at making the walls and stone-faced floor “pretty,” just smooth. Enormous pillars made of entire
tree trunks spaced at intervals along the wall held up the huge beams supporting the second floor. Pots and pans and utensils hung from hammered iron racks suspended from those beams, a clever way of keeping them out of the way but always accessible. It was a good thing that the hooks holding those racks were half as thick as his wrist; if one fell, there would be carnage.

The Head Cook here was a man, a surprisingly small but very nimble man with a head like a sheared sheep, in a bleached canvas smock and trews, who danced about the preparation tables like someone in an acrobatic troupe, admonishing, directing, stirring, scolding, and always tasting.

The very first thing Mags had noticed, was, of course, the heat. It was always hot in a well-run kitchen, even in the dead of winter. Your choice was to leave windows open for air but get flies in enormous quantities, or close them and close in the heat. Most cooks closed them, only opening them again when the cooking was over for the day.

The only kitchen Mags had ever been in that wasn't hot had been Cole Pieters'. It went without saying that Pieters had skimped on wood for cooking the way he skimped on everything, so that things were often burned on the outside and raw on the inside—or burned on the bottom of the pot, and cold on top.

There was lots of light here, though. Like the sheds, there was good glass here in the windows.
Easy to see, easy to keep clean.
That was what Cook at the Collegium said, anyway.

He found a good place to stand just to the left of the door and took it all in; one of the things that Nikolas had told him was that no matter what, the kitchen was the real heart of the household, and if anything was amiss in that household, it would show in the kitchen.

So, once he got past the heat and the controlled chaos that seemed to be the norm in any good kitchen, the second thing
that struck Mags was the
aromas.
In Pieters' kitchen, they had been “smells.” Burning smells, stale smells, the smells of food that was past its prime or even starting to rot or mold. Nothing could rid that kitchen of those smells, and Mags suspected they lingered even to this day, when someone else was running the mine. But this . . . these wonderful, wonderful
aromas
were enough to waken the dead. He hadn't been hungry when he stepped in the door, but he certainly was now.

Baking bread, that was the first thing that struck his nose. The loaves for the staff would have been baked overnight, but the “better” loaves, or smaller trencher-rolls for those that still used such things, of sifted white flour for the family were always put in just in time to come out hot for the meal in question and were just about ready now. Then came the hint of spice and sweetness that meant that desserts were also being prepared—given that it was strawberry season, he suspected it would be a white, lightly spiced cake to be covered in sliced berries, then “frosted” with beaten cream. Over in what would be a “cooler” corner of the kitchen he could see someone working with some small red objects with a bowl and a trimmed white cake next to her, confirming his guess.

Then there was the savory scent of roast fowl of some kind with sage and thyme—he couldn't tell if it was game bird or chicken, duck or goose. There was roast onion in the air as well; there would likely be other vegetables cooking, but the seasoned bird would overpower their scents completely at this point.

But . . . there was another scent as well, the rich and mouthwatering scent of a good thick soup or stew. And that was when Mags noticed that this was really two kitchens in one. To one side, the kitchen where all the things that would feed the gentry were being prepared. To the other, a smaller kitchen—smaller, because what was being made was much, much simpler—where the food for the servants and possibly
even some of the workers was being made. And the Head Cook was weaving his way back and forth between the two of them.

The Cook was concentrating most of his oversight on the corner of the kitchen where the sweets were being made. A few moments after Mags took up his position, the Cook summoned a couple of servants and loaded up their trays with sweets and wine, and shooed them off.

Aha. Time to entertain Lady Keira.

As soon as he had seen to that, the Cook took a huge breath, slowly turned around to survey the entire kitchen, and spotted Mags.

“You there! Here!” he gestured and pointed at a little table in another out of the way spot, between two of the pillars supporting the ceiling. Mags obeyed him immediately, knowing the legendary tempers of Master Cooks, and knowing that it was not wise to arouse such tempers.

“You're hungry. Young men are always hungry. Sit!” The Cook grasped his shoulders and pushed him down onto a stool. “Maree!” he called, and gestured at one of the cooks on the “staff” side of the kitchen.

A round, red-faced woman turned, spotted both of them, and quickly filled a bowl at one of the great pots on the hearth. A moment later she had not-quite-slammed a wooden bowl of that stew he'd been smelling, a wooden spoon, and a healthy chunk of bread down in front of him. She dashed away and came back with a pitcher of cold water and a wooden mug, dropped those in front of him as well, and sped back to her work.

Well, all right then.
Mags picked up the spoon and took a taste. Then another, and another, and soon was eating the stew as fast as he could get it into his mouth. Before he was done with the bowl, he had definitely identified several different kinds of meat in it—rabbit, pork, some chicken, possibly
some venison, perhaps some squirrel. At a guess, these were pots that were kept going all day long, and filled in the morning with whatever meat was left over from the day before, with lots of vegetables added. Probably any game brought in that the gentry didn't want got quick-cooked then thrown in the pot as well. Thrift, of a kind, but smartly done. And
kindly
done. There were households in which the same procedure was followed but only when the meat had gotten too aged to put before the masters in any form. This was
good
meat, no one had shirked on the herbs, and there was no stale taste to it, which would have told him the pots were allowed to remain with whatever was in them overnight, and new added in the morning. That was a common enough practice even in otherwise good kitchens, but that kind of thrift led to sickness.

The bread was good; nothing special, but well made, not burned and not doughy in the middle, and of the dark, heavy sort usually reserved for people who were not of the gentry. It soaked up the gravy well enough, so what more could you ask?

When he finished his food, he looked around, and spotted the sink where a couple of industrious scullery maids were hard at work. He brought them his dishes and eased his way out of the door, carefully avoiding all the people rushing around doing what needed to be done. It was plainly evident that the only talking going on in the kitchen at the moment was confined to the business of getting the next meal in front of the gentry. Gossip would happen after the gentry's dinner was served, when the kitchen staff was eating their own, not before. He wouldn't learn anything here he hadn't already gotten by pure observation.

And after all, Tiercel had invited him to take a look at the village. So that was exactly what he intended to do. He strolled down the lane to the village, casting a more careful eye over it
than he had been able to on the way in. It was a very fine village, from all he could see. He saw nothing to find fault with in the buildings or in the people busy about them.

But
he
was not expecting to be ambushed as soon as he set foot within the village bounds.

It came as a complete surprise when he was spotted by a couple of boys, and they came running straight at him. Shouting. It took him a moment for him to make out what they were saying.

“Oi, meester! Meester! Ye coom fra Haven?”

By this time they were standing in front of him, and fairly dancing with impatience. They were not like any children he had ever seen on mine property before—the mine slaveys had worn nothing but rags, and Cole Pieters' children were simply not to be seen before they were adults and able to work on the property as well. These children were dressed like the ones at the sluices but without the smocks—soft canvas trews and linen shirts. They were also barefoot rather than wearing clogs, but Mags suspected that was their choice, for what boy would ever wear shoes on a bright spring day who didn't have to? “Oh aye,” he replied. “I coom fra hereabouts as a wee lad, but I bin in Haven many a year now.”

“I tol' ye!” one said to the other, jigging in place. “I tol' ye! Didn' I tell ye?”

“Oh aye, now shet yer pie-hole,” said the second, who looked to be about ten to the other's nine. By now other children were gathering about him, all dressed like the first two, girls and boys alike, and their mothers were finding ways to leave their chores and drifting along behind. The mothers were all dressed more colorfully than their children, in skirts of soft tones of pale blue, pale green, or pale brown, with white, embroidered aprons over them, and embroidered smocks over their linen blouses. Most of them wore their hair up rather than loose, often under an embroidered cap.

:Mags, do you see what I am seeing?:
Dallen interjected while the children whispered urgently to each other, probably deciding who got to ask the next question. They were crowded so closely together around him he couldn't possibly have gotten past them without rudely shoving them out of the way.

:Just tell me, I'm a bit busy.:
He didn't mean to sound impatient, but having all these children about him when he wasn't in Herald's Whites and thus accorded a fair amount of deference was distracting. He'd never attracted this many children, ever, not even when his little horde of messengers was flocking around him, wanting to tell him things to earn their extra pennies.

:These folk are making enough money at the mine that they have perfectly ordinary families. Families, Mags. The only family at Pieters' mine was Pieters' own.:

But Mags didn't have a chance to think about that, because the littles had decided that rather than take turns, they were all going to pelt him with questions at once.

And of course, what they wanted to know about was Heralds, and Haven. . . .

And
Kirball.

He'd expected the first two, but not the third. Where in the names of all the gods had they ever heard of
Kirball?
He'd thought that no one outside Haven knew about the game!

“Kirball?” he replied, “Oh aye, but 'ow d'ye know about
that?”

As he questioned them, it turned out that there was a pair of Kirball teams headquartered at Attlebury—not the kind that the Collegium fielded of course, but the simplified sort that didn't need Heralds and Companions.

“Master Hara an' Master Laon, they went ter Haven, on account'a theys gots 'Eralds in ter fambly! An' they seen Kirball! An' they gots the rules fer Kirball an' brung 'em 'ome an' started playin'!” One of the girls babbled all that out in a
single breath, and when she paused to gasp, the boy next to her took it up.

“We seen it! We seen it at Harvest Fair! Oi! Don't it be
grand,
does Kirball! Ain't noothin' like!”

“Tell us'n meester! Tell us'n! Whazzit like wi' 'Eralds an' all?”

One of the women extricated him from the mob of youngsters and sat him down in her front garden. There everyone in the village who could get free, it seemed, gathered around to hear him talk.

He talked himself dry answering questions, and another woman brought him a tall mug of home-brewed ale. Then he continued, with the questions haring off in every possible direction, but always coming back to Kirball, like a bird coming back to its nest.

Finally one of the women asked him, “And did ye e'er
play
yon game, Lady Keira's man?” She smiled at him coaxingly.
Likely I'm the most exciting thing to come here all year . . .