Closer to the Heart (22 page)

“I be Harkon,” he said, finally having an opening to supply them with his name. “And aye. I played horseman.”
Well, it ain't
quite
a lie.

At that, the littles around him jumped about like crickets. “There be twa teams i' 'Bury!” one of them finally got out. “Ye gonna play? Ye gonna play?”

He managed not to roll his eyes. “That be 'tirely up t' m'lady,” he said untruthfully. “Or maybe mi'lor',” he added, with more truth, because if Jorthun thought that there was a good chance of getting some information that way, then by all the Gods, Mags would play. Even if he did have to trust his safety to a mere horse, and not Dallen.

“It do be fair rousin', they says,” said one of the women wistfully, wiping her hands on her apron. “I ain't never seen, but them of us as has say it be grand. Like tournament, an' there ain't niver been one'a them here, ever. Master Rolmer, he do say might brin' thet Kirball here, mebbe. I'd bid fair t'see un.”

Mags really didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't as if it was in
his
power to get their Master to arrange for a Kirball match for the inhabitants of his village to watch. And anyway, this wasn't his business in the first place! He was here to get information, not chase a Kirball around a field!

“Harkon, are you boasting about your Kirball prowess? Or merely recounting the tales of exciting games as if you hadn't been on the winning team? If I know you, I'd bet on the latter.” Mags turned around abruptly to find Keira and Tiercel standing behind him, separated from him by that crowd of villagers. There was a devilish sparkle in Keira's eyes, and Tiercel looked both amused and bemused.

What in the name of the gods can she be thinking?
he wondered. Of course, he
could
have gone snooping in her mind, or even her surface thoughts, to find out, but anything other than surface thoughts would have been unethical, and she was very good at keeping most of her thoughts to herself.

And she'd probably kill me if she found out I had . . .

“Aye, m'lady, jest bin answerin' the liddles . . .” he said, ducking his head a little as if shamefaced.

“You were really a Kirball player in Haven, Harkon?” Tiercel asked, sounding extremely impressed.

“Aye, sir. On Collegium team, sir. Lord Jorthun, 'e liked me to.”
A truth, a truth and a half-truth.

“A
Collegium
team!” Tiercel's eyebrows rose. “They play a rough game, those Heralds.”

“Not s'much rough, sir, as 'tis 'ard. Badder field, belike, 'tisn't smooth, 'tis full'a obstaculars. 'Tis like huntin' a-horse, or steeplechase. Hummocks an' dropoffs, bushes an' bits'a hedge. Bit of a stream runs acrost. An' th' goals ain't fer the faint; liddle stone forts, they be, 'alf buried. Nobbut could do it but Companions,
blisterin'
good riders an' Guard. We be lucky we ain't had more 'urt.”
All true, that.

Now Tiercel was getting a wicked twinkle in his eye. “I'd
imagine that you'd find our flat field and canvas goal quite tame.”

Mags shook his head. “Differ'nt kinda trouble, sir, when's jest riders an' plain 'orses, an' none'a thet there Mind stuff. Not tame, attall. More dangerous, even, mebbe.”

“So you wouldn't be interested in playing a game here, then?” Well, that explained the wicked twinkle in Tiercel's eye. “That would be too bad. One of the riders on Master Hara's team broke a wrist, and there's not going to be any Kirball at all until it heals, it's said. I could never get the teams to play here so my all people could watch, and not just the ones that could get to Attlesbury, because I never had anyone to place on a team. . . .”

“That'd be milady and milord t'say, sir,” Mags replied, not sure if he wanted to kiss Keira for a clever idea or box her ears for a stupid one. “'Tis on'y me an' young Coot t'do fer 'em. Were I breakin' somethin' it'd be Coot tendin' 'em alone, an' mebbe tendin' me, too.”

“I'll have a word with father, Tiercel,” Keira said gaily. “I'm sure something can be worked out!”

• • •

“We'll have to weigh all the points for and against this little plan of yours, Keira.”

Keira had, thankfully, kept quiet about the whole scheme once she'd said “something can be worked out.” She'd had a tour of the sprawling Great House, then an early dinner with the Rolmer family—early by Court standards, anyway. Mags had eaten in the kitchen with the staff; shepherd's pie, and excellent it was, too. Unfortunately, he'd learned nothing of any import because everyone was talking about Kirball. . . .

Then they'd ridden back to the inn, arriving just before the last light of twilight faded from the sky.

Now they were all gathered in Lord Jorthun's section of the suite, with fruit and wine and a night of consolidating information ahead of them.

“Well, the first thing I can think of 'gainst the idea is me gettin' hurt,” Mags pointed out. “What'll ye do iffen yer roof-runner's down? An' Coot ain't bad at hearin' stuff, but 'e ain't got my experience.”

“That is absolutely true,” Keira admitted, swirling the wine in her goblet as the sound of crickets singing came in through the open window. “How risky is that?”

“I'd need t'see th'teams,” Mags admitted. “An' play wi' 'em, a bit. I mebbe have a edge, belike. I cain't ride Dallen, but . . . I mebbe can use m'Mindspeech.”

“How ethical would that be?” asked Lord Jorthun, soberly.

“Well, thet's the thing, ain't it?” He sighed. “Surface thoughts, that's all right. Dallen might could do somethin' with whatever horse I'd ride. Enough, maybe, I could figger out what people are gonna do afore they do it, an' get outa the way. An' I'm a damn good Kirball player.”

“So let's count that as tentatively addressed,” said Jorthun, passing over a plate of sliced apples. “Your next objection?”

“Thet it'd be a waste'a my time,” Mags said bluntly. “I ain't gonna jest jump inter a team an' say, all right, let's play. I'm gonna haveta practice. I'm gonna haveta train m'horse, ye cain't jest take any ol' horse an' go play Kirball. All thet's gonna take time I won't be usin' t'snoop 'round.”

“But the only way you are going to be able to snoop around the other mines is to go there,” Keira pointed out. “And that means you'll have to go there with me, which means I will need invitations. Mind you, I don't think they'll be difficult to get, but still . . . But
my
little discussion with Tiercel revealed that the riders are all sons or cousins of the mine owners. Which should not be a surprise to you, since as you know, a Kirball match requires four or five horses for each rider, and
only the mine owners could afford that many horses for something so frivolous. So while you won't be able to snoop around the mines, while you are training and playing, Jorthun and I can snoop around the young men and the owners.”

“Next objection . . . I don't know that investigating these men away from their properties is going to bear any fruit,” Jorthun put in.

“We also don't know that investigating them
on
their properties is, either.” Keira nodded to emphasize her point. “Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that one or more of them are taking the large gems, passing them off to a common party, and having them sold elsewhere, out of Valdemar perhaps, to make the money to buy the arms. There simply won't be any records that the gems even existed, except, perhaps, in the memories of some miner who brought it out, or a crusher who found it in a large rock. The only way you are going to find that out, is if you are talking to that particular miner or crusher, and can compare his memories with the records at the Assessment House.”

“Wait, the what?” Mags and Jorthun both asked at once.

Keira dimpled. “My afternoon with Tiercel was very educational. Once I passed his test by not begging shamelessly for that Royal Purple amethyst he showed us, and I evidenced interest in learning all about the business, he and his father opened up to me like spring flowers.” She sat back in her chair and sipped her wine. “Mags knows all about how the gems get from the mine to the owner. I know what happens next. First, they are gathered in bags, each bag a particular value range as established by the sorters. Then, they are taken under guard to the Guildhouse, where they come under the eye of the Assessor. The least valued go immediately to Apprentice Gemcutters who make them into beads or cabochons, either irregular or regular, according to the value of the gem. The cheapest become beads, the ones a bit above that become
irregular cabochons, the ones above that become regular cabochons. The intermediate grade get sorted in the same way, except that the beads are likely to be faceted instead of merely ground round, in order to make them more valuable, and the most valuable of the intermediates are also faceted. The most valuable are sent on to the Master Gemcutters, who give them especially brilliant cuts. When they are out of the hands of the Gemcutters, they are re-evaluated, and that is when they are sent out for sale. The mine owners pay the Assessor and the Gemcutters through the Guild, so everyone is treated fairly and equally. And when the gems are sold, the King's tax is taken from the sale.”

“That's all very interestin',” Mags said, rather puzzled as to where this was going. “But—”

“But you see! There are only a few places where a large and valuable gem can slip right out of the knowledge of anyone!” Keira exclaimed.

“Oh . . . when the bags is made up.” Now it dawned on him.

“Or before that. A very large and clear gem is going to be brought to the attention of the supervisor before the miner puts it in with the sorters,” Keira pointed out.

“And if the supervisor had orders to bring such gems straight to the owner . . .” Jorthun's voice trailed off as his eyebrow rose.

“Sorters might have the same sorta orders,” put in Mags.

“And there you go. The owner says something like
I'll see this goes straight to the Masters myself.
And then it vanishes.” Keira put her winecup down, empty, and did not seem inclined to refill it. “But the workers are not paid by how much in gems they bring out of the mine, they are paid by how much time they spend mining—or crushing or sorting or sluicing. So they would have no reason to know it had vanished.”

“So there ain't no records t'look through.” Mags nodded. “Or rather, the records ain't gonna show the missin' gems.”

“So the only way to know if such things existed and if one or more owners is passing them off is to find out from the supervisors, the sorters, or the mine owners themselves. Or, possibly, the sons.” Keira nibbled a slice of apple. “So my idea is to see what Jorthun and I can get out of them when they are at the Kirball game, or watching practices—or in the case of the sons, after the practices. We'll have them all together in one place, which will be useful. And if we are the ones generously supplying the drink, we can make sure it is a bit stronger than they are used to.”

“It ain't a bad plan.” Mags' furrowed his brows. “But is't good 'nuff to make up fer me spendin' so much time playin' a game?”

“Everything is a gamble, Mags,” Jorthun pointed out. “We ourselves are gambling on the odds that our source of the funds is
here,
and not somewhere else, peddling some other commodity.”

Mags rubbed his head, which definitely was aching at this point.

“But the truth is, you are the one at risk for wasting time, and not me, or Jorthun,” Keira admitted. “So really, what do
you
want to do?”

Mags thought it over. Thought about how he was going to win the gratitude of all those people in Rolmer's Roost if he did this. Thought about how the game would bring together a great many spectators at the Rolmer mines. Remembered what Nikolas had always told him—

Two people can keep a secret, if one of them is dead.

“Let's try it,” he agreed.

• • •

Keira had sent out invitations to all the young men who had turned up before, and a few who hadn't—this time, rising
young men in the Cutters and Assessors Guilds. And fathers. There was not space enough in the sitting room of her suite for them all, but she had anticipated that, and had taken over one of the bigger rooms downstairs. Jorthun had a cask of something “very special” as he said laid in. Not strong enough to get everyone tipsy—they were saving the distilled spirits and the fortified wine for the day of the game—but certainly something strong enough to loosen tongues. And this time, invitations had also gone out to ladies—mothers and sisters. There was sweet wine for them, and cakes, while for the men there was strong cheese and salty snacks.

Once everyone had come that had responded to the invitations, Jorthun, rather than Keira, stood up and gained the company's attention by rapping on his glass.

“We've asked you to visit us for two reasons,” Jorthun said, when the murmur of conversation had ebbed to nothing. “The first is that it seems only polite to introduce ourselves—although, by the miracle of gossip, you already know who we are, and very likely everything about us!”

There was a moment of laughter.

“But the other is that we have a solution to a small but vexing problem you have. Keira and I came to understand recently that you have been enjoying the sport of Kirball. But that sadly, you can no longer, because one of you—that would be Landen Wallis, I believe, over there by the keg—has had the misfortune to break his wrist, and there is no substitute for him.”

Most of the gathering turned to look at poor Landen, who had one arm bound up against his chest. He flushed deeply, and looked profoundly unhappy. The surface thoughts Mags picked up from him got him Mags' instant sympathy. He
loved
the game with a passion he had never felt for anything else, and worst of all, it hadn't been playing the game that had cost him the use of his arm for a while. It had been dealing with a terrified horse during a thunderstorm.