Closer to the Heart (26 page)

Mags wasn't going to let that stand. He and the cream nipped in and got the ball back and sent it round their riders and footsmen until the Laon team was dizzy, then Mags passed it to Tem Hara, and guarded his back all the way to the goal, the cream shoving and shouldering for all he was worth, collecting some bruises for himself and a bruised hock for the cream. Even as Tem was making the goal, Mags reined in the cream, and gestured to the sidelines where stableboys were minding the horses.

He didn't have a pick in mind, but the boy dashed onto the field with the reins of the piebald in his hands, and that was good enough for him. While the others were still collecting themselves, he switched ponies and the piebald charged right up to the fray, leaving the stableboy to lead the cream gently back to the lines to have that hock tended to.

The rest of the quarter was a scrum, in which no one gained any advantage, the footsmen again tried for the flag but got blocked, and they all retreated to their sides at the whistle for a switch of horses for everyone but Mags.

“You going to stay with Jumper?” asked Tem, as they all huddled up.

Mags nodded.

“He's mine; watch him, when he loses his temper, he bites. He's also got a clever trick of stopping dead when you rein him hard, going right down on his bum. It's damned useful when you want to block someone, but they
can
come right over the top of you if they're on something taller. If that happens, I expect you know what to do. I never dared try it under someone's nose, but you—” He shook his head with admiration. “You're neck-or-nothing.”

“Good to know.” Mags nodded. “I kin use thet. They're 'spectin' me t' run in under their noses now—Tem, yer on that lightnin' bay'a yern, ye jest go fer it, an' we'll block fer ye.”

Tem was only too happy to do just that. His bay was strong and wicked-fast, and had the stamina to keep running for the full quarter, being a former steeplechaser. Three times, they went up and down the field, Tem never once giving up control of the ball, as the rest scrambled in pursuit, and the footsmen ran for their lives. Then Mags saw his chance, he and Jumper dove into the middle of a tangle of horse, and Mags reined his pony in
hard.

Just like that, Jumper sat, going right down on his haunches as Mags made himself as small as possible.

He felt at least two horses blunder right into him and go down, and protected his neck with his hands and Jumper's neck with his body, and when the dust cleared, there were two Laon horses pulling up lame, a Hara horse shaking his head dazedly as his rider dismounted, and Tem had made the goal. And he? Well, he felt as if someone had been beating on him with stout sticks for a few moments.

Jumper had not gotten off unscathed either and he was going to take it out on someone if he could; he snapped viciously at the horse nearest to him, which shied away violently, evidently being well acquainted with the piebald's temper. Mags dismounted and soothed the pony with his hands.

:Let me quiet him for you. He's bruised all over, just as you are. I need to let him know he's done well and he'll cool right down.:

Mags continued to soothe the pony with hands and voice while Dallen presumably told him what a little hero he'd been and the rage faded out of his eyes. Finally he snorted once, stood up stiffly, and started walking on his own to the sidelines. Mags caught up with him and picked up the reins, waved for a remount, just as the whistle blew for the end of the quarter.

Bloody hell, I am sore. Cain't imagine what poor Jumper feels like.

Mags walked the pony back himself this time, and surveyed the remaining mounts. Finally he decided on the second dun, a filly called Dust. She wasn't the fastest, but she was the steadiest, and he had the feeling that the third quarter was going to be grueling. His mouth was already so full of grit he wasn't bothering to spit it out anymore, and under his armor, his clothing was absolutely sodden.

And so it was; it was one long scrum from beginning to end, and the other team got a goal about three quarters into it, and a second goal right at the end, by pure amazing luck. That put them all even.

Mags switched again; they all did, taking the biggest, strongest mounts they had. This was it. The last quarter. A goal made now would probably be the winning one, and everyone on both teams knew it. Beneath helmets, faces were set in determination—not grim determination, but a sort of half-mad, half-elated determination. Once again it was three horses to his pony, with the team counting on him to be the one that would dash in and pull the ball out from under the noses of the opposing team.

It was a brawl from start to finish, with the spectators screaming until they were hoarse, drinking down whatever was at hand to restore their voices and screaming again, and
the ball changing hands at least a dozen times. And at last, the footsmen finally got the chance at what they were supposed to do, and each side made moves on the opposing flags, and Mags and Reg Killian of the opposing team were the ones that cut the runners off and snatched back the flags while the rest wrestled over the ball, horse and foot alike.

All to no avail. The quarter ended without either team scoring, leaving the match ending in a tie.

When the whistle blew, everything on the field just . . . stopped. Mags slid off his pony and laid himself down on the churned up-earth, and he was not the only one. The rest slumped over their beasts' necks, or slid to the ground like Mags and sat down where they were. Poor Dust just hung her head, sides heaving, sweat making runnels in the dirt that covered her, nose to haunches.

And then the spectators poured onto the field, and so did the attendants, bringing buckets of water with them. Mags seized one and poured it right over his head, then another and drank directly from it, then offered it to his pony, who lipped at it wearily. She was too wise to drink fast, a paragon among ponies, clearly.
If I didn' have Dallen . . . Oh, these are good beasts.

:No worries, Mags, they have good masters, and after seeing that you picked them for your string, they'll be made very much of as long as they live.:

Their attendants shoved their way through the mob of deliriously happy people—who, truth to tell, didn't seem to care which team had won because the match was so exciting. The beasts got led away to be attended to. And so did the humans. Mags was absolutely certain he was not the only one who was bruised within an inch of his life. But he was also certain he was not the only one who was completely contented with the outcome of the game. Really, he was happier with it being a tie than he would have been if his side had won.

He was, however, hoping past hope that the mob was taking him to a bathhouse . . . and so they were.

It was the communal bathhouse meant for the people of the village, but the young gentry didn't seem to care that this wasn't one of their plusher arrangements, nor that they were sharing them with farmers and miners. Once they had all gotten the dirt off—and Mags was fairly certain he had a garden's worth in his hair alone—they all piled into the hot soaking tub, both sides together, and sipped at the lovely beer that was brought to them.

Mags sighed in mingled pleasure and pain as the hot water hit his bruises.

“That . . . was epic,” someone said out of the fog.

“'Twas,” Mags agreed. “Cain't think of a better match e'en at Collegium.” The bathhouse got very quiet as he continued. “Lemme tell ye somethin' gents. This were a total epic match. I ain't never seen one played harder, an' that includes ever' match I played at Collegium.”

The silence was as thick as the steam that rose off the hot water.

“Now lemme tell ye why. At Collegium, ye got Heralds on both sides. They kin use their magic t'talk to each other, and some'un on 'em kin use it t'talk t'us. Thet means no shoutin', an' no guessin', an them Companions is smarter nor most of us,
jest
like humans. Then atop that, there's a whole parcel of Healers off t'side. An' what'd we hev? We had jest our own eyes an' ears. Jest our own wits, and muscles, an' how we kin handle a pony'r horse. An' no Healers. An'
look
how we scrummed! Tellin' ye, lads, yer all as good or better'n any Kirball player at Collegium, an' I am here t' tell ye I am
proud
t'hev played with ye all!”

They were all too tired to “burst out” into anything, but the pleased laughter and mild “huzzahs” and compliments returned were more than enough to satisfy him that he had
ingratiated himself into their midst more thoroughly than any other stranger possibly could.

Then there was tired silence for a while, as one by one, they contemplated their various bruises, and tried to decide if it was worth getting out of the hot water for anything.

“I could eat a pony,” said someone else. “I shan't, though, because Cousin Rolmer has got a pig roast going, and I intend to eat my way from one end of one to the other. Well
done,
my lads. And thanks to you, Harkon. Now we know how the game's to be played!”

“Aye,” Mags agreed. “Thet ye do.”

“M
ajesty, there is a problem.”

If there was ever a phrase to make Amily's hackles rise, it was that. And to have, not a just a messenger, but a
Herald
arrive in the middle of the meeting of the Inner Council and demand admittance, only to say
that—

A Herald who looked as if he had just seen a Karsite demon or a ghost. He was a ginger-haired man, which meant that he was so white now he was almost transparent. Amily clutched the arms of her chair and did not even try to look calm. This was the Inner Council and there were no secrets here.

The Herald took a deep breath and continued. “Two days ago, a large and heavily armed party with the credentials of the Menmellith Regent arrived at the Border. They demanded that we return their Ambassador. And they demanded that we let them across to get him themselves. They would not tell us anything else.”

There it is. The headsman has turned up with the axe. . . .

“And you let them across, of course,” the King said, calmly, quite as if he had no idea at all that this meant war was imminent.

“Of course, Majesty, but, I must tell you, that Herald Asher, who met them there relayed to me that—” the Herald looked as if he was groping for words, because the only ones he had were too terrible to speak.

“—that they believe we are guilty of acting against them and that they are about to declare war on us,” the King supplied for him, calmly. “The Ambassador has already warned us. I had hoped that he and I were making progress but evidently his own government no longer trusts the progress reports he has been sending to them. Was there anything else, Herald Sai?”

The poor man shook his head. “Nothing but that. Herald Asher Mindspoke to the limit of his ability, which was to reach Herald Marga, who Mindspoke to Herald Fenris, who Mindspoke to me. Have you any answer for him?”

That was when Amily had an idea that was just audacious enough to work. Because what they needed now was
time,
and this just might buy that time for them.

“Majesty,” she said into the stark silence. “I believe you need to tell Asher, and every other Herald along the way here, that what we need is to create as many obstacles between here and the Border as we can. The more we delay their arrival here, the more time we will have to prove that although the weapons might have come from Valdemar, the Crown in no way supplied them.”

“What sort of delay did you have in mind?” the King asked, as the rest of the Councilors turned their gazes on her.

“Everything. Anything. Washed out bridges. Find someone who can slip into their camp at night, or the stables of the inn they lodge at, and lame their horses. Give some of them an illness, if that is possible.” Not even marginally
ethical,
but
what else could they do? “I don't know how big the party is, so I don't know if it's feasible to dress some of our people up as bandits and pretend to take them hostage, but I would not put that out of bounds,” she concluded, desperately.

“Let's start with laming their horses,” the King replied. “Any halfway competent Healer can do that. Herald Sai, I would like you to relay that back to Asher, and any other Heralds that are along the way. I am perfectly comfortable with ordering something that is marginally wrong if it will prevent war.”

Herald Sai bowed. “Yes, Sire,” he said, and left the room as fast as he had come.

The King turned to his Council. “Ladies and sirs,” he said, his expression still one of calm. “It is time that you thought back to your pasts, and all the evil tricks you ever wanted to play on someone, and drag them out into the light for me. When we have finally exhausted every form of mischief we can think of, I will have it passed down the road to the South.”

Then he shook his head. “Whoever this poor fellow is, in charge of this group, I feel very sorry for him. He is about to have the worst sennight or two in his entire life.”

“Loosen the wheels, if he has a carriage, or weaken the axle,” suggested Master Soren.

“It's easy enough to give them all the flux. I know a few things that will do that without harming them in the least.” Healer Danil scratched his head thoughtfully. “I doubt they've brought enough provisions to last them the trip. They probably intend to get Auberic and take him home without saying anything about declaring war. I can give you a list, and the chosen misery can be either slipped into what they buy to cook or what they eat at an inn.”

“If they camp, we can run off their horses,” pointed out the Lord Martial's Herald. And so it continued, as Amily made note of every suggestion, no matter how unlikely. Because the
suggestions might seem unlikely to
her
but there was no telling whether or not the right set of circumstances would present itself to let them carry out that suggestion.

But oh, how she wished Mags or her father were here—because this was exactly the sort of thing they excelled at.

And no matter
how
much they managed to delay the inevitable, it was, in fact, just that. Inevitable, unless they found the culprit responsible for supplying the weapons, and proof that the people of Menmellith would accept.

:Rolan,:
she said, as she wrote.
:We need to warn Mags and Father.:

:We certainly do. Leave that to me.:

• • •

“This 'un is yours. I'm s'prised,” Linden said, handing over the package containing the outfit that Amily had left with her and Tuck to be modified. “It ain't as heavy as I thunk 'twould be.”

“That's because Tuck is a genius,” Amily replied, with a warm smile for Tuck, who ducked his head, flushed, and smiled back. “Just because his head doesn't work with speaking out loud, that doesn't mean he isn't smart.”

The new income from Lord Jorthun, Mags, and now the King had made an immense difference in the little “shed” that Tuck and Linden called home—although not on the outside. The last thing that Linden wanted to do was to draw attention to the fact that their living circumstances had improved, and Amily agreed with her. Outside it still looked like a shed. Inside, in between his other projects, Tuck had made vast improvements with the materials that had been brought in. Cleverly, too, since on Lady Dia's orders, the former brewery that the shed was attached to was getting a major overhaul, and the materials for Tuck and Linden had been brought in along with the much bigger loads meant for the laundry.

Rather than moving anyone completely out of her room or set of rooms while they were being renovated, Lady Dia had sent over some very nice tents to pitch in the yard. It was Spring, after all, the weather was good, and in the event it became
very
bad, there were plenty of neighbors that would let you sleep on the floor for a night or two. The first thing that had been upgraded was the installation of a communal bathhouse and jakes. Then the basement was properly finished, rather than leaving it as a dirt-floored cellar, and lines strung in it so it could be used as a drying room in wet weather, and a
much
cooler ironing room. This allowed the women living here to work together rather than pressing clothing in their own rooms. With that done, the tenants were now getting their rooms redone, two tenants at a time. It wouldn't be palatial, but doors and windows would be weather-tight, there would be no leaks in the newly plastered walls, and a clever invention of Tuck's, a bed you could pull down from the wall at night, meant that every bit of floor space could be used during the day.

Tuck didn't have one of those. He had something even more clever, a bed on pulleys you could pull down from the ceiling and lock to the floor. Also his own invention.

He had done every bit of the work on the “shed” himself. All the walls had been finished with horsehair and plaster. He'd reinforced the floor of the loft and the ceiling. He'd repaired the roof himself, with all the proper materials, so it was as weather-tight as any Great House on the Hill. There were all manner of clever storage places now, and a new stove made on the same model as the one he had patched together out of bits and pieces gave Linden more cooking space, and would make the place cozy as could be, come winter. Two men from a foundry owned by Lady Dia had come to examine every thumb length of that stove, had taken the design, made some
slight improvements that allowed for cooking and baking as well as heating, and were now selling it as the “Jorthun Stove,” with part of the profits coming to Tuck and Linden.

That . . . had left Linden in tears, although Tuck hadn't really understood what it meant. Tuck understood trading—you made something, you could trade it for something else—but money had no meaning for him. But Linden understood what this meant.

“I thunk th' day Tuck got nicked an' taken up t' Court wuz th' wust day of me life,” Linden said out of nowhere, getting a second package out of a cupboard. “But it were th' best. If 'tweren't fer thet, we'd'a niver met up wi' Mags, an' he'd niver ha' coom 'ere. Then Mags'd niver known wut Tuck kin do. An' 'e'd niver ha' tol' Milord an' Milady. An' then
you'd
niver ha' coom 'ere, an' we'd all still be scritchin' 'eads o'er 'ow t'talk t'Tuck. An' 'e'd still be makin' trifles. An' we'd still be poor. An' if anythin' 'ad 'appened t'me. . . .” She brushed tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Now I knows thet if anythin' 'appens t'me, Tuck's got people t'look out fer 'im, an' 'e's got
money
should 'e git too old or 'is 'ands go bad an' he cain't work no more. This 'un is Lady Dia's.”

“You can count on that, Linden,” Amily said firmly. “More than that, you can stop thinking about Tuck all the time, and start thinking about yourself. You never know. There might be a lad in your future. And if he wanted you to set up house with just him and you, Tuck could stay
here,
and maybe you could get some rooms in the big house here, and if you were busy there would still be people looking out for Tuck.”

Linden was no longer looking like someone's much-abused rag-doll. Her hair was still wild, but it was no longer hiding a face that, while not conventionally pretty, was lively and now wore an expression of happiness rather than constant fretting. And she had clothing that might be second-hand, but was at
least made of entire whole garments rather than pieces of a dozen other outfits worn one over the other in an attempt to cover all the tears and holes.

“I dunno,” Linden said reluctantly, glancing over at Tuck, who, as usual, was bent over a workbench humming to himself. But Amily could tell that she had set wheels turning in Linden's brain, and a possibility had opened to her that had never been there before.

“For that matter, now you can pay someone you trust to keep an eye on him when you want to go somewhere that might take all day,” Amily pointed out. Linden nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, ye gimme a lot t'mull over.” Linden was still getting out packages. “This 'un is fer His Kingness. An' this 'un is fer Mags. An' this 'un is fer Her Princesship.” It was easy enough to tell them apart, as she had tied them up with different colored string. Amily's was the biggest package of the lot. The ones for Kyril and Mags were quite small, and the ones for Dia and Lydia about a quarter the size of Amily's. “Tuck still 'as lots t'do fer Lor' Jorthun.”

“We don't expect him to get all of it done at once, Linden,” Amily reminded her. “Let him work at his own pace.”

But Tuck must have come to a stopping place in his work, since he turned and beamed at her. “Tuck like work,” he said, radiating satisfaction like the sun.

“Do you still remember the other things I asked you to think about?” she asked him.

He nodded. This time his reply was wordless, conveying that there were some objects he had worked out how to make, and some that he hadn't yet. But he was sure that eventually he could.

“Take as long as you need to, Tuck,” she assured him. “You've already done much more than we ever expected!”

He beamed again, then lost interest in the conversation, as he was inclined to do, and went back to what he had been
working on. A moment later, he was humming again, deep in concentration on whatever it was he was crafting.

After making certain there was nothing that Linden could possibly need or want for her and Tuck, Amily bundled all her packages into a string bag she had brought with her—just in case—and went out to join Rolan. Rolan was waiting patiently in the drying-yard, politely accepting bits of bread or wilted flowers or whatever scraps of greenery the children could find. Tuck had gotten over the novelty of having the “Pretty Horse” come visit, and came running out to make much of the Companion with the other children only when he wasn't deep in a project.

She thanked all the children, and sent them back to their play; they went, reluctantly, as she mounted her Companion. They joined the traffic in the street.
:I'm frustrated,:
she admitted to Rolan, as the crowds parted slightly to let them through.
:We are running out of time, and there is
nothing
I can do!: