Closer to the Heart (29 page)

But for now, the carriage was pulling up to the Rolmer Great House, and it was time to play his part.

• • •

The village had been given a couple of wild boar to roast, and enough beer to satisfy everyone, which was, on the whole, quite a
lot
of beer. Several barrels, in fact. Wild boar were the only animals that were fair game even in the spring; fierce and highly dangerous, they were more pests than game, bred outrageously, and had almost no enemies except humans. Even bears and wolves would think twice before tackling a wild boar. So earlier, in the early morning, in fact, in anticipation of this visit, the Rolmers had formed a strong boar-hunting party and had bagged three boar, a sow, and all the sow's piglets. This might have seemed unfair, but it was more unfair to leave the piglets to starve. There was suckling pig enough for the dinner guests, the house staff got the sow, and the village got the boars, one of which looked to be nearly the size of a small pony. All the adult animals had been roasting since they were brought in, and the smell of succulent pork drifted over the village.

The mood in the village was festive, and enough beer was circulating to make everyone loose-tongued. Mags asked his leading questions . . . and got nowhere. Frustrating. Intensely frustrating. But he didn't show his frustration, he simply bided his time until darkness fell, put on his black suit, and did what he did best—slipping around and listening in places he was not supposed to be.

But he learned nothing. Or rather, nothing having to do with the situation at hand. He did learn rather too much about who was trysting with whom. And
much
too much about whose wives were where they shouldn't be. He quickly learned that people have trysts in the most
uncomfortable
of places. . . .

He was lingering outside the window to a study he assumed belonged to the elder Rolmer, thinking about slipping inside and seeing if there were any ledgers or record books he could examine. He was about to do just that, when the door opened, and Master Rolmer entered, followed by Lord Jorthun.

Quickly he ducked back below the windowsill. He considered leaving, but then it occurred to him that Lord Jorthun was about to ask some leading questions himself, and if things somehow got out of hand—if Master Rolmer realized where the line of questioning was going, for instance—he might be needed to create a distraction. So he stayed.

“We'll let the young people frolic,” Rolmer was saying. “I don't know about you, but after that boar hunt, my bruises are a little too tender for dancing.”

“I can't claim the boar hunt, but I can certainly claim years,” said Jorthun. “More of them than I care to admit to.” He chuckled. He sounded relaxed, exactly as a highborn gentleman of his ilk
should
sound after a good dinner and good wine.

Mags made himself comfortable—after years of making himself comfortable on rooftops, it was easy to do so huddled up against the side of a building on nice soft grass on a lovely spring evening. He made himself exactly the right sort of
irregular, not man-like shape that could be a shadow, although with next to no moon, it was unlikely that anyone would spot him. It was too early for many insects—which made things even easier.

Master Rolmer sounded very relaxed, and just a little tipsy. That edge where one says injudicious things . . . and Mags had a good idea that Lord Jorthun had been the one to get him there. It would have been hard to refuse such a high-ranking guest, one who at the same time was very democratic in his ways, when said guest urged “another toast” on his host. There were any number of ways in which you could appear to be drinking the same amount as the other fellow, yet not get tipsy. Some of them even allowed you to actually drink that much.

“I have a lovely little bottle of spirits of wine here that will be just the thing to finish off the evening with,” Master Rolmer said, and then there came the sound of a bottle being uncorked, and the clink of glass against glass as he poured.

Mags breathed slowly and easily, eyes half closed, all of his attention on the sounds and the surface thoughts. Surface thoughts of Master Rolmer, at least, who was thinking of nothing more than how gracious his guest was, and how completely without the airs that many of the highborn put on around him.

“Now this is a real treasure,” said Jorthun, after some silence that Mags knew from Jorthun's surface thoughts was appreciative. In fact, Lord Jorthun was a little surprised that Master Rolmer had a bottle of something this good in his possession. It was causing him to raise his estimation of Tiercel's father a little higher, and Lord Jorthun already thought highly of the man. “It makes me wonder what other treasures you have hidden here.”

“Oh well, as to that—” Master Rolmer laughed. “I'd be happy to show you, milord. Not everything that comes out of
our mines leaves this property.”
Aye. He's a bit tipsy, all right.
“You know that we don't have to declare what comes out of the mine until it goes to the Assessors and Gemcutters, correct?”

“You don't?” Of course Jorthun knew this very well by now. But he was going to lead Rolmer gently down the path he chose without Rolmer ever realizing he was being led.

“Oh no, it wouldn't be fair to the mine-owners! After all, rocks are not like crops, not intrinsically valuable in themselves, only in how other people regard them. And the Crown is nothing if not fair! No, they are just pretty rocks until they go to market. So until then, if we like, we are permitted to store as much as we want against times when the mine is not doing too well. We have a tradition that we only store the really spectacular stones. Would you like to see?”

Mags sensed Jorthun's interest—and of course, neither Mags nor Jorthun had known until now that mine owners typically
did
store uncut gems against hard times. “I would indeed,” Jorthun replied. “I didn't get the little tour of your sorting rooms that Keira did.”

I wonder why these windows don't have bars on 'em?
Mags thought—because he would have thought that if the valuable stones were stored
here,
this would have been the best protected room in the house. . . .

Which would give away the fact that there's somethin' here to protect,
he realized in the next moment. His thought was confirmed when Jorthun said, with admiration, “Now that is a truly cunning design, Rolmer! I don't suppose the creator is still alive?”

Mags was shocked. He had not heard the sound of
anything
moving in there. All he could guess at this point was that Rolmer had done something to reveal a hidden vault door. Opening it was evidently so routine for Rolmer that he hadn't even thought about it. Surface thoughts only gave a vague hint of a cupboard-sized area, hidden between the walls.

“Now, don't be expecting a robber's cave. We don't keep masses of gems in here, we only keep the really unusual specimens,” Rolmer cautioned. “Mostly the eyepoppingly large ones, but there are a few with some flaws that make them interesting curiosities, and people often pay more for the interesting ones than they do for the big ones.”

There still was no sound of anything opening. But Jorthun bit off an exclamation. Jorthun was incredibly controlled when it came to not leaking things, but the impression that Mags got was of dazzling crystals, fist-sized and bigger, that had been carefully cleaned but otherwise left untouched. Jorthun's thoughts were full of beautiful colors and flashes of light.

“This . . . is amazing,” he said, finally.

“We've been extraordinarily lucky, actually,” Rolmer said modestly. “We've never had to touch the vault, as we have never had a time when the mines weren't producing at least adequately. Well, we almost never had to touch the vault. My grandfather sent some nice bits as our contribution to the war in Vanyel's time, since we didn't have any trained fighters. And we did contribute some stones recently to General Thallan's needs.”

What the
hell? Every hair on Mags' head stood up. He was pretty sure that Lord Jorthun was feeling the same, but the man's voice remained absolutely calm. “Asked you to help too, did he?”

“Well, it certainly isn't the Guard's fault that the harvests were so poor last year in the south, and it seems harsh to cut their allotments just because the expected taxes didn't come in. It was very clever of him to ask for donations to cover the loss. I've got more than enough in that vault to keep this household going until we found something new to profit from even if the mines failed tomorrow. Which they won't. I could certainly spare a dozen this size.”

:Jorthun!:
Mags thought tightly, thrusting his words into
Jorthun's mind.
:Get him talkin' 'bout this Thallan character! I need a face!:

“That is extraordinarily generous of you, Rolmer,” said Jorthun. “My contribution was in fodder and meat-on-the-hoof from my Home Farm. Did the General seem at all anxious to you? I think he was a bit upset that I didn't dip into some hidden vault of my own and present him with silver bars.” Jorthun laughed. “He should have known better than to come to a man whose fortune is in his farms. Still I did contribute a very pretty packet-worth.”

Well, now, if ever, was the time it was ethical to use his Gift to read the thoughts of someone else. Mags concentrated as hard as he could, slipping into Rolmer's head and waiting to see an image, a memory of this General Thallan—because he didn't recognize the name. At all.

:Nor do I,:
said Dallen.

The memory swam into view and started to ebb away, slipping out of Rolmer's slightly wine-addled thoughts.
Dammit!
Mags thought, struggling to follow it. It was like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands.

“He presented me with a stack of official papers about as thick as my thumb,” prompted Jorthun. The memory suddenly solidified and Mags snatched for it.

Rolmer laughed. “Oh, aye, he did me, too, and I was so nervous at dealing with the man that I nearly dropped them all.” In Rolmer's mind's eye, the memory scrolled forward; the stack of very official-looking documents, with all the appropriate seals dangling from them by ribbons. Mags memorized them all . . . but the seals looked authentic. Especially the one from the Seneschal and the Lord Treasurer, explaining the dearth of tax revenue and the need to economize. Then the memory moved to the General's face as he caught the documents that Rolmer had inadvertently fumbled. The General was frowning; his demeanor was that of a stern, impatient man who was not
in the least used to having to come to people he considered beneath him for favors. And he looked like a man with a temper, a man who knew how to use those weapons he was wearing. Small wonder Master Rolmer had been nervous.

It wasn't anyone Mags knew, and he could tell from Dallen's reaction the Companion didn't know this man either. He felt every muscle in his body go tense with the need to
find
this man, and shake the truth out of him! This . . . pillaging of Rolmer's treasures had certainly not been at the behest of the King, nor the Lord Martial, nor anyone commanding the Guard known to Mags. So who was he? And where had he gotten all those official-looking papers?

The one thing that Mags
was
sure of was this: this was the man who'd bought all those weapons and smuggled them to the Menmellith rebels. He was no closer to knowing why, but at least he knew who, now.

He didn't dare move, not yet. There might be something more to learn. How in the names of all the gods was Jorthun remaining so calm?

“Now this stone . . . I kept because it was such a curiosity. It's just common rutilated quartz, but have you ever seen the filaments line up like
that
before?”

“By the gods, it looks like a golden star, or a sun-in-glory or something,” said Jorthun. “Am I right in guessing something this unusual, you could ask what you cared to and someone would pay it?”

“Quite right,” replied Rolmer, as Mags felt as if he was on fire with the need to get out of there, get on Dallen, and head back to Haven. “Absolutely correct. Those golden threads aren't anything valuable, not gold at all—not even something like fool's gold. But you'd swear they were threads of pure gold, and formed up in that star shape like that, well, I could probably ask as much or more for it than any other stone here. And get what I asked, too.”

Jorthun actually laughed easily. “Well, that is the trick of it. You can
ask
all you like, it's the getting that's the hard part.”

“Now look here—” Rolmer continued. “Look at this citrine. Absolutely flawless and as big as your fist. You could do a full set of completely matching stones out of this one, and you can't do that too often, let me tell you.”

The two men continued to natter about stones as Mags slowly inched his way out from under the window, then slipped more quietly than any cat around to the side of the Great House, where the deepest shadows were.
:Dallen! How quick kin ye get here?:

But the Companion surprised him with his answer.
:Not yet, Mags. There is no good reason yet to rush back, and then cause questions about where you are. We don't know that this “General Thallan” hasn't left a spy or two planted in Attlebury, and if you vanish with no explanation, any competent spy will smell a rat. Confer with Lord Jorthun on the way back to the inn. We need him to manufacture a reason for you to be sent back to Haven. He and Keira certainly should not leave the area—Master Rolmer might remember what he has revealed tonight, and the gods only know what he'd make of all of you dashing off. He might assume you all are thieves sent here to get him to reveal the secrets of his vault. He would almost certainly alert the local authorities and if he doesn't have a spy in the town, this “General” almost certainly has one in the local Guard. We must go carefully in this. Get your livery back on, and go back to the festivities.: