Closer to the Heart (8 page)

He hurried them through the entrance and closed two massive wooden sliding doors behind them. Mags stared a little; those doors were definitely an impressive feat of building. He couldn't for the life of him imagine how they worked; they seemed to have been literally built into the walls on either side of the doorway.

This was a library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves taking up every bit of wall that wasn't occupied by a window or the
fireplace. Above them was a paneled wooden ceiling. The fireplace was just as big as the one in the Great Hall, and had a fine blaze going in it. There was enough comfortable seating in this room for at least thirty.

They weren't going to need that much seating, obviously, but that particular point made Mags think that Lord Jorthun must use this room fairly often for entertaining. Near the fire, Dia rose from beside a table loaded with food and drink, and waved them merrily to seats around it. In a nice nod to the company, the seats were each two-person sofas, comfortably upholstered in plush.

They all took their places, Mags and Amily taking the seat nearest Dia, Nikolas taking the one opposite her, Lord Jorthun settling beside Dia and taking her hand as she dimpled at him. “Help yourselves,” she said, “Steveral says I needn't play the hostess with old friends.”

Nothing loathe, Mags poured wine for himself and Amily; Lord Jorthun's wines were second to none by reputation. The cups were of silver, the plates were as well. There was a small fortune here on the table, without even counting the out-of-season fruits heaped on one of the plates. There was probably a hothouse here. And it was a good thing that what he had poured was a white wine, because he nearly ruined his Whites at Steveral Jorthun's next words.

“So, how is my best pupil in the Great Ungentlemanly Game fairing now that he doesn't have to juggle his clandestine assignments and the position of King's Own?” If the last words of that sentence hadn't given away who the question was directed at, the arched brow in Nikolas's direction certainly would have. “I trust your life is less complicated now?”

Mags spluttered and choked and quickly put down his goblet. Amily simply looked stunned. Dia giggled. Nikolas . . . shrugged.

“It's infinitely easier now,” was all he said, while Mags
struggled for breath. “And very much less complicated, thank you.”

But if Mags couldn't speak yet, he could most certainly think, and he directed those thoughts straight at his mentor, with no little outrage.
:Why didn't you ever tell me Lord Jorthun was your teacher?:
he Mindspoke accusingly.
:It would have saved me a great deal of trouble if I had known who I could come to during the times you went temporarily missing!:

:It wasn't my secret to reveal,:
came the laconic answer.
:If Jorthun had thought you needed to be informed, he would have sent for you himself.:

Amily must have had much the same question on her mind, although hers was directed at Dia and not her father.
“Why
didn't you ever tell me that your husband was Papa's spymaster?” she sputtered. “Even if you weren't married to him back in the days when Papa would vanish with no notice, it would have been very helpful if you had told me once you knew!”

“It wasn't my secret to give,” came the similar reply. Dia's expression gave no hint that she was being anything but honest, and perhaps a bit regretful. But not regretful that she hadn't told—regretful that she had not been free to tell.

Lord Jorthun smiled at Nikolas; it was the smile of a man who is very proud of and pleased with his boon-companion. “Never let it be said that I can't pick those who will keep a secret. Right, my dear?”

Dia squeezed his hand and chuckled.
“You
didn't lay any prohibitions on me, so I told Steveral about your Handmaiden Army this morning before you arrived,” she said to Amily. “I presumed this meeting was what that was about, so I thought I would save you the explanation.” She chose a small bunch of grapes and ate them thoughtfully while waiting for Amily's response.

The library was exceedingly quiet, and Mags thought he knew why Lord Jorthun had chosen it. They were far enough
from the doors that anyone who had his ear pressed to them would probably not be able to make out anything of their quiet talk. The books absorbed a great deal of sound, and damped any echoes off what little exposed stone there was. The plush brown curtains at the windows were fully pulled aside, so no one would be able to hide and listen at the glass. And anyone watching would only see five people having an informal luncheon together.

“Yes it is, and last night Mags had a very good idea about it, but we need your agreement and help if we are going to make use of the notion,” Amily told her friend. “Mags can probably explain it best.” Mags picked up his goblet and took a sip to refresh his abused throat.
Right. Your best proper speech, lad. This is Lord Steveral Jorthun you're talking to, not some rat-catcher.

He settled himself, and concentrated on forming each word, and each sentence, as skillfully as he could.

“Something that troubled me was how we were to keep this group organized, and how we were to keep the purpose secret. The Crown is going to have to fund this, of course—aside from the question of rewarding these young ladies for their work, there will have to be measures taken for women who have to abandon their positions because of incipient exposure or some other danger, and the cost of feeding, housing and clothing a dozen young ladies in appropriate style is nothing to be sneezed at. But I quickly realized that if we were not to tip our hand simply by virtue of the fact of Crown funds, we would somehow have to make that funding look like an absent-minded but generous gesture—perhaps from the Princess Royal—and make the actual person
doing
the organizing someone with no direct ties to the Crown except, perhaps, those of friendship. . . .”

Dia caught on immediately, and her face lit up. “You mean me! Oh, what a
good
idea! You want me to do this! Create
a—a kind of handmaiden's school, here, in the manor? Turn out exquisitely trained women of
many
talents? Oh, Steveral, may I?”

“Now, when it makes your eyes sparkle like that, how can I possibly say no?” Jorthun chuckled, patting her hand. “Not to mention that having a dozen or so young ladies here will be good company and help for you, and give
me
something pleasant to look at as well as another lot of eager students to impart my particular wisdom to. And if the Crown will be funding this Handmaiden Army, well, that would remove the last possible objection—”

“Oh
wonderful!”
Dia looked as if she was about to clap her hands with glee, forgetting that one of them was clasped in her husband's. Her beautiful brown eyes shone with happiness. And it occurred to Mags that Dia
missed
those days when she had been one of several youngsters who had been informants for the Crown via the auspices of their parents. Could it be that Dia actually envied her friends Mags and Amily? That despite being cradled in the lap of luxury, she longed for something more productive than breeding dogs and planning festivities?

“But—”
Lord Jorthun said, warningly.

Dia blinked and faltered. “But?”

“
As I said
, I
must be in charge of teaching them proper spycraft.
And
the means by which they can defend themselves. I will not take any other answer but ‘Yes, of course, Steveral.'” He smiled, but his eyes were deadly serious. “They will be my pupils as much, if not more, than yours. I will not allow these young ladies to go into a potentially dangerous situation without doing everything I can to ensure that they emerge from it intact.”

“You would do that?” Mags said, before Dia could respond.

“I insist on it. I agree with Dia, this is a very good idea, and it is something I wish I had thought of and had the resources
to put together.” Lord Jorthun nodded at Mags. “Then again, perhaps it's just as well I didn't. Having that many young ladies about when I was younger and not nearly as self-controlled as I am now might have been too great a temptation to resist.” He arched an eyebrow at Dia.

“I rather doubt you would have been able to create the fiction that you were doing a work of charity, my love,” Dia said dryly. “People would have assumed you were gathering young ladies for some form of pleasure palace.”

He shrugged. “I did that, too. I still do. Who do you think is the silent owner of three of the most honest brothels in the city?”

Mags was glad he wasn't drinking this time. As it was, he nearly choked.
“You
own the Doll Market?” he asked, naming one of the places where
he
had informants, bequeathed to him—he had thought—by Nikolas. This was a house of pleasure not far from Willy the Weasel's pawn shop, which catered to those whose pockets ran to coppers rather than silver.

Jorthun nodded. “And Flora's and the Lunar Lady,” he added, naming the house that Mags had taken young highborn friends to in yet another persona, and a house he had not
dared
go to as he simply did not have the wardrobe or the years to be let anywhere near the door. Nikolas was the one who went to the Lunar Lady. When Nikolas wasn't around, and information needed to be gotten to them, the Mistress of the Lunar Lady passed it in carefully sealed packets on to Flora's by special messenger. “I haven't troubled to get any intelligence from them myself for years, however. You and Nikolas are doing that for me. The further I can distance myself, the more effective my ownership is.”

Mags felt very much as if someone had stolen all the breath from his lungs. He sat back in his chair, grateful for the cushioning. “I am now terrified to hear what other pies you have your fingers in.”

Jorthun laughed. “Not so many. I am mostly retired; I keep my ownership of the brothels mostly because it would be awkward for either of you to attend to. You and Nikolas are doing very well without me.”

“Don't lie, my love. You've been very sweet about it, but you've been wanting something productive to do for several months now.” Dia patted his hand admonishingly. “This will be an excellent opportunity for you to create something exceedingly useful.
And
free some worthy ladies from very dreary lives.”

“I'll speak to the King about funding, and Lydia about making it ‘her idea,'” Amily told them. “Then you can come to Lydia in public and suggest the school for handmaidens.”

“And I can complain that my wife is now filling my house with her ‘good works,'” Lord Jorthun laughed. “Then she and Miana can recruit.”

“Huh . . .” said Mags, something else occurring to him.

“I know that look,” Amily said. “I think I know what you're thinking. Tuck?”

“Aye,” Mags agreed, and briefly outlined his discovery of Tuck and the poor fellow's amazing ability at constructing and crafting objects. “And now here I am thinking two things. One, that you, sir, might be even better than me and Nikolas at thinking what sort of things he might make for us that'd be useful. And two, that I reckon Tuck can make all manner of useful things for your handmaidens. A wench has got a lot more places she can hide things than a man does, just cause she has all those skirts and petticoats and shifts and things.”

“And hair ornaments, and jewelry,” added Dia, pursing her lips thoughtfully. Mags dug into his beltpouch and pulled out his new set of lockpicks, passing them over to Lord Jorthun, who looked them over with a knowledgeable eye.

“These are better than my set,” he told Mags, passing them
back. “I am extremely tempted now to see if I can transplant the fellow and his keeper to my own workshops.”

“It'd be safer for them both,” Mags admitted, “But the poor man's not right in the head. He might not take to the transplanting. I can ask, though.”

“In the meantime, just for the sake of caution, I'll have my man see about buying out the current owner of the building his ‘shed' adjoins, so there is no chance anyone else gets the idea of taking it over.” Jorthun smiled thinly. “I would imagine making some repairs, and offering any vacant rooms or apartments to members of the Watch at a greatly reduced rate will put paid to the notion of this Cobber Pellen or any of his crew coming around and making further trouble.”

“That it should, my Lord,” Nikolas replied, with a wry smile.

“So, now that we have disposed of business—how goes the planning of the wedding?” Jorthun said, obviously expecting
one
of them, at least, to have some sort of spluttering reaction.

But if that was his intention, in this, he was disappointed.

“That's all in Dia's hands now, my Lord,” Amily said smoothly. “And Lydia's. We're nothing more than actors in whatever play they come up with.”

“It just seems more sensible to think of it that way,” Mags added. “Amily and I have got enough to worry about—and no relatives other than Nikolas to please. So we don't
care
what sort of pageant is ultimately decided on.”

“Hmm. A sensible attitude, if a rare one,” Jorthun observed. “So many young ladies seem to create hysterics trying to have a
perfect day.”

“Possibly because it is the only day in their entire lives where they are the center of attention,” Amily pointed out. “Most of the time, they are pawns to be moved about on the game-board. At least on their wedding day, while they might still be pawns, they are treated as queens.”

“Whereas you have rather more power than you are sometimes comfortable with, I suspect,” Jorthun replied. At Amily's startled look, he smiled. “No, don't suspect me of Mindspeech. Your father was the same. The King's Own should
never
be comfortable with the amount of power he or she can potentially wield.”