Closer to the Chest by Mercedes Lackey

their cushions, and headed back to their rooms.
    â€œThat was fun,” Amily said, in tones of immense content. “I wish we could have evenings like that more often.”
    â€œAh, but didn’ Caelen say Heralds don’t get a life?” Magsretorted with a chuckle. “Though I reckon we have more of a chance at it than most.”
    â€œWell . . . yes and no,” Amily replied thoughtfully. “When you think about it, most people spend almost every waking moment working, just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. The mere idea of being able to have a whole evening to listen to music and talk with friends would be as fantastic as flying to the moon to them.”
    Mags already had his arm around her shoulders and he gave her a squeeze. He didn’t have to think about it too hard; he knew, from his forays down in the poorer parts of Haven, and from his own past, that she was absolutely right. “Reckon we ain’t so bad off, then,” he replied as they got to the greenhouse door. “Reckon it’s ’cause Caelen an’ Jakyr an’ even your Pa had it good as kids?”
    â€œVery likely,” she replied, as they tossed their burdens into the box by the door where they were usually kept. “Going down into Haven to help Bear opened my eyes to quite a lot. Sometimes it opened my eyes to things I would rather not have been aware of—but then, Rolan Chose me, and now I know it’s a good thing that I found out about abuse and hardship that made me angry and unhappy.”
    He smiled in the darkness of the sitting room, and was about to say something, when she put her finger against his lips. “And right now, since we have the option, I would rather not talk about anything unpleasant. We’re actually in our rooms together at the same time, there’s nothing wrong, and the night isn’t that far gone and
nothing
had better interrupt what I have in mind!”
    And since she made it quite clear what she had in mind . . . he was not about to make anyobjections.

O nce a seven-day, if his little collection of urchins had nothing urgent to report, Mags collected them all together and took notes on whatever they had gathered since the last time they’d reported to him. Today was that day, and he turned up in the morning, before breakfast. Before the runners went out, he came to Minda’s place to collect his information. He sat on a stool in the middle of the former shop next door to the Weasel’s pawn shop and gravely took down notes as each child faithfully recited the “doin’s” to him. Most of what they told him was redundant, most of it was information he already had from other sources, but this was all training for
them,
and he took down every word, and at times stopped to question them more closely about details. He always took the reports of the “senior” children first, the ones who had been in his service longest, so the newest could learn by listening. There was a lot for them to learn, and not just what it was that Harkon wanted them to watch for. They learned how best to give a report, and what details Harkon would want. As the otherslistened, they also learned how to make reports that were concise and clean. They learned from his responses what he considered valuable information—including what things he felt were worth paying a little bit more for.
    He had a new group this time, another lot of seven bedraggled urchins he’d taken wholesale from yet another idiot who thought he could get away with running a gang of mistreated child-thieves. This lot hadn’t been allowed to do anything yet other than eat, rest, and accustom themselves to the idea that with Aunty Minda and Harkon, they’d never be beaten (unless they had transgressed one of Minda’s few rules), never be clothed in rags, never sleep cold and rough, and never go hungry again. Gradually Mags would