“Well I’ve got a big blue seam running up my bum where I tore the trews on a nail,” someone else complained.
You could mend ’em yerself, Mags thought quietly. That was what he had done from the moment he got the uniforms. He’d thought everyone was supposed to. Goodness knew he’d had plenty of practice piecing rags together into something like a garment; the difficulty had always been finding anything to take the place of needle and thread. Grass wasn’t strong enough; generally he’d used hair pulled from the tails of the long-suffering horses. When he’d first gotten here, he’d asked for needle and thread from one of the servants; he’d gotten a puzzled look, but several hanks of gray thread and a packet of pins and needles had been found for him. And thanks to Dallen, he understood that his dirty uniforms were to go straight to the laundry, and he had dutifully delivered them down the chute in the Guards’ quarters, but only after he had fixed whatever was amiss with them.
It seemed, however, that he was the only one doing so. And the servants who took care of such things, now severely overworked with the heavy influx of new trainees, were encountering some difficulties. Like finding enough gray thread to fix all the abuses Trainees wrought on their uniforms. Trainees did not stop sending clothing down to be washed and mended just because there was a shortage of materials, so clearly the servants had done what they could with what was on hand.
“Look at this!” said a new, equally indignant voice. “Just look at it! Do these look like Grays to you?”
“More like Pale Blues,” someone snickered. “Looks like a Guard tunic got into the wash.”
“How am I going to pass inspection like this?” the speaker demanded, in despair. “It’s not my fault I look like a Guardsman that’s been lying out in the sun too long!”
“I don’t know why you are worrying about your uniform when your room looks like a magpie’s nest,” came the laconic reply. “You haven’t cleaned it in a week. You’re going to fail that inspection, so a blue uniform isn’t going to matter.”
Mags could only shake his head, then pull a pillow over it and try and drift back to sleep. It was impossible for him to take these “difficulties” seriously. Really, it was hard for him to believe that he, Mags, was actually here and not dreaming. It seemed utterly impossible, and not for the first time he wondered if he was actually dead and this was that heavenly afterlife that the priests had said that good people would get.
For the first time ever, he could eat as much as he wanted, of food that nearly made him delirious with how good it tasted. In fact, based on how thin he still was, he often got more food urged on him than he could actually eat. He’d overheard some of the other Trainees complaining about the meals—that things were plain, boring, coarse food—and he could only shake his head in wonder. They complained because the cook was formerly with the Guard, and made the same rations the Guard ate. Clearly, they had never gone hungry a day in their lives.
For the first time ever, he knew what it was to be clean. He knew now why he’d been practically scrubbed raw at the Guard Post; not only had he been filthy and probably stank, he’d also been flea-ridden. The soap that the Guards had used on him was meant to kill vermin on horses and dogs, and it did a good job on the “passengers” he’d had along. He had been scratching and itching for so long that when the irritation healed, it was like having a vague headache suddenly stop. He had never realized how miserable that had made him feel because it had been swallowed up in all the other miseries. When your belly aches from hunger, you don’t notice you’ve scratched your arms half raw ... some of the other Trainees complained because they had to carry the hot water for their baths from the big coppers where it was heated. Mags reckoned they would sing a different tune if they’d had fleas infesting every straw of their beds and every stitch of their clothing.
For the first time ever, he had clean clothing that covered every bit of him and kept him warm in the worst cold. He could march out fearlessly into the snow knowing that he was not going to get chilblains all over his feet, that he was not going to be aching in every limb, and that he was not going to have to hope he could get into shelter while he could still feel his fingers. There were plenty of complaints about the uniforms. Mags could scarcely imagine why. Maybe they didn’t fit like the sleek clothing he had glimpsed on some of the highborn of the Court, but for his part, he could see nothing wrong with them.
For the first time ever, he slept in a real bed. A warm bed, in a warm room that was all his own. He slept long and soundly, didn’t wake shivering, didn’t have to decide what part of him he was going to leave out to be chilled. And if he had to clean his own room, so what? At least he had a room to clean, and if it was a mess, he had only himself to blame.
And what did he have to do to earn all this? Merely learn. So if this wasn’t a heavenly afterlife, he didn’t much care what befell him after he was dead, because the here and now was just fine. And that brought him to what he was to learn, which was not just the school lessons, but the other things. He could hardly believe he had been asked to help some of the other Trainees who were struggling with riding—or that the Weaponsmaster wanted him to help those who were still trying to get beyond hitting the pells with sticks.
From the sounds of things, the complainers were saddling up to go out on riding practice themselves. Which is what Mags should be doing soon ... could have been doing now, except on the whole he preferred to practice alone, and the instructor was inclined to let him now. The instructor was really there for those who had never been on a horse in their lives. Once you got past being afraid to fall off with every step, unless your Companion needed instruction in war maneuvers, if you wanted, you were left alone to practice at your own pace. That suited Mags. He sensed that some of the others wondered why he was so slow to make friends, but there was no way he could explain it to them, and he didn’t want to try. They would never understand.
Truly, he still didn’t know quite why he and Lena got on so well. It made no sense at all, really. There could not possibly be two people in this world as different as he and the little Bardic Trainee, and yet here they were, inexplicably friends.
Friends ... that was another thing he had never, in his whole life, had before. Not a real friend.
The sounds of hoofbeats leaving the stable let him know that the others were leaving. And he might as well give up trying to sleep anymore. Besides, he needed to get Dallen saddled; Lena was coming for a ride.
He wondered what it was that thrilled her so much about riding Dallen. Without the kind of mindlink that he and Dallen had, it was really not much different from riding a superbly trained horse, and he knew she must have had plenty of opportunity to do that. From everything she had told him about her family, they were at least as well-off as the Pieters were. So what was it? Was it just the mystique of the Companions? Or despite not having Mindspeech, could she still sense something about him that was out of the ordinary?
:Of course she can. I am a magnificent creature. Just ask me.:
Mags had to chuckle at that. :I don’t have to ask you,: he replied. :You’ll be sure and tell me every chance you get:
He was wide awake at this point, and there was no use in trying to drowse anymore. He got up, expecting to find the stable empty of anything but Companions, and nearly ran right into a Herald.
The man scowled at him. He had the tightest shields Mags had ever seen; to Mags’ extra senses he wasn’t even there. Mags stammered an apology, feeling the blood draining from his face.
“What are you doing here, Trainee?” the man barked.
“I ... I live here, sir,” Mags faltered.
“Here? In the stable?” The man stared at him as if he suspected Mags of lying.
“Aye, sir.” Mags waved in the direction of the open door. “There, sir.”
The Herald glanced briefly inside. “Who told you that you could live out here alone?” he replied, not at all mollified by Mags’ answer.
“Herald Caelen, sir.” He tr
ied to will himself smaller. Maybe if he looked insignificant enough, the man would leave him alone.
“And he sent you out here to live alone.” The man was getting red in the face. When Master Cole got red in the face, someone ended up beaten. “Why?”
“There wasn’t enough room in the Collegium, sir.” Dallen stirred restlessly in his loose-box and snorted.
“Without adult supervision.” Now the tone of voice was a growl.
“I gots me Companion, sir,” Mags whispered. “’S Dallen, sir. He’s growed.”
The man sneered. “Oh, surely. Who is your mentor?”
“I don’t ... got one. Sir.” Mags was having a hard time breathing now. “Herald Jakyr, he brung me, but he’s off—”
“Doing something important, no doubt.” Still a growl, but one full of contempt. Mags did not look up to try and read the man’s face. He stared as hard as he could at his toes. “Leaving you here to frolic about without discipline. No doubt you’ve got stolen spirits in there, and you are carrying on with serving wenches all night long!”
Dallen’s hooves drummed angrily on the dirt of the stall floor.
“No, sir,” Mags choked out. “I don’t got no drink in there. An’ nothin’ else neither. I dunno any servin’ wenches.”
But by now, the Herald had warmed to his subject. He reached out and grabbed both Mags’ shoulders and shook them until Mags’ teeth rattled. “Tell me the truth, curse you! I’ll have it out of you if—”
Before the man could finish the sentence, he was suddenly pushed aside abruptly, shouldered into the wall by Dallen, who shoved in between them.
:Go back into your room until I say to come out, Chosen,: Dallen said calmly. :I will deal with this.:
Mags was not at all averse to following Dallen’s orders. In fact, he fled into the safety of his room, and threw the bolt on the door. Then thinking better of that action, he unlocked it almost immediately, wedged himself into the farthest corner of the room, and sat there staring at the door.
Shortly afterward, he heard more voices, speaking too quietly for him to make out what they were saying. The tone was low and urgent—or in the case of the strange Herald, low and angry. Eventually, he heard footsteps going away.
:You can come out now, Mags. They’ve gone.:
Coming out was the last thing that Mags wanted to do right now, but Dallen seemed to expect it of him, and so with great reluctance he picked himself up off the floor and walked over to the door and opened it again. The stables were empty of everything but Dallen and a couple of Companions in far-off stalls, studiously trying to look disinterested.
:That is one of the Heralds who does not like the new Collegium organization,: Dallen said calmly. :I made it known that he had laid hands on you, and the circumstances, and some of his peers came to make him understand that he was quite out of line with his accusations.:
Mags shook his head. He was too shaken to be able to think clearly. He felt as if he had been flung right back into his old life, and it made him sick inside.
:Mags, you just got caught between a man’s anger at what he thinks is a ruinous idea and his inability to convince those who have put that idea in motion. He wasn’t thinking.:
Mags controlled his shaking as he saddled Dallen and heaved himself up into place. :It felt like I was ’bout to get a beatin’. Just like it used t’ be:
Dallen did not say, “Oh, he would never have beaten you,” for which Mags was grateful. The truth was, he would not have put it past that Herald to at least hit him, and Dallen was honest enough to acknowledge that.
Which actually made Mags feel a little better. At least Dallen wasn’t trying to lie to him. That would have made things worse.
:I am sure, absolutely sure, that all the man meant to do was frighten you. He is short-tempered at the best of times, and I do not believe it was in his mind to hurt you. He is not used to someone like you. He is more used to the sort of youngling who would take apart a cart and reassemble it in someone’s room for fun.:
Mags wondered briefly why that would be “fun”, but could not be distracted. “I thought Heralds was supposed t’ look out for each other,” he said plaintively aloud, realizing after a moment that the sick feeling in his stomach was betrayal. Dallen had told him he could trust anyone in Whites.
:Try to understand, Mags. He did not mean to hurt you. He ...: Dallen paused. :He would not thank me for saying this, but the truth is that he, and the Heralds that think like him, are afraid.:
:Afraid!: Mags could scarcely believe that, and his surprise brought Dallen to a complete halt. :Afraid! I can’t hardly b’lieve that! Afraid of what?:
:Change.: Dallen’s flanks under his legs heaved in a huge sigh. :This is an enormous change in how Trainees are turned into Heralds. They are used to seeing four or five new Trainees come in over the course of a year—suddenly there are more than sixty of you, counting the ones out with mentors. It is an enormous change, and the challenge is that it is not possible for every Herald to personally know every other Herald now. And it never will be again. In his heart, he knows that he never will be able to say “I know Herald So-and-so is trustworthy because he is my personal friend.” Now he will have to take it on faith because he is another Herald. This changes everything, and the only way he thinks he can be absolutely sure that these new Trainees will be as good as he and his friends are, is to insist that they be under the eyes of himself or one of his friends during their training period.: Dallen started up again at a walk, and Mags scented snow in the air. :He doesn’t have Mindspeech. He can’t talk to his Companion. And he doesn’t much like people your age.:
“We’re even, then, ’cause I don’t much like him,” Mags muttered.
:And that is exactly the difficulty for him. There are people he does not much like who are essentially being forced on him by circumstances, and—:
“—and don’ think ye can make me feel sorry for ’im,” Mags interrupted aloud. “’Cause I won’t.”
Again, Dallen’s sides heaved with a sigh. :All right. I won’t:
He moved from a walk into a canter, and then into a gallop, and began taking jumps. After that, Mags had plenty to think about other than his recent fright.
Following a good workout, they reported to the stable again where Mags helped Lyr with his seat, and from there, after giving Dallen a good rubdown, Mags went to weapons practice.
The practices were always a mixed lot of Heralds, Bards, Healers, and others. But today there was a knot of young men Mags did not recognize, in clothing that looked rather different from that of the others, and not just in color. The cut was different; the tunics were shorter, and had high collars and an odd side-closing to them. The others were all a-buzz about the newcomers, but no one seemed to know who they were. The Weaponsmaster put an end to the mystery.
“These young gentlemen are the escort for several foreign merchants that have come to negotiate with the King,” he said, putting an end to the buzz. “They requested to be allowed to work out and practice among you, and the King has granted that request. They are to be treated no differently than one of you. Now, let’s get loosened up.”
As the Weaponsmaster ran them through their exercises, Mags was not alone in watching the young men covertly. They moved, he noticed, like the strongest of the feral cats that had prowled the yards and outbuildings at the mine. Very secure in their strength, restless, but with a wary eye on everything around them. And when the Weaponsmaster paired them up with the most skilled, they enjoyed the fighting in a way that Mags had not encountered before. Actually, it was not the fighting they enjoyed—it was defeating that brought them great pleasure. They reveled in it, exchanging glances of triumph with each other. And although they said very little, Mags began to note that they were taking pains to bring down their opponents in the most humiliating fashions possible. They disarmed opponents so energetically that weapons skittered halfway across the salle. They delivered blows that left their opponent sprawled out on his
face or landing on his backside. One of them even “accidentally” got in a hit on a young Guardsman’s groin that left him gasping and unable to speak, tears of pain flowing from his eyes—and he had been wearing a hardened codpiece for protection!
He’d seen this before ... though the Pieters boys were nothing like as graceful as these guards.
Finally after that last incident, the Weaponsmaster paired them off with each other, saying nothing more than, “You are too skilled for my students. I’ll have to find you better partners.”
Just being around them made Mags feel sick and shaken, especially after the kind of day he had been having. He finally excused himself and, with the Weaponsmaster’s permission, headed back toward his stable room.
He got about halfway when he heard footsteps creaking in the snow behind him. With a feeling of dread, he turned and found three of them trailing him. They looked him up and down; he was reminded forcibly of the Pieters boys again.
“C’n I show you where ye need t’ go?” he said, mouth dry.
“We were seeing you training the others, and wondered why your teacher did not pair you with one of us,” said the nearest. “We would like to test your mettle.” He had very cold blue eyes, Mags noticed, and black hair. An odd combination. The other two, more nondescript, shifted restlessly from side to side, the snow creaking under their boots.
“I druther not,” he replied, his heart starting to pound.
“But I do not think you have a choice,” said the other. “It is not ... hospitable.”
They moved in on him. They did not rush him, but there was no doubt, based on their grins, that they had decided he was a coward, and it would be fun to knock him about a bit.
But Mags had learned long ago the means of fighting back without actually fighting at all, and as they grabbed for him, their hands closed on nothing more than air. He was good at this. He could judge their reach to a hair, and he moved only enough to keep out of their way. He made sure to position himself each time so that they actually hindered and ran into each other. Not that he wasn’t afraid, because he very much was. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and it felt as if his heart was going to pound right out of his chest.
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