“... the finest of yellow topaz ...”
Topaz ... that, he had learned, was what his “yellow sparklies” had been called. Feeling a morbid interest in seeing just what became of those bits of glitter so laboriously chipped out of the rock, Mags worked his way in the direction of the voice.
He squeezed between two giggling young women to find himself abruptly at the side of an older man in a sober brown cloak, as both of them stood before what must have been a jeweler’s booth. But there was just one problem with the velvet trays of rings, brooches, and necklaces. They were not what the man was claiming them to be.
His “finest yellow topaz” was inferior stuff carefully cut to hide the flaws, but Mags, who had learned to judge to a hair the stones that would get him the most bread, could spot them. And he could not help it. His mouth opened, and the words came out before he could stop them, tinged with scorn.
“Ain’t so fine as all that.”
The jeweler started, and glared down at him. The man who was examining the ring looked at him with interest.
“Be off with you!” the jeweler barked. “This is none of your business!”
“’Tis if you be makin’ claims that ain’t stric’ly true,” Mags retorted, quaking a little inside, but determined to stand his ground.
The jeweler glowered. “Go back up the hill, before I call my man—”
“Now, now, I should like to hear what the Trainee has to say,” the man in brown interrupted, the emphasis on Trainee to drive the point home to the jeweler that this was not just some random boy in gray clothing. He turned to Mags. “Now why do you say that this stone is not so fine?”
“Turn her sideway, and tilt her a bit. Ye’ll see the flaw. He’s cut it t’ hide it, but it’s there. ’Tis a pretty stone, and ’tis cut well, I reckon, but ‘finest,’ it ain’t.” Mags shrugged.
“By the Havens, there it is ...” The man stopped peering at the stone to look down at Mags. “However did you know?”
“Useter mine them things,” Mags replied, and would have slipped away, had the man not detained him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, my young friend. Please stay here a moment.” He turned back to the jeweler. “Now, as it happens, I like the stone and the setting, and I know my niece will as well, regardless of the flaw. So what would be a fair price for a flawed stone?”
Deflated, the merchant named a price, there was a little haggling, and the merchant placed the ring in a small satin bag and handed it over in exchange for several coins.
“Now, Trainee, as you have saved me from being cheated, I would like to treat you to luncheon. Would you permit me?”
Mags gaped at him. “Ah ... er ...”
:It’s all right, open your shields a bit and you’ll see,: Dallen advised. Mags followed his suggestion, and let the man’s surface thoughts wash over him for a little.
And Dallen was right; this was nothing more sinister than a kindly man who was grateful for Mags’ help. And it did not hurt that Mags was a Trainee. Mags got the distinct impression that the man was getting a bit of a thrill to be around a Heraldic Trainee.
He ducked his head. “Was doin’ no more than I should, sir,” he said modestly. “But thankee. ’Twould be kind on ye.”
The man smiled broadly and held out his hand. “Soren Mender,” he said. Mags took the proffered hand and shook it.
“Trainee Mags,” he replied. He liked the man’s face. Seamed with wrinkles, which all looked as if they had been formed out of good humor rather than bad temper.
“Well, Trainee Mags, there is a nice little tavern just over that way—” the man pointed to Mags’ right, “—and if you’ll come with me, I suspect you could wrap yourself around the outside of something hot and filling.”
Mags laughed. “’Spect I could, Master Soren,” he replied. “Lead on.”
12
MAGS was no fool. He knew very well that Master Soren could be harboring intentions that were not good toward him.
But they were going to eat in a public place, he had done Master Soren a favor, his own brief glimpse at the man’s thoughts revealed no guile, and Dallen vouched for the man. All of these things counted for something; Dallen vouching for him counted enough that Mags felt reasonably safe.
And Soren gave him none of the signals he would have thought showed danger. They sat down, one on either side of a small table in the window, where the sun streamed warmly through the hand-sized, thick glass panes. The girl brought them hot cider, poured from the same thick pottery pitcher; Soren gave him no recommendations for food, and ordered the same when Mags asked for meat pies.
“So, you mined gemstones?” Soren asked, when the food arrived. He tilted his head to the side a little. “Aren’t you rather young for that?”
Mags surprised even himself with the bitterness of his reply. “Master Cole what owned the mine reckoned th’ smaller, th’ better. For fittin’ inter tunnels.”
Soren chewed his lower lip. “I will take it that this was ... not a good situation.”
Mags hesitated. Should he tell his story to this stranger? No one had told him not to. And now that he was here, in Haven and at the Collegium, could even Cole Pieters and his friends touch him? By now they surely had figured out that he was the one who had acted as informant for everything. They would have to be thicker than even he thought not to have done so.
Mags nibbled thoughtfully on a bit of crust for a moment, then slowly began to tell Soren just what it was like to work for Cole Pieters. Without the murders; he was relatively certain that the Heralds would not want him telling about those.
And Soren had a very interesting reaction to it all. He didn’t get angry, as Jakyr had, nor did he act as if it didn’t matter because it hadn’t happened to him. Instead, an expression of grave sorrow slowly moved over his face, and the more he heard, the sadder he became.
Finally, he sighed. “I wish there was a way that all this could be made up to you, and your fellows, Mags. That man stole so much from you—years of your lives that you will never get back.” He shook his head mournfully.
Mags could only shrug.
“’Tis what it is,” he replied.
“But I never dreamed there could be something like that going on in Valdemar. It ... offends me.” He paused, and Mags wondered if he should say something. Then Soren nodded his head as if deciding something. “Now that I know that they do ... Mags, what would be a good way of keeping youngsters from falling into such places?”
Why is he asking me? Mags wondered, feeling stunned. He opened his mouth to ask that very question, but what came out was not that at all. “Mebbe you c’d do somethin’ with the law,” he heard himself saying. “Make it bad t’ put kiddies to work or som’thin.”
“It would have to be the ‘or something,” Soren mused aloud. “We don’t want to penalize farm folk who rely on their children and extra hands. But, yes, I see your point, and I think that would be a good start.” He straightened up again, and nodded decisively. “Well, my young friend, is there anything more I can do to thank you?”
Mags shook his head, blushing. “Ye went well over, feedin’ me. All I did was wut I should do, aye? Bein’ a Trainee an’ all.”
“Well, I don’t need to ask you why you are still here with Midwinter Festival upon us, so ... let me do this. If you haven’t anything better to do, you are welcome to join our ongoing festivities.” Soren smiled at him, but not in any kind of patronizing fashion. “We don’t hold parties as such; we keep an open house, and if people are inclined and like-minded, they more-or-less form parties. Here—” He took a small card out of a pouch at his belt, borrowed a pen and ink from the taverner, and wrote out some directions in a careful hand. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to Mags. “You can simply arrive, and feel free to bring a friend or friends. The only part of our celebration that is set in stone is the Midwinter Day Feast, and a Midwinter Eve ceremony. All the rest is freeform.”
Mags waved the card
to be sure that it was dry, and tucked it safely away. “I ‘spect I’ll have to get permission,” he said, feeling a great interest in seeing this “open house.”
Soren nodded. “And I expect that will be no difficulty for you. All right, Trainee Mags,” he said, standing up and offering his hand. “It has been a very great pleasure to be in your company, and thank you for the timely intervention—”
“Jes’ a moment, Master Soren,” he interrupted, suddenly thinking of something. “Kin I see th’ ring again?”
With an odd glance, Soren obliged him. Using a ray of sunlight that the windows were inadvertently concentrating, he turned the stone this way and that, peering at the flaw. Finally, he turned the ring upside down and looked at it from the back.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “Lookit yon. She looks like a bird, flyin’. That there makes it more satisfyin’, eh? Still a flaw, but now turns into an asset kind of flaw.”
“A bird?” Soren leaned closer, peering at the stone. “By the Havens, it does! You have helped me out twice today, my young friend, and now I am truly in your debt!”
Mags blushed again, a deeper crimson than before, and handed back the ring. “Ye won’t say that if I c’n come to yer party, Master Soren,” he replied with a laugh. “’Cause I c’n eat a lot!”
———
Herald Caelen looked at the small piece of stiff paper with a look of absolute astonishment on his face. “Mags ... do you know whose address is on this card?”
Mags shrugged. “Master Soren—”
“Who is the head of the Builder’s Guild, which is in charge of everything to do with the construction of buildings, and who is one of His Majesty’s advisors about matters of commerce!” Herald Caelen spluttered.
Mags blinked at him. A few fortnights ago, he would have had no idea what that meant. But now? Oh, he knew all right.
“But ... he was just wanderin’ in the Midwinter Market, lookin’ fer ...” He tried to think what a flawed stone would be, to one of the people who lived in those enormous houses near the Palace. “... a trinket. He was a-goin’t’ get cheated, an’ I warned ’im.”
Herald Caelen nodded. “He’s the sort of man that would appreciate that. As soon as he heard you speak, he must have known that there was no way you would recognize him or his name, so there was no way that you would have done anything out of what is the ‘ordinary’ for you.”
“Aye,” Mags agreed. “I’d save anybody from bein’ cheated.”
“This could not be better for you and your friends from the mine.” Caelen didn’t rub his hands together in glee, but he came close. “Now Soren will look into your case, since he has heard about it firsthand. He’ll discover that not only did you not exaggerate the conditions, you actually didn’t tell everything. You said he looked sad?”
Mags nodded.
“He abhors injustice. This will jump your case to the front of the queue. Or rather—” Caelen amended, “—the case of Master Pieters and his abuses. You are fairly well out of it right now. I doubt you will even be called as a witness. He might not ever have had an interest in this; it could have gone to one of the ordinary Justiciars. Now, it won’t. Cole Pieters and his sons might very well find themselves working as laborers—at a fair wage—in what used to be their own mine.”
Mags pictured that in his own mind and found himself smiling.
Caelen paused, his face showing thought. “Let me tell you some things about Master Soren—although, given your Gift and your observational skills, you probably had figured out most of this already. He is unique among the King’s advisors in that he does not have a great interest in ostentation, and I have heard rumors that he spends as much or more of his fortune on charitable efforts as he does on himself and his family. Since he doesn’t make any sort of public display of his charity, these are still only rumors. I, for one, believe them, however. Because he is indifferent to social climbing and display, he seldom holds any sort of gathering except at Midwinter and Midsummer Festivals—and those, rather than being a series of parties at which it is important to be seen, are, as he told you, a sort of ongoing party, or ‘open house,’ to which he invites all manner of folk. Artists, writers, musicians and Bards, Healers, the highborn, priests and clerics of all sorts, philosophers and teachers—it really doesn’t matter, the one common denominator is that he thinks they are interesting. As a result, despite this not being a social climber’s event, there is a certain cachet to being invited. It means that Master Soren thinks you are intelligent and worth knowing. Not being invited, in the Palace circles, tends to carry with it the assumption that you are not very bright and uninteresting.”
Master Soren thinks I am worth knowing? Mags was so astonished by this thought that he felt a little stunned.
Caelen tapped on the desk to get his attention. “Listen to me, Mags, this does not mean that you need to go to this thing prepared to entertain people with your conversation. Just be yourself, even if that means you are going to be quiet and observe as you usually do. Master Soren saw you being yourself and was impressed. So keep doing just that.”
Mags blinked. “So—I should go?” he replied tentatively.
“If you want to. I think you will enjoy yourself. I believe you will be less intimidated than you think.” Herald Caelen rubbed his chin a moment. “If I were in your place, I would go, and not just once. There will be all sorts of people there, plenty for you to watch and listen to.”
Mags felt encouraged by the fact that Herald Caelen talked about “watching and listening” as opposed to doing any talking himself.
Then he thought of something.
“I ...” He flushed. “I cain’t. I ain’t got nothin’ good enough t’ wear. I’d be ... I’d make th’ Collegium look bad. Like we don’ care enough t’ dress right.”
He looked down at himself. The Trainee uniform was serviceable enough, but it had its share of places where it had been mended, and none of the others in his possession were much better. When he looked back up again, Herald Caelen was chewing his lip.
“Let me see what I can come up with,” he replied, and then smiled. “I think I have an idea.”
By this time it was well into the dinner hour; Mags went down to the kitchen to get something, not feeling much like eating in the dining hall. Paradoxically, it was very crowded, which might have made no sense until you realized that with the Trainees out of the way, workmen had been pulled in from all over Haven to help on the three Collegia, and part of the benefit of working over Midwinter holiday was being fed from the Palace. The food was no longer the same utilitarian fare of previous months. These workmen and women were being treated very well to compensate for losing part of their holiday. Breakfast had meats and eggs as well as the usual bread and butter and porridge with various things that could be added to it. Luncheon was meat pies and sausage rolls, or cold sliced meat, cheese, and lots of bread and pickles and onions—the ideal sort of thing for workmen in a hurry. Dinner was generally roasts and hams—something that only happened once a week or so when the Collegia were in session—which then went to serve as the next day’s luncheon. The kitchen fixed him up with a heaping plate that they put in a kind of shallow bucket with a lid on it to keep the heat in. This contrivance served very well indeed; his dinner was still piping hot when he got down to the stable.
Instead of taking it to his room, he made himself a little table and chair of a couple of bales of straw in Dallen’s stall, and fell to. :Wotcher think?:, he asked Dallen.
: I agree with Caelen. I think you should go. I think it is time that you experienced life for yourself.:
Mags stopped with the bite on his fork halfway to his mouth. He put it down. :Wotcher mean?: he asked cautiously.
:I mean ... you should be with people, and in a place, where you are, for once, doing something only for the pleasure of it. You did a bit of that today, going with me down to the Midwinter Market, but I would like it if you could do more of that: Dallen nosed his hair affectionately. :
You are an awfully solemn fellow. Do you know, I have never heard you laugh?:
Suddenly he felt strangely sad. :Ain’t had much reason to,: he responded gruffly.
:Not even here?: Dallen heaved a huge sigh. :No, you need not answer that. You have been so busy in trying to catch up to the rest of the Trainees, you have scarcely had time to breathe, much less learn how to laugh.:
Mags shrugged. :I’m ... good,:he replied, and bit down on a butter-filled bread roll in sheer bliss. :I got you, I got the best food I ever et, good stuff t’wear, warm bed ... I got more’n I ever dreamed I’d get. Dunno as I need t’ laugh.:
Dallen sighed again, but he said no more on the subject. Mags could tell, though, that he wanted to say more.
Like it’s his fault I ain’t like Bear an’ Lena ...
Quickly, he changed the subject, to a book he had been loaned by Caelen. Dallen seemed grateful for the change in topic. But as it happened, the book was genuinely engrossing, and Dallen knew a fair bit about the subject. Mags carried his plates back to the kitchen, then had a long, leisurely bath—something he rarely got to do. He reflected, as he soaked, on how far he had come. Bare moons ago, he had no idea that any such thing as hot baths existed. Now?
Huh ... it’s like I’m livin’ in what them priests all promised us if we was good.
Mags’ intention of being as lazy as possible didn’t last any longer than the first day. He was just too restless to sit on his hands. He first embarked on a massive cleaning and organizing of his own room. Then he went out to the salle and practiced alone against the pells. And with bow and arrow. Then again against the pells. Finally, he and Dallen rode a grueling obstacle course which left both of them sore and tired. He gave Dallen a good rubdown, got another hot bath and a change of uniform, then went looking for some food.
It was late by luncheon standards, and it looked as if a plague of rats had overrun the table where the luncheon foods were laid out. There were mostly empty plates and crumbs, although those crumbs would easily have filled up one of the smaller kiddies back at the mine. But he found pieces of cheese here and there, the ends of a couple of loaves, a forgotten piece of ham and a few hard-boiled eggs, and plenty of pickles. He felt well satisfied with his gleanings, and was about to carry it all back to his room. That was when Dallen Mindspoke him.
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