“Now, best fer ye t’do is sit down an’ have yerself a hard think,” he told her firmly. “Lookit how good this is fer ye. Ye got no pressure. Ye want t’ play fer folks, well, ye kin sit down jest ’bout anywhere an’ do it, like ye bin. An’ enjoy it wi’out havin’ t’ match up wi’ any’un else. So there. Git a wash. Make yersel’ pretty. Go take a nice corner an’ git a liddle audience. Make ’em happy. Be happy. Then come git dinner wi’ me an’ the rest and hev all yer favorites ’cause yer stomach ain’t in a knot, thinkin’ ’bout the concert.” He smiled wickedly. “An’ then—once yer fulla strawberry tart an’ cream, bacon-an’-egg pie, cake—then ye go by Farris. Betcha ’e’ll be green as grass, thinkin’ ’bout that concert an’ three solos, an’ ’e won’t hev been able t’eat. An’ ye smile at ’im, and wish ’im luck and mean it.”
She blinked at him. “But—why would I do that?“
“Why? Ye mean it, ’cause ye’re a good person. An’ ’cause if this ain’t his doin’, an’ ’e’s scared ’alf t’death over it, ’tis th’ right thing t’do.” He nodded as her eyes widened. “Aye, think on that. An’ if it is ’is doin’, an’ ’e’s full of spite an’ meanness, well, it’ll put ’im in knots. ’E won’t be thinkin’ yer a nice person. ’E’ll be thinkin’ whut ’e’d be doin’ in yer shoes. ’E’ll be mortal certain ye got somethin’ goin’, some way t’mess ’im up when ’e gets up there. ’E’ll be sweatin’ then, lookin’ ev’ which way fer trouble that ain’t gonna come. An’ the more it don’t come, the more ’e’ll look fer it. ’E’s th’ new lad ’round ’ere, an’ ’e knows ye’ll hev got allies—if ’e’s mean, ’e won’t hev no friends, but ’e’ll allus be getting’ allies, t’ pertect ’imself. Flunkies. Suck-ups. ’E’ll be lookin’ fer yers. An’ in a way it’s kinda worse fer ’im ’cause ye’re a pretty girl, an’ ye kin use thet t’get boys t’do thin’s for ye.”
“But I—” She looked shocked.
He interrupted her. “I know ye wouldn’, but if ’e’s mean, ’e won’t e’en be able t’ think like ye, an’ it’d be the first thin’ ’e’d think of. So . . . ye go be sweet an’ nice t’im, an no matter which way, ye win. If’n ’e’s nice, ye git a new friend, an’ ’e’ll be grateful, an’ ye’ll feel good ’cause ye was nice. If’n ’e’s mean, ye’ll make ’im miserable, an’ ye kin still feel good, ’cause ye was nice an’ showed ye was better nor ’im. An’ look ye—ye gotta keep bein’ nice. Cause if ’e’s mean, ye cain’t let ’im win by makin’ ye miserable nor as mean as ’im. See?”
She nodded slowly. “I do see. You’re right, Mags.” She laughed a little. “And that is why you are a Herald Trainee, and I’m not.”
He snorted, but secretly he felt a little pleased. It felt as if this was the first time he had actually put it all together—what he was supposed to do and how he was supposed to do it. The being a Herald, that is.
And for the first time, he didn’t need Dallen to tell him he was right, because it all felt right.
“Shoo,” he said, with a chuckle. “I ’spect t’ see ye out there wi’ a smile an’ a audience. Bear’s prolly safe ’nough till after dinner. So ye stick wi’ ’im. ’e gits called, ye foller, so’s ye kin be there after. Aye?”
“Aye,” she replied, and got up. She brushed off her skirt and walked resolutely back to Bardic Collegium. Mags watched her go and nodded with satisfaction.
::Pocket pie?:: Dallen asked hopefully.
He laughed. ::Aye, ye greedy git. I’ll find ye a pocket pie.::
::Good. Make it two.::
3
By the time dinner came, Dallen had been stuffed with pocket pies. Mags had found a herd of younglings hanging around the door to the Companion’s Stable, watching the door yearningly. He made it known that many of the Companions from the Kirball game were inside recuperating, that they were all partial to pocket pies, and that as long as he was there, they were welcome to come in and offer treats. The kiddies shot off like so many barn swallows chasing insects and came back with their hands full of pies.
::You know you’ve been nominated for the status of a minor god, don’t you?:: Dallen told him as he cleaned himself up a second time. Even without doing anything other than stand about answering Kirball questions or questions about being a Heraldic Trainee, he had been sweating, and he wasn’t going to change into something nice without a second wash.
A second wash! Until he’d come here, he’d never had any kind of a wash except by accident when he got rained on. On a hot day like today he not only didn’t mind a cold bath in the pump, he preferred it.
::I’ll take it,:: Mags chuckled. ::Wouldn’ mind bein’ a god. Ye kin hev m’ four an’ twenny handmaids lay out me good uniform. Take it back, ye kin send twa out here t’ wash m’back.::
He heard Dallen’s snorting laugh even outside. ::If I sent even one, you’d be blushing so hard they’d think you’d fallen into a vat of scarlet dye.::
::Oh, thet’s right. I keep fergettin’; ye’re th’ ladykiller, not me.:: He toweled off his hair vigorously. ::There. Reckon I won’t offend no ’un’s nose now, ’cause now I don’ smell like you.::
::I take back all the nice things I said about you.::
::Thet’s cause now yer stuffed too fulla pie t’move.:: He let himself into his room in the stable and got out his “good” uniform. Not his “best”—that was for fancy occasions like the special parties that Master Soren held. Or for use on the remote chance he would be required to attend some Court function or other, but that was about as likely to happen as for Dallen to sprout wings and fly.
This outfit was something new, something the Dean had decided he needed and had again found among the stored Trainee uniforms outgrown by highborn Trainees. “Best” was far more suitable for winter, being of warm materials. “Good” was for summer. The tunic and trews were light moleskin rather than canvas; they felt like soft leather but were thinner and cooler. The shirt was a very light linen of the same sort that highborn and wealthy ladies used for chemises. The boots were light leather, glove-weight. The tunic and collar and cuffs had very subtle embroidery at the hem—Lydia had told him it was called a featherstitch.
Everyone would be wearing some form of “good” clothing tonight at dinner. Most of them, except for the Bardic Trainees, would not be wearing uniforms. This was not a Collegium dinner, this was a family affair, and now that the Trainees had spent a full week with their families seeing them only in uniform, it was time for them to dress and act as part of their families for a few hours. Everyone with family visiting would be seated with them rather than among their fellows.
Dinner would also not be in the dining hall; it would be outside, in the gardens. It was the only way to accommodate all the visitors, though anyone who was not a relative was being gently ushered out the gates right now, since the big concert would be held down in Haven itself.
Mags wasn’t sure he was going to attend that. He would have gone if Lena was playing a solo but now . . .
Well, he’d see how he felt after dinner.
He ambled up to the Palace, noting that the noise had died down considerably and that a small army of people was busy cleaning up the grounds. Not that they needed much cleaning; people had been very respectful, but there were places where flowers had been trampled, things had been spilled or upset, bits of ornamentation or half-eaten treats discarded. Given how fast the folks were working, though, it wouldn’t be a candlemark before everything was set to rights. Finally, now that the sun was westering, the worst of the heat was over, and those fitful breezes had turned into a nice, soft zephyr of a wind. The picnic was actually going to be a pleasure.
He heard footsteps on the path behind him and recognized them immediately. Only one person he knew walked with that particular care, choosing each step with an eye to making as little noise as possible without actually sneaking. “We’d better hurry, or everything decent will have been snatched up,” said the King’s Own, Herald Nikolas, with a chuckle, as he came up even with M
ags. “I swear, you would think these people had never had a decent meal in their lives. They’ve been devouring everything in sight all week.”
If you had to pick Nikolas out of a crowd, you would never be able to. His hair and eyes were indeterminate brownish colors, his face was so unmemorable it practically fled from your memory the moment you looked away. Part of this was just Nikolas himself, but most of it was skill, a skill he was training Mags in with particular intensity. And only with a handful of people would he have let his guard down enough to have made a remark that was something other than innocuous.
Since Mags now knew very well that when a Trainee came from a family that was living in poverty, the Crown compensated them quite generously for the loss of a working pair of hands, he laughed. No Trainee from any of the three Collegia had to endure guilt, knowing how good his life had become while his family struggled. So—no, no one who had turned up here was actually starving most of the time.
“Might be, bein’ as it’s here at the Palace, makes ’em think food mun somehow be better,” he offered. “Might jest be ’cause celebratin’ means food t’workin’ folk. But most likely ’cause ’tis stuff they never seed afore, an’ figger never t’see again.” He scratched his head. “I mind when I got ’ere, I didn’ even know what t’call ’alf uv what they gi’e me.”
“Very likely. Care to eat with me and Amily, Mags?” his mentor offered. “Bear and Lena too, of course. I—suggested to the Healers that they should keep Bear’s brother away from him for now. There’s no way to keep a confrontation from happening—family has rights, of course—but there is no reason to ruin the lad’s day, or a triumphant week for that matter. Tomorrow will be soon enough. At the moment, I don’t believe Bear even knows his brother is here.”
Mags heaved a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said sincerely. “Thet yer doin’, sir?”
“In part, in part. I’d like you and Bear to come with us to the concert as well.” Nikolas sighed a little. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, you and I, and this will probably be the last chance you’ll have for a lot of social time with your friends. You and I have a project we will have to undertake that is going to occupy every bit of your free time and probably some of your class time as well.”
Mags felt as alert as if someone had doused him with a pail of ice cold water. He waited for Nikolas to elaborate.
But it seemed he was going to have to wait. “I am not going to discuss it with you right now,” Nikolas continued. “You might as well enjoy this last truly free day without having to think about much of anything. Just remember the relaxation exercises you have learned, put this aside, and enjoy the evening.”
Mags nodded. He had learned a very great deal from one of the Healers lately, on Nikolas’s advice, and one of those things was a series of mental exercises that allowed him to put something out of his mind and not merely appear relaxed, but actually be relaxed. It had made him that much more valuable to Nikolas, as someone with the ability to fit in and appear casual in virtually any situation, because he actually was relaxed and casual. The only time he really couldn’t use the exercises was on the Kirball field.
“Should we go git Amily, sir?” he asked. It was a good question, since Amily was so lame as to be virtually crippled. The accident that had taken her mother’s life had broken her leg in several places, no one where they were had known what to do, and by the time she’d seen a Healer, the bones had already started to mend all wrong.
Wonder if that ain’t part’a why Bear’s so hot on his healin’ kits. Anyone with the basic knowledge that Bear was providing would have known at least how to immobilize Amily’s leg in such a way that, though she might have been lamed, she would not have been crippled.
“No, she has a place set up for us,” Nikolas replied. “We just need to collect some food and round up Bear and Lena. Speaking of which, there is Bear, just packing up.”
They had, by this time, reached the row of Healers’ teaching booths. Bear was putting the last of his demonstration kit back together and talking animatedly with a middle-aged woman. When he finished, just as they neared, he handed the kit to the woman, to her surprise and voluble thanks. He turned in time to see them approaching and waved. The woman took this as her signal to tender her thanks once more and make an exit, taking the kit, clutched to her chest, with her.
“Midwife,” Bear said, without being asked. “Been here every day askin’ good, sensible questions. Reckoned I could trust her with it. Heyla, Herald Nikolas. You kidnappin’ Mags?”
“And you and Lena if you know—ah, there she is!” Lena appeared as if conjured, though Mags had the notion she’d been somewhere nearby, just out of sight, waiting for Bear to be finished so that she could “just happen” to come by as the dinner bell rang.
Which it did at that moment. “Your timing is impeccable, Lena,” Nikolas told her, with a little bow that made her giggle. “I have orders from Amily to round up the lot of you so that you can make sure to get some of all her favorites from the repast on offer. We are not accepting your refusal.” He did not mention Lena’s father, nor the concert. Nikolas had been a Heraldic Trainee at the same time that Marchand had been at Bardic; he had been the one who uncovered one of Marchand’s misdeeds that had earned him a terrible (but fully justified) rebuke. He knew very well that Marchand would have left Lena to wait for him in vain even if he hadn’t been involved with setting up the concert.
I’m thinkin’ might be Nikolas oughta get that god-hat Dallen was offerin’.
“Aha!” Bear said, pushing up his lenses, which were always sliding down his nose. “Now the truth comes out.”
“You have caught me out.” Nikolas made a mournful face. “I am too old and decrepit to dash from table to table for my daughter’s pleasure.”
Mags laughed. “All right, Grandad,” he said impudently. “We’ll do yer dashin fer ye.”
Nikolas shook an imaginary cane at him.
Someone—very possibly other Heralds, for Amily was much beloved—had set Nikolas’s daughter up very nicely on the lawn nearest the entrance to the King’s Own’s quarters. She had sole possession of the one substantial tree there, which provided plenty of shade, and was seated on a comfortable pile of cushions against the trunk. There was a huge blanket, easily big enough for a dozen people to picnic on, spread out in front of her, more cushions stacked to one side, and a big basket which presumably contained plates and cups. “Hail, oh queen of summer.” Bear intoned as they reached her, making a comical bow. “We, your loyal subjects, await your command.”
Amily was, in Mags’ opinion, prettier than Lena, though her beauty was so quiet and contained that hardly any of it was obvious. Like her father, she had brown hair and eyes that were of no particular shade—more like all of them, mixed. She shared his knack for blending in with the background when she chose to—though right now, she wasn’t choosing to, and her lively expression when she saw them all made Mags smile. She blushed a little and laughed. “Well, my wish is for you all to get us food! You’re the biggest, Bear, so you and Papa get our main course. Mags, you get the other dishes, and, Lena, you get the desserts,” she said, but in such a way that you clearly understood she was grateful.
Mags dashed off, knowing exactly what it was he was going to be looking for. He had been snooping at the preparations, so he knew which of her favorites were going to be served up.
The cooks were more than prepared for people who were getting food for more than just themselves and had provided “baskets” hastily sewn together out of coils of grass, not intended to last past the picnic. And most of the food was intended to be eaten with the fingers. Mags returned in triumph laden with “baskets” heaped with vegetables in puff-pastry, a nice selection of cheeses, little individual loaves of bread, a clever “cup” of butter made of a cabbage leaf, and raw vegetables cut up bite-sized with a hollowed-out cabbage holding something to dip them in. He was the first to return, and Amily was laying out plates from the basket. As he p
ut down his bounty, one of the Collegium servants left a pair of pitchers with water beading up on the glazed surface beside Amily.
Nikolas and Bear returned next, with cold ham, a bacon-and-egg pie, and a whole cold, roast chicken. Lena was very partial to ham, but Amily preferred chicken; Mag was amused to see that Bear had the chicken and Nikolas the ham. Last of all came Lena, with a “basket” full of pocket pies, honeyballs and strawberry- or custard-filled tarts.
Quickly the food was distributed, and there ensued contented silence, broken only by such quiet sentences as “Don’ ’spose there be more’a them mushrooms?” and “Anyone want ham?” Mags, for one, hadn’t eaten since breakfast as he didn’t like to have more than a bit of soup just before a game, and he was fairly certain Bear hadn’t taken a break to eat all day. Between the two of them, they managed to inhale anything that no one else wanted, and when the last crumb was gone and no one wanted to send them off for another round, they reclined on cushions with identical expressions of satisfaction.
Nikolas looked at them with incredulity. “Where do you put all of that?” he demanded, as the girls giggled. “I am quite certain the human stomach cannot possibly contain everything you put into yours.”
“They’re growing lads, Niko,” said the Dean of the Herald’s Collegium, Herald Caelen, strolling up and sitting down on a corner of the blanket. “Don’t you remember when we could eat like that?” He rubbed his middle with a mournful expression. “No more, alas. Too many honeyballs and I will look like one.”
The breeze stirred the leaves of the tree above them; a page came by to collect the baskets, with another to pick up the dishes and carry them away. Nikolas sighed. “What do you want, Caelen?” he asked with resignation, echoing Mags’ sudden suspicion that Caelen was not here by accident. “You would never drop yourself down on my picnic without a ‘by your leave’ unless you wanted something.”
Caelen pretended to look offended. “It isn’t what I want, it’s what you want. Your little project with Mags will count toward his year in the field; the Circle approved.”
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