So, all things considered . . . he found himself quite content to scrub dishes here in the Collegium kitchens, in good, hot water, with plenty of soap, conscious of a full stomach and the cheerful chatter of his fellow Trainees. Knowing that when he went to bed tonight it would be in a real bed, and he would sleep without being kicked awake, and . . . he just found himself marveling all over again at the change in his life.
There were not as many dishes to be washed as he had anticipated, although there were plenty to keep him and the other Trainees busy until sunset. He was freed just in time to run down to the stables and change into his other Trainee “best.”
When he had first started coming out of his shell here at the Collegium, he had made the accidental acquaintance of Master Soren, advising him that a gem he intended to buy for his niece Lydia was flawed. Soren had invited Mags to his Midwinter open house, and when Dean Caelen was advised of this, the Dean had known he had nothing in the way of clothing that would pass muster on such an occasion.
Fortunately, there were easy remedies for this.
All Trainees were supposed to wear the same uniform. But, of course, there were Trainees who were highborn, and wearing the common uniform at something outside the Collegium could make them stand out in a way that was flattering neither to them nor to the Collegium. So wealthy or highborn Trainees were permitted to have uniforms made of finer materials, to be worn only outside of the Collegia—provided that those uniforms went into the common pool once they were outgrown.
So Mags had been given one of those. He had more than one set now, a couple for winter that were made of heavier velvet and fine wool, and some of lightweight and supple leather and fine linen for warmer weather.
And, of course, thanks to the wedding, now every Trainee had one especially good outfit of formal Grays that were the equivalent of formal Whites—but Mags’ new wedding gear was very much in need of cleaning, so his second set would have to do. Any deficiencies in it would be covered by the fact that it would only be seen by lantern and torchlight.
:Go get Amily, would you?: he begged Dallen, as he cleaned up and changed. :I don’ want her tired out, and she’s done a mort of walkin’ these past three days.:
:Not only will I do that, I’ll make sure that her father insists she ride me,: Dallen replied. :We’ll meet you at the stands.:
Several grandstands had been set up beside the river for this procession, but, of course, the best were in the middle and were reserved for the King, Queen, Heir, and Princess, and their respective entourages. Mags had only just learned that the term “Court” did not actually refer to what he had thought it did—the collection of highborn and wealthy folks who thronged the rooms of the Palace by day, some of whom actually lived in the Palace, some of whom lived in their great manors outside the walls of the Palace and Collegium up here on the Hill, and some of whom lived far from Haven and only put in an appearance in winter, when the business of running their estates was fundamentally over.
Most people used “Court” to mean all those people, but it was not entirely accurate. There were—or would be—four Courts now. There had been two. The King’s was composed of his gentlemen, his advisors, and his officials. It was almost entirely male. The Queen had her own Court, much smaller, consisting of her ladies-in-waiting. Now that he was back in Haven and taking his place at the King’s side, the Heir had his as well, consisting of his gentlemen and friends, although he himself actually belonged to the King’s Court. And now the new Princess would have a Court of her own, smaller than the Queen’s, though she was also part of the Queen’s Court. Of all these four Courts, the Prince’s was the one that was most under the control of its head; no one expected the Prince to have anyone in his Court except his particular friends. In fact, it would have been shocking to discover that Kingdom business of any sort might be negotiated with the Prince. He was supposed to remain his father’s subordinate until the King died or handed over the reins. The other three Courts, however, were very much subject, not to the wills of the King, Queen, or Princess, but to politics.
Court also meant the formal session held every day during which the King made pronouncements and held judgment on matters of state and between his courtiers.
Mags had never quite realized it before, but most of the people who hung about the Palace were male; although the ladies-in-waiting might have their entire families here if their husbands were part of the King’s Court, that was rare, and the Gentlemen of the King’s Court and the Prince’s Court generally were on their own or had only their eldest sons with them. This made the place a very desirable hunting ground for any mother hoping to marry off daughters and for daughters wishing to marry well. So positions in the Queen’s Court, and in the new Princess’ Court, were greatly desired.
All of this had gone right past him. Maybe it had just been because he was male, and males (even the ones in Court!) were often oblivious to such things. It was Amily who had introduced him to these realities in the weeks before the wedding, while she was recovering from her surgery. It had made his head reel, to think of all of this white-hot jousting and jockeying that had been going on under his nose without him ever being aware of it.
“The Courts are like a swan,” she had said with a chuckle. “Serene on the surface, with furious activity below.”
So tonight he and Amily were going to be actually useful to Lydia. There would be twice as many young ladies in the stands around the Princess than there were places in her Court—quite literally, because they would all have rooms in her section of the Palace, and there were only so many rooms to be had. It was true that there were young ladies who would be part of her Court who would be living in their parents’ stately mansions outside the walls, but they would not be her actual ladies-in-waiting. It was the ones who would be living together in the close confines of the Palace walls, sharing rooms, that were the concern. He and Amily were going to have to try to help Lydia choose a set of ladies-in-waiting who were unlikely to ignite a firestorm of infighting.
Thank goodness that breeze was still blowing. At least he wouldn’t have to try to decide if a flare of temper was due to being overheated and overstimulated, or due to genuine ill will.
He arrived at dusk as the lanterns and torches were being lit. There were pages at the ends of the grandstands to show the guests to their proper seats. One of them caught his eye and motioned to him; Mags went to the boy. “Amily’ll be along—ah, she’s here,” he said, catching a glimpse of Dallen coming through the crowd, which parted to let a Companion through. He lifted her down off Dallen’s back, rather than cause her to crease her gown, which suited her admirably. For once, she wasn’t dressed to hide, she was dressed to fit in. In this case, to fit in with Lydia’s potential ladies. Her gown was of the finest linen, soft and supple and, as he was aware, an extremely expensive fabric. It was hard to tell exactly what color it was in the torchlight, which made everything look yellowish, but he thought it was a dark gold. It had been trimmed in woven bands in a geometric pattern, and a wider version of the same served her as a belt that passed twice around her waist with two lengths depending from a knot in front.
She had a flower wreath with ribbons at the back around her dark hair instead of a jeweled filet, as did many of the ladies, and Mags thought she looked wonderful.
The page took them to their place, at the back and top of the grandstand. Lydia was at the front, of course, with some of the more important of her guests and potential ladies, but also with some of her closest friends. From the back Mags and Amily had a fine view not only of the river but also of everyone in front of them.
He relaxed and eased his shields down just slightly. Not enough to be bombarded by thoughts, just enough to get telling, strong fragments.
As the stands filled, he and Amily watched the young ladies below them while appearing to be engrossed in each other. Most of the young ladies
were, in fact, watching the young men in the Prince’s entourage rather than each other. A few were actually eyeing some of the older men in the King’s train with some covert avidity. One of them, somewhat to his amazement, was openly trying to flirt with one of the Guildmasters, who was easily old enough to be her grandfather.
:She knows what she’s doing,: Dallen said dryly. :Large title, small fortune, and her brother will get all of it. She reckons to be a young, wealthy widow, and she supposes a few years of serving an old man is a small price to pay.:
Well, that made sense, he supposed, especially since very few marriages at this level of wealth or title were love matches. And it wasn’t his job—thanks be to the gods—to pick out who was and was not suitable to be one of Lydia’s ladies. It was only his job to observe and report.
Amily knew them all by name and was making careful notes, covertly, in a little book that hung from her belt. Mags, who did not know them at all (except for Lydia’s friends), murmured his observations to her.
And somehow in all of this, they even managed to enjoy the lighted tableaus on the barges and the music coming from the bridge. Some were scenes from legend or history, others were just general “scenes”—like a pair of shepherd and shepherdess lovers and their sheep, or gods among clouds. The barges probably looked tawdry in daylight and up close, but at night and lit only by their lanterns, they looked magical.
And the music was certainly wonderful, with a special short piece for each tableau.
It was, however, a very long pageant, and it came at the end of three very long and (for Mags at least) very active days. By the time it was over, he knew he was not going to be among those who were having one last loft party—and Amily herself was yawning.
“I think ye’d better go back by Dallen,” he whispered to her, and she was so tired she just nodded.
“I think I am going to be able to stay awake just long enough to write down my notes in a way that someone other than myself can read them,” she confessed.
He stole a kiss under cover of getting her on Dallen’s back, and a second when she leaned down to bid him good night. The second kiss was quite long, and rather warm, and kept him in a pleasant state of satisfaction right until he opened his windows for the night breeze, lay down, and closed his eyes.
And when he opened them again—it was morning.
Morning and, he realized with a touch of regret as he rousted himself out of bed, back to classes and the regular schedule of the Collegium.
* * *
“Well,” Bear said three days later at luncheon, leaning over the table in a conspiratorial manner as the others helped themselves to fruit mixed with a little beaten cream. “You’ve had time to think about it. So?”
Mags didn’t have to ask what Bear meant. And Bear was right, he had had time to think about it. He’d even asked Dallen’s opinion a second time. And he thought he had an answer.
“Ye’re still set on this, aye?” he asked.
Bear nodded.
“Elope.”
If he hadn’t been trying so hard to keep his face sober, he’d have laughed aloud at the expression on Bear’s. He looked as utterly dumbfounded as if he had been presented with a singing pig. “What?” Bear stammered, finally.
“Elope,” Mags repeated. “Dallen says ’tis easier t’ask fergiveness than permission. Ye know that priest down in Haven what tends to the poor folk—ye help him all th’ time. Ye know he’ll help ye in turn. You an’ Lena just go down there an’ ask him t’marry ye, an’ I bet he will, without much question. Then ye come back up here an’ tell the Deans ye’re married, an’ what ye intend t’do with yerselves. They’ll see ye thought it all out, an’ it’s mortal hard t’ unmarry someone that’s been priest-married if they don’ want t’be unmarried. So there. Elope. Then ask fergiveness.”
He sat back. Bear remained where he was, blinking blankly for a good long time.
Then he got up without a word and went out.
* * *
“I need you to come with me.”
Mags looked up from the book he was studying and blinked in surprise to see Bear standing next to him as he sat at his table, trying to puzzle out some sort of complicated etiquette.
How had Bear managed to sneak up on him?
Granted, he had all the windows and the door to his room wide open for the breeze, and granted, there was plenty of sound from both outside and inside the stable to cover any footsteps. But—
:Don’t concern yourself. First of all, you know I am right outside your door. Second, you sensed someone coming, recognized the mind as Bear’s, and didn’t even break your concentration,: Dallen advised him. :Don’t worry, your instincts are just as sharp as ever.:
Oh. Well, all—
“I need you to come with me,” Bear insisted again, oblivious to the silent dialogue going on between Mags and Dallen. “Right now, please.” He fidgeted a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Mags was using a single candle with a clever reflector that concentrated all the light on his book, so the peculiar lighting actually made Bear look a little sinister.
“Might help if ye told me why,” Mags replied mildly, shutting his book. “I do got studyin’, unlike some folks that’s got no problem with book stuff.”
“Lena and I . . . we’re trying to do what you said to do, but Father Poul wants to talk to you,” Bear said, a bit desperately.
Mags sighed and shoved his book aside. “Now? Really? I don’t got leave t’be down in the city late tonight.” It wasn’t late yet . . . the sun was barely down. But if he had to spend any time at all down in Haven, it would be late when he got back, and it might be after the time when Trainees were supposed to be abed. “And I don’t reckon ye want me to go to Nikolas or Caelen an ’splain why I wanta be down in Haven tonight. It’s all right fer you, you got leave to be down there any time,” he added, a little crossly. Granted, he had an extraordinary amount of freedom now, but he was, by nature, still cautious about everything. When there wasn’t immediate danger, or when he wasn’t acting directly on Nikolas’ orders, he just didn’t want to chance getting into trouble. His body remembered what “trouble” meant, all too well, and even if he knew in his head that no one was going to beat him half to death here for an infraction, his instincts were still set by his life in the mines.
:I’ll tell Rolan that Father Poul sent Bear for you,: Dallen said unexpectedly. And at Mags’ start of surprise, the Companion added :What? It’s not a lie. It’s just not the entire truth.:
Well . . . that was interesting. So . . . a Companion was willing to occasionally tell a partial truth?
Then again, Dallen didn’t seem to be the run-of-the-mill sort of Companion, if there was such a thing.
:Are you going with me?: Mags asked. A good question, since having Dallen along would make it easier to pass the Gate Guards without question. Since the night that the assassin had tried to burn down the Companions’ stable with all of them in it, an insect couldn’t get over the walls without a challenge, so sneaking in and out was completely out of the question.
A mental snort of disdain. :Of course I am, otherwise it will take you all night. Father Poul won’t think twice about keeping a boy as long as he likes, even a Herald Trainee, if Poul thinks he needs to question him in detail. He will think twice about keeping you if I am there to insist it is time to go back. Remember, he is used to impulsive younglings colluding with each other to do something foolish. Normally he would trust Bear and Lena, and he’d trust you, but in his eyes, this probably looks very foolish indeed and could potentially bring a great deal of trouble on all of you.:
Mags sighed again. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “But if you wasn’t my best friend . . .”
Bear didn’t let him finish that statement, hustling him up out of his chair and
out the door. Mags didn’t bother with tack on Dallen, not for a little jaunt like this. He mounted Dallen’s back without any effort at all, just putting his hands on Dallen’s shoulders and rump, hopping up, and swinging his leg over, then leaned down and offered Bear a hand, pulling his friend up to sit behind him. Bear took a double handful of Mags’ short-sleeved tunic to steady himself. Mags glanced back to make sure he was secure.
Bear’s dumbfounded expression made him pause. “What?” he asked.
“You’ve gotten strong . . .” Bear said slowly. “You still look like anybody could take you, but you’ve gotten strong.”
Mags just shook his head, twined his left hand loosely in Dallen’s mane, and patted Dallen’s neck as they cantered out of the gates and down the road that would take them into Haven. “All the Kirball, all the roof-runnin’, an’ yer just now noticin’? Bear, all this business with yer Pa an’ Lena’s has made yer mind go soft.”
Bear let go of his tunic long enough to smack him lightly in the back of the head.
It was well after lamp-lighting that they reached Father Poul’s little temple. It was a walled area in one of the poorest areas of the town, with a front courtyard that was open at all hours to all comers. Mags was not entirely certain which gods Poul represented, since after a while they all seemed to blur together to him. The important thing was that he and his brother priests administered to some of the most poverty-stricken and desperate people in Haven—and that Bear often came down here to help them.
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