:Hold out your arms, silly,: Kalira whispered in his mind, as he stood there awkwardly and feeling completely at a loss for what to do or say next. Clumsily, he obeyed her, and that did, indeed seem to be what they were waiting for. They both embraced him, just as awkwardly as he.
The embrace didn't last long, but he felt much better after they broke it. He even managed a tentative smile for them.
"So. You're going to be a Herald, then." His father rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, and looked from him to Kalira and back again.
"Not immediately," he told them both, and scrubbed the toe of his gray boot in the dirt a little. "I have an awful lot to learn first."
"Still." His father smiled slowly; his mother didn't exactly beam at him, but she certainly gave him a healthy dose of silent approval. "A Herald! We're proud of you, Lan, that we are! It's hard to think of you being a Herald, but there you are in your uniform, and with your Companion and all—"
"Her name is Kalira," he replied proudly, and Kalira stepped to his side and nodded her head to both of them.
:Suggest that you all walk in the garden,: Kalira prompted.
"Why don't we all take a walk while we talk," he echoed. "There in the garden—" He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the Palace gardens with their ornamental torches.
His father gaped. "Us? Walk in the Royal gardens?" he stammered.
"I don't see any reason why not," Pol put in casually. "That's what they're there for." He turned his attention pointedly to Lan. "A walk for about a candlemark wouldn't be too taxing for you, and I have some things I must do that will keep me for about that long. I'll meet you back here when I'm finished; you go show your parents where you'll be living for the next couple of years."
Herald Pol took himself off as quickly as his daughter had—little doubt where she'd gotten that trait from—and Lan was left alone with his parents and Kalira.
He took a deep breath, and stood up as straight as he could manage.
"Well," he said to them. "Shall we go?"
ELEVEN
WITHIN a week, false summer had collapsed, and autumn returned with a vengeance. There were no more afternoons sitting in the garden for Lan, but Pol found plenty of things to occupy his time. A storm in the night blew most of the leaves away, and Pol began to look forward to the day when he could move Lavan to the Collegium; his own walks to and from Healer's were bleak and uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, he tested Lan on a variety of subjects to figure out what classes he needed to take. One area surprised him; the boy knew the maps of Valdemar as thoroughly as any full Herald, and how to dead reckon by the stars or sun equally well. All in all, Lavan Chitward was no farther behind or ahead than any other Trainee his age.
On a cold, gray, windy day, Pol helped his young Trainee move into his room at Herald's Collegium.
A carter had brought a box of Lan's personal gear the day before, a luxury many of the Trainees never had. Lan was inclined to tire more quickly than he thought he should, largely because he attempted more than he was ready for, but the Healers were confident that he was ready for the active regime of classes and training. A stack of new uniforms and other basic necessities waited for him in his new room, and Pol had walked him all over the Collegium the previous day. He met Pol at the door to the gardens, and the two of them bent to the wind and plodded cheerfully enough to his new home.
A ground-floor room had just fallen vacant, and Pol had quickly claimed it for Lan before anyone else did. The window opened onto a sheltered nook of the garden, so if it became necessary at any time, Kalira could even be temporarily housed there, right within reach. The view was somewhat restricted, but he didn't think that Lan would mind.
In fact, Kalira watched them with great interest through the window as Pol introduced Lan to his new quarters, with the still-packed box in the middle of the room. It was very much an average room, depersonalized by the removal of the belongings of the previous occupant who was now on her first circuit in company with an older, experienced mentor. A small but adequate fireplace in the center of the right wall held a cheerful, clean-burning fire of seasoned oak, protected behind a metal fire screen. The furnishings were entirely utilitarian: bed, desk, chair, bookcase, and wardrobe. The bed was tucked in beneath the window with a pile of Trainee Grays and linen piled atop it, the wardrobe and desk arranged on the left wall. The bookcase, which had done double duty for the previous Trainee as a nightstand, was still next to the bed. Lan's class books were already in it, and a candlestick atop it. There was one oil lamp on the mantle, and a second on the desk. The walls themselves were whitewashed plaster—freshly whitewashed for the new tenant. White canvas curtains covered the window, and when pulled back, hid the shutters that could be closed against the worst storms, although in this sheltered corner it wasn't likely that Lan would ever use them. The youngster looked around, and smiled slowly.
"I like this place, Herald Pol," Lan said. "I like it better than my room in my parents' house; this one has a view. All I saw from my old room was the wall of the next house. Better than that—it's a view with trees in it."
"Good, I'm pleased to hear it," Pol replied. After learning just how well-to-do Lan's parents were, he'd been a bit apprehensive about the boy's reaction to what was a very small and unexceptional room. Some of the highborn Trainees reacted poorly to being assigned to live in something that was the size of a closet by their normal standards.
On the other hand, the largest houses in the well-off Merchants' Quarter were not likely to come vacant, which left a newly-wealthy merchant the option of either taking a relatively smaller house in the fashionable district or building a bigger one in an unfashionable district where no one of any note would ever see it. His parents must have opted for the former.
"Your schedule is on the desk there, and a map of the Collegium—" Pol nodded toward the small stack of notes resting on the surface. "I've already given you the tour, so you know where everything is, and you'll start in your classes tomorrow. Don't hesitate to ask anyone you might meet for directions or help, and if you need me, you know where to find me."
He wanted to encourage independence in the youngster, and the best way to do that was to leave him to his own devices before he developed any dependencies.
:He'll be fine,: Satiran said. :He's got my daughter, after all.:
"Thank you, Herald Pol," Lan said, and offered another of his slow, careful smiles. He opened the door himself, and waited politely for the Herald to take himself out, a good sign that the Trainee was ready to stand on his own feet.
Which was a very good thing, since Pol had a class to teach. No matter what disaster transpired, no matter who descended on the Collegium, the classes went on.
*
WHEN Pol closed the door behind him, Lan turned his attention back to organizing his new room, although with Kalira right outside it already felt more like home than the place he had inhabited since arriving in Haven. The one thing that he didn't have to put up with was his mother's hand at decoration. She wanted reds and yellows, relentlessly cheerful colors that irritated him rather than raising his spirits.
He wasn't particularly neat by nature, but he didn't want to start things off with a bad impression, so he quickly stowed away all the clothing in the wardrobe, the towels on the wardrobe's shelf, and made the bed with the linens he found folded there. Virtually everything was spotless but showed some wear, and that was oddly comforting, suggesting that no one was treated with any more deference than anyone else here.
Once the things on the bed were put away, he reflected, looking at the clothing hanging in his wardrobe, that he was going to have a little difficulty getting used to wearing something other than faded black. At least it wasn't as grindingly cheerful as the things his mother tried to make him wear. And as a color, gray wasn't that bad... though he still couldn't get his mind wrapped around the notion of himself in pure white. The uniforms were comfortable, and the boots, so he'd discovered, were the
one things that were made exactly to the measure of every Trainee. Ill-fitting footwear was worse than none at all in the active life of Herald or Trainee, and boots were never handed down. He had one pair on his feet now, and two more in various stages of construction in the cobbler's workshop.
That left the still-unpacked crate in the center of the room, which by the weight had been stuffed with far more than the few things he had requested. :At least it won't be clothing,: Kalira pointed out mischievously. :No matter what they've sent you, even your mother won't dare send Bardic or Healer colors to a Heraldic Trainee.:
He untied the latch, reflecting that the sturdy wooden crate itself would be useful for storage, and threw the top back on its hinges.
"Huh!" he said in surprise, examining the wealth of blankets and a down comforter that graced the top few layers. They were all brand new—and, thank the gods, in reasonable, muted earth colors, mostly shades of gray and gray-brown. But he hadn't been brought up in a cloth-merchant's household without recognizing that these bedclothes were made of the very finest of materials. The comforter was stuffed with pure goosedown and protected with a soft cover of wool plush. The blankets were woven of chirra wool, patterned in wide stripes and checks.
He wondered what had prompted such generosity—not that he was going to object! With a bed placed right underneath a window, the more warm coverings he had, the better. Still, he doubted that his parents indulged even themselves in such luxury; such things were for the highborn and the astronomically wealthy. Granted, there was a great deal of profit figured into the prices of such luxuries, but that didn't make them cheap, even for a cloth merchant.
"Maybe they're trying to make up for not listening to me," he muttered to himself.
:A guilt offering? That's certainly possible,: Kalira agreed. :In fact, I think that's probably the answer. They were not very apt at apologizing the other day; this may be their apology. At least it came in a useful form!:
He removed the bedcoverings in heavy armloads and laid them on his plain, rough-woven linen coverlet, then tackled the next layer. Cushions, this time, three of them that fluffed up fat and soft, and as luxurious as the blankets. Then a lighter bedspread of ramie and linen, also new, probably for summer. Then, at last, the books and personal keepsakes he had asked for.
After distributing these objects on desk, window ledge, and wardrobe top, he turned back to the box again. The one final layer proved to be rugs and small tapestries—geometric designs rather than pictures, something he recognized as weavings from the southwestern Border. At first he laughed at the idea of putting things up on the walls; wasn't that just like his mother to want to priss things up for him?
:Wait now, look around a bit: Kalira cautioned. :It looks like the inside of the room at Healer's—are you sure you want all that white wall around you when it's nothing but snow outside?:
He considered that for a moment, and reluctantly agreed that she was right. With the help of a hammer and a few nails, the tapestries did a lot to soften the hard whiteness of the walls, and the two rugs fit nicely by the side of the bed and in front of the hearth.
When he was finally done, he broke into a surprised smile and a quiet laugh. Now this was more like it! Somehow, despite almost all of this being a guilt gift and brand new, it was closer to his real room in Alderscroft than he'd ever expected. His old room had been much like this, without any sign of his mother's meddling hand. The real difference was that there the bedcoverings and things had been old and worn; commonplace, or scavenged from the attic, and the walls hadn't needed anything, since they were already hung with the old tapestries that had been there for generations.
:Makes me wish that I was human so I could curl up by your fire!: Kalira chuckled. :That's quite a cozy little nest you've built for yourself!:
Just then, the bell for luncheon sounded, and he started a little at the sound. This wasn't a small handbell, it came from a bell tower on the roof and could be heard all over the Collegia and Palace and their grounds.
:And on that most opportune note, I'm going to go have a gallop and a bite. Shall I see you at the Field after lunch?: Kalira's casual tone did a great deal to offset the nervous lurch of his gut at the idea of lunch in a room full of strangers. After all, he didn't have very good memories of his last similar experience.
Hesitantly, he left his room, and stepped out into the hall. A steady stream of people, ranging in age from around ten to at least eighteen and about equally divided between males and females, were all heading in the direction of the dining room that Pol had shown him. They chattered away at the tops of their lungs quite cheerfully, a welcome contrast to the nervous demeanor of the students of his school.
"Heyla, are you Lavan?" someone called from behind him. He turned to see a boy his own age emerging from the room next to his. There could not be anyone more unlike his friend Owyn; he was covered in freckles, with bright green eyes, hair of a carrot red, and a huge, gap-toothed grin. His sturdy frame marked him as country-bred, and Lan felt an instant kinship with him.
Lan nodded, and the boy clapped him on the back. "Good to have you! I'm Tuck. I'm from a little village up north, you won't have heard of it."
Lan felt an unaccustomed urge to smile as they joined the rest of the Grays streaming towards their meal. "Try me," he suggested archly.
"Briarley Crossing—" Tuck began.
"Between Lower Devin and Endercott, just off the Nodding Hill Road," he interrupted, and had the pleasure of seeing Tuck's jaw drop.
"I won't ask how you know that, it'd spoil the fun. Want to sit with me and m'mates?" the boy asked, full of admiration. "And would you mind sussing out where they come from if I ask?"
"I can try," he said modestly, secretly pleased not only by Tuck's reaction, but by his invitation.
They entered a room which was physically nearly identical to the Merchants' School dining hall—but, oh, what a difference in the contents of the room! The first thing that struck Lan was the noise—the babble of dozens and dozens of people freely chattering, well mixed with laughter. The second was the monochromatic austerity—a sea of gray, interrupted here and there with small groups of white. Tuck led him over to a table with benches lining both sides, already crowded with other students. "Shove over, then," he laughed good-naturedly, tapping two of his friends on their shoulders. "This's Lavan; he's going to be eating with us. He's just arrived."
With giggling and a little elbowing, the others made room for both of them, and one of them passed down plates, mugs, and eating utensils to the rest from stacks on the end of the table. A basket of bread followed by a dish of butter went up and down the table; a student came by and left pitchers of water and cider, a second followed with a huge bowl of stew. Both got shared out in an egalitarian, if somewhat random fashion, while eating and talking went on simultaneously. A student came 'round at intervals with more bread and stew, offering more helpings to those who were still hungry.
During a gap in the chatter, Tuck called out to a girl on the other side of the table, "Hey Fyllia, tell Lavan your village!"
"He won't have heard of it," the thin, dark-haired girl protested.
Tuck grinned. "Just tell him."
"Forbay," she said, with a shrug.
"On Lake Evendim, a little south of the midpoint, the end of the Hollyton Road," he said instantly. Fyllia's mouth formed a little "O" of surprise, and everyone at the table clamored to see him perform.
By the time the baked apples in cream came around, he had attracted the attention of the occupants of the tables on either side. He was greatly enjoying himself when the bell rang, sounding clearly over the chatter, warning them all that it was time for classes again.
The rest of the Trainees hurried off to their classes, except for the ones whose task was to clear up after the rest. Although it was not strictly his job today, he decided to help, his spirits buoyed by his first encounter with his fellow Trainees.
"Thanks," said one of the older girls, one of th
e ones who was probably about eighteen, as he handed her a stack of plates. She piled them into the hatch of the contrivance that took them down into the kitchen. "You were with that scamp Tuck, weren't you? What were all of you chattering about over there?"
"Tuck found out that I've got a pretty good chance of recognizing where a person's home is," he said honestly and modestly. "It looks like a conjuring trick, I suppose, but it's only because I've got most of the trade routes memorized, at least in Valdemar proper."
"You do? That's better than we can do at your age," the girl said with surprise. "Are you that youngling from a Merchant family that was in the fire in Haven?"
He nodded, and she tilted her head to one side. "I wondered what it was they could be studying in that school of theirs; trade routes, hmm?"
"And accounting, and currency conversions, and—"
"Enough!" she laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. "Obviously, there's a lot more to being a merchant than I thought. Forgive me for my uncharitable assumptions!"
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