Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (14 page)

Herald Caelen let out a huge sigh of relief. “Bless you. I pray to the gods that the next Trainee we get in here will be Healer or Bard, because finding space for him will be Lita or Paako's problem, not mine. Unless we can get some of you graduated to field trials and out of here, I am going to be stacking you like so many hens in nestboxes atop one another soon.” He went back to his papers, occasionally looking up to ask Mags a question. When he had finished, he took out a fresh sheet and began writing on it, then got up and edged his way around the desk, taking care not to topple over the piles of books. “Follow me, then, and I'll get you taken care of. Uniforms first.”

Right. Uniforms.
He had some memories from Dallen about that. He nodded, and followed Herald Caelen out of the office and into a building that was clearly half finished on the inside. There were still workmen putting up wall panels and plastering the ceiling.

The borrowed memories sharpened, and he understood what was about to happen when they were halfway down the corridor. He would be a Heraldic Trainee, and he would wear a gray uniform, identical to Jakyr's and Caelen's except for color. That was how they did things here; Trainees—they might as well be called apprentices, really—wore something in the same color family as the Bards, Heralds, and Healers, but it was more than enough different to let anyone who saw them know that they weren't exactly ready to act like the real thing yet.

They went through a set of double doors at the end of the corridor, and then made an abrupt turn to go down a set of dark little stairs. This brought them to a cramped room piled high with neatly folded clothing in white and gray. Herald Caelen pulled tunics from the top of piles, held them up against Mags, muttering to himself, refolded and stowed them away again until he found something that met his criteria. At that point, Mags found himself burdened with a staggeringly tall pile of things. “Do those boots fit you?” Caelen asked abruptly. Mags peered at him over the top of the clothing.

“Uh—”

“Do they pinch your feet?”

He had to think about that. His feet were so tough, he probably wouldn't have noticed otherwise. “Nossir.”

“Are they falling off you? Did they rub blisters anywhere?”

Well, that he was sure of. “Nossir. Mebbe a bit big . . .”

“Wear extra socks, then.” A couple more pairs got tucked under the top of the pile. “Right. Come with me.” He grabbed a couple of cloaks, draped the gray one rather haphazardly over Mags' shoulders and the pile of clothing, and slung the other, white one, around his own neck.

Again, Caelen set off briskly. Mags stretched his legs to keep up. They went back up the stairs, then outside via a nearby door, and headed down a path that clearly ended at a stable building. “That's the Companions' stable, and that is where you'll be living,” Caelen explained. “We'll arrange for that now.”

Mags was slowly getting the lay of the place as they headed for the stables, where he had left Dallen. The Heralds' Collegium was actually attached to this other building, which was roughly four or five times its size. The unfinished buildings, which he vaguely gathered would be Bardic and Healers' Collegiums, stood alone. The Companions' stable was across a big stretch of open area and on the other side of a broad lane, of course . . . the road that had brought him here was
there—

In the stables, he felt a little more relaxed. Not so many people. Companions all about. Dallen peering over the wall of a loose-box just ahead. He took a deep breath and smiled; they must keep this place as clean as a room in the Guards' barracks, for the only scent in the air was of crisp straw and sweet hay, with an undertone of clean horse. Herald Caelen gave a sharp whistle and waved over someone who proved to be the Stablemaster. He quickly explained what he wanted, and just as quickly got an answer.

“Aye, I'd just as soon that room there at the end got used. Been a bit of a temptation, that, come evenin'—empty room, quiet stable, willin' kitchenmaids?” The Stablemaster waggled his eyebrows, and Caelen cracked a wry smile.

“Then I am happy to be able to solve two problems with one solution. Can we get a couple of the lads here to help make it livable?” the Herald asked.

In answer, it was the Stablemaster's turn to whistle, and within moments, Mags was helping another strong fellow carry a bed in from a storage room, while a second went off for linens and a third carried out the odds and ends that had been stored there, swept the place, and found a couple of chests in the tack room for Mags' use. The Stablemaster himself scoured up a table and chair and a couple of lanterns. The room was already warm, thanks to the brick ovens built into that end of the stables. The whole end wall was brick, actually; the ovens, according to Dallen, served two purposes. A certain amount of cooking and water heating was done there, but mostly, they were there to keep the place warm. They were fired from outside, and heated the stable and the rooms that the stable workers lived in with the heated brick rather than the direct heat from the fires. With all that grain-dust and straw and hay about, the risk of fire was taken very seriously, and minimized.

When the furnishings were in place, the room was left to Mags and Herald Caelen, who had extracted some folded paper and a bit of lead pencil from a pocket, and was writing on it. “All right, Mags, given where you come from, I am going to assume you know practically nothing. Your teachers will find out quickly enough if that is not the case, and will promote you. So, here is the list of your classes.”

He handed over the paper to Mags, who took it, puzzled. “Classes, sir? I'm t' go to classes?”

Caelen looked at him oddly. “What did you think you were here for?”

Mags shrugged. The truth of the matter was he hadn't thought about it much because thinking about it only reminded him of how much he
couldn't
do. “I dunno, I guess, I figgered . . . work? Diggin' snow, scrubbing floors, belike?”

“How did you think you were going to become a Herald?”

Mags blinked. “I . . . uh . . . I guess I figgered . . . that was the kind of Herald I'd be. One that does for the others. Some'un t' do th' work, aye?” He really hadn't spent any time dreaming about it at all. Despite all the things that Dallen had shown him, he had never pictured
himself
doing the things he knew Heralds did. It didn't seem . . . fitting. After all, what did
he
know about law and justice, or fighting, or . . . well whatever. He couldn't do those things. But he
could
see that the ones that knew how didn't have to worry about other stuff. After all, hadn't he taken care of the cooking and cleaning in the Waystations?

Caelen stared at him for a moment then shook his head. “No, Mags, what a Herald does is something no one else
can
do. And you will be doing that, eventually. But, for right now, you need to learn a great deal before you know how to do those things, so you will be taking classes.”

Mags looked at him dubiously. But all he said was, “But who does do all the cleanin' and things?” Surely all those people bustling about weren't here just to take classes?

“We have plenty of people for that, don't you worry about it.” Herald Caelen chuckled a little.

Mags could only think that it might have been better if they hadn't had quite so many of those people. If Herald Jakyr had ever learned how to cook, maybe he wouldn't be trying to eat half-burned stuff all the time now.

He didn't say that, though, and a moment later, he was glad that he hadn't when he saw the eye-popping list of things he was supposed to be learning about . . . it seemed utterly impossible. How could anyone get through all these things and not have his head explode from trying to pour learning into it?

History, Geography, Mathematics, Riding, Weapons' Training, Languages, Mindspeech, Grammar, Speech . . .
The whole day seemed to be filled with classes . . .

“You'll be taking some of those with the Trainees of Bardic and Healer's,” Herald Caelen said, nodding at the list. “And you will be taking more and different things as you master these.”

Mags stared at the list in mingled elation and despair. Elation, because he could not think of a grander thing than to be able to do nothing all day but learn things. Despair because—he could barely read and write, he knew nothing about reckoning beyond what he'd learned after Jakyr had rescued him, and he already knew how little of the outside world beyond the fence of Master Cole's mine he had even been aware of. He was going to cover himself with shame over this.

“I know it looks formidable, Mags, but you'll do fine,” Herald Caelen began, then paused as Mags looked up at him dumbly. He faltered. “Mags, plenty of younglings arrive here knowing very little.”

He must have continued to look stricken, for Herald Caelen bit his lip, and sat down on the as-yet unmade bed. “Mags, the reason we've started the Collegium is because we have a problem. It used to be that every Herald took one or two Trainees under his or her wing and taught them everything personally. It was like the arrangement between a master and an apprentice. But we can't do that anymore. There are too many Trainees, and the Heralds are going farther and farther from Haven on their circuits. It's not possible to send an apprentice out of danger, if danger looms. And, more to the point, there isn't the leisure time to teach you younglings everything you have to know and do the job of a Herald at the same time. We have to train you as a group now, and only send you out at the side of a mentor when you have everything except the hands-on experience.”

Mags nodded, though he had no real idea what he was agreeing to. He was only now beginning to grasp how different his new life was going to be. It was a new life, an
entirely
new sort of life, and he felt as if he had awakened from a sound sleep to find himself on the top of a mountain. The view might be amazing, but he had no idea of how he had gotten here, and more importantly, where he was, how he was going to get down, and if he ever managed to do that, what he was supposed to do when he got down there. It was no longer about just going where Jakyr told him and doing what Jakyr said to do. He felt hopelessly adrift.

And also split, as if there were two of him. One, the old Mags, kept thinking, “You can't trust these people. You can't trust anyone. Why should they help you? They're leading you on for some reason of their own.” The other, the one that shared Dallen's memories, kept thinking that everything was going to be fine, and although this whole Collegium thing was new to him, to them both, it was a good thing and it would make everything easier. . . .

And the old Mags was thinking “Make
what
easier?”

In the back of his mind, he felt Dallen, very quiet.
:I could . . . cushion you again. I could help you to not think about these things. . . .:

He understood then that the calm he had felt so far was all artificial. It was something Dallen had imposed on him to help him deal with all of these new experiences. And now Dallen was taking that away.

And that was when old . . . instinct? . . . or was it experience? . . . rescued him.
When you don't know what to do, do nothing, watch, and wait.
He was not calm, but he could pretend to be. He could stay quiet, not draw attention to himself, and wait to see what happened. People always revealed what their intentions were when you did that. Always. When you did nothing, you forced them to act even when they didn't intend to.

He sensed Dallen being startled by this reaction, and made uneasy, as if now it was the Companion who didn't understand and had no idea of how to react.

Meanwhile, Herald Caelen, who had no idea of what was going through Mags' mind, took his silence as assent, or something positive at least, and seemed satisfied.

“You'll see,” Herald Caelen said with confidence. “Just give it time. Now, come along, and I'll show you where everything is.”

The Herald walked Mags through the buildings; one thing that Mags was very glad to see was a bathing room like the one in the Guard Post. Another was a huge room devoted entirely to eating—it was shared by every person working at this place, so there were people coming and going all the time. He saw Trainees of all three sorts: Bards, Healers, and a smattering of Heralds among the blue livery of what the Herald and his own—or rather Dallen's—memories told him were servants of the Palace. There were everything from very fine looking outfits indeed, finer than anything that Master Cole ever wore, to very rough clothing that must belong to heavy laborers. And mixed with
them
were men also in rough clothing spattered with paint and plaster, dusted with fine white dust or yellow sawdust. He didn't need any prompting to know that these were the men working on those two buildings out there.

There was some separation into like groups, but they all ate the same food, it seemed, going to get it themselves at a hatch, leaving bowls and plates to be cleaned up by boys in that rough blue Palace livery.

For someone who had to learn to navigate the maze of twisting tunnels of a mine, finding his way around the “allowed” area was child's play. Herald Caelen made it very clear that there were places he was not supposed to go, and Mags had no interest in trespassing. Instead, as he obediently went about where he was directed, collecting the things he was told he would need and bringing them back to a room that was going to be all his, shared with no one, he committed to memory every bit of the buildings and grounds that he was allowed in. And as he did so, another strange thing began to happen.

He knew this place. He knew many of the people he saw. He knew them, because Dallen knew them.