Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (26 page)

Nonregulation Grays? Mags picked up the topmost garment from the pile and the soft fabric caught a little on his rough hand. A few moons ago he wouldn't have known what these things were except soft. Now he had names for them; velvet and damask, doeskin leather, lambswool. No one looking at these Grays would mistake them for the sort worn for classes and more physical lessons; the cut was the same, and the design, but that was where the resemblance ended.

Mags had names for these fabrics, but he had never actually expected to touch any of them, much less wear them himself.

“They told me that you might as well keep these, Mags. They're never going to wear them again, and any youngling in their families that gets Chosen will have his own sets of Grays made to fit him. Or maybe I should say, ‘made to fit him exactly.' The highborn never seem to run out of money for new clothing.” He shook his head. “Well, everyone I went to said the same thing—they're never going to wear these, obviously, there is no point in them going to waste, so I should take them. Which is not a bad thing at all, since now I'll have some fine uniforms on hand the next time one of you Trainees needs such a thing, and with as much as I had to pick from, I was able to get you more than one change of clothing. There's a couple sets of boots there, too,” the Herald added. “Yours are beginning to look a bit grim.”

Well, that was true. They'd never actually matched his Grays, since they were the ones he'd gotten from the Guards, and were really “civilian” boots that had been outgrown and returned to their storerooms. And they had only fit with three pairs of stockings. Not that he was complaining. Not when, for the first time in his life, he had warm feet in the winter. Feet like his could take anything a badly fitting pair of boots could deliver, and not even feel it.

At Caelen's urging, he picked up the whole pile and carried it off to his room, not forgetting his lunch, of course. And at Dallen's insistence, once he was done eating, he put on one of the outfits. Instead of canvas tunic and trews, and heavy wool shirt, he found himself in elegant doeskin tunic and trews, and a shirt of lambswool so fine and soft it felt as if it would float. There were hose that matched the shirt, and the deer-hide boots that matched the tunic fit his feet as if they had been made for him. But they hadn't; there were subtle signs of wear on all of these things that made it clear they were second-hand. Not that he cared about a little wear. The outfit, except for the boots, was a little big, but that was easily fixed with the matching belt. When he was clothed, he turned this way and that, trying to see himself.

:Come out, and I will show you a trick.:
Dallen sounded uncommonly merry, and Mags obliged, stepping back out into the stable and facing his Companion, who was hanging his head over the top of his stall.

:Now look—do
this
with your mind, and
this,
and . . . there you are. Now you can look at yourself through my eyes.:

And sure enough, he could. It startled him. He was used to seeing himself in the wall of mirrors at the salle, but now he looked . . . elegant? He looked like the sort of fellow that those mercenaries would not dare touch, for fear of reprisals. His black hair and tanned skin looked a little startling against the gray of his clothing. He straightened, and tucked a thumb in his belt, and smiled at himself.

“I wouldn' know me,” he said aloud, and with that, he was looking out of his own eyes again. “Huh. That was diff'rent.”

He smiled.
:Yah, I do.:

That startled him.
:What, now? But—:

:We've nothing in particular to do, and he keeps a Midwinter open house as you have been told. You showed that you are not some social climber by not rushing over there at once. If he did not want you to come, he would not have invited you. So let's go.:
Dallen shook his head impatiently and stamped one hoof.

Mags might have tried to argue, but he could think of no good reasons not to go. So, with a sigh, he gave in, saddled Dallen and put on the special bitless bridle that Companions wore, and the two of them trotted out into the afternoon sun.

Somewhat to Mags' relief, Master Soren did not live in one of the first-tier dwellings, the constructions that were little palaces unto themselves. His home was down in the second tier of the “merely” wealthy. It had nothing to distinguish it from the other half-timbered stone-and-plaster homes except that unlike theirs, the gate was standing wide open, there were lights in virtually every window, and the sounds of music and voices carried out to the street. There was a stone wall about the entire property, snow-topped, and within that wall the building faced on an area that was about half snow-covered garden and half paved courtyard.

As soon as Mags entered the courtyard, a servant appeared so quickly he might have materialized out of thin air. “If I may, sir?” he said politely, not to Mags, but to Dallen. “The stables are this way.” Now he looked up at Mags. “Master Trainee, just go up to the door and ring; someone will be with you before the sound dies away.”

Bemused, Mags dismounted; the servant did not so much as touch Dallen's bridle. He might have been escorting a dignified gentleman. Mags' first thought was that Dallen must have been eating that sort of treatment up.

Amused, Mags went on to the door, and rang the bell with a single pull on the strap attached to the clapper. The door flew open and another servant, even more correct than the first one, bowed slightly. “Welcome to the House of Mender, sir,” the servant said, and bowed low. “How shall I announce you?”

:As Herald-trainee Mags,:
Dallen prompted.
:And nod your head a little to him. And smile.:

Mags did all these things, and the man waved him through the door, announcing at the same time in a clarion voice, “Herald-trainee Mags.” There was a small entryway into which he passed, a tiny box of a room that opened up into another space that was much, much larger.

The enormous room just past the entryway was about half full of guests, but even at only half full, there must have been more than a hundred people in it. It was at least as big as the dining hall at the Collegium. It, too, had a high ceiling, two stories tall at least, and there were many windows along the wall behind Mags. The ceiling was criss-crossed with heavy black beams, from which hung garlands of evergreen branches. The pungent pine scent filled the air, added to by the spice-and-apple scent of mulled cider. The walls were white plaster and black beams just like the outside, hung with gorgeous tapestries, and there was a huge fireplace at the end opposite the door, easily big enough to roast an entire ox. Benches lined the walls with tables between; if they were all like the one nearest Mags, they were laden with things to eat and cauldrons of hot mulled cider. People seemed to sit or stand or walk about as they fancied.

Another servant took Mags' cloak as there was a little stir, and Master Soren came striding up to him, both hands extended in greeting. Today he was dressed as Mags would have expected a man of his rank and wealth to dress; in wine-colored velvet and fine linen, with a silver belt around his tunic and a silver chain around his neck.

“Mags! Welcome!” He took one of Mags' hands in both his and shook it. “Come this way, and I'll introduce you to some of my guests.”

Mags followed him with some trepidation; if Master Soren took him to meet some of the King's advisors or other important people—well, he wasn't certain what he would do or say.

But Soren did nothing of the kind; instead, he brought Mags to one side of the huge fireplace where, to Mags' intense relief, there was a group of people about his age.

“Lydia, this is Mags, who found the bird in your ring. Mags, this is my niece Lydia.”

Lydia, a sweet-faced girl with a tumble of intensely red curls smiled up at him, her smile warming her eyes which were as green as fine beryls. Mags saw she was wearing the ring her uncle had bought her yesterday. “That is so clever of you! But from what Uncle says, you bought your skill rather dearly. I am glad that horrible man is not going to be able to continue as he has been.”

“There's a mort o' folks that're happy about that, mistress,” Mags said, with an awkward half-smile, as Master Soren moved away. So Master Soren had told his niece, at least, quite a bit about Mags. He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or otherwise. He finally decided to be pleased. It probably saved him a lot of awkwardness.

The girl smiled again, warmly. “Just Lydia. And this is Marc, Amily, Tomas, Saski, Jak, Renton, and Dia.”

Mags nodded in turn to each of them, fixing their names and faces together in his mind. Fortunately, he was rather good at that, and getting better all the time. Sometimes he wondered if his memory had always been this good, and he finally decided that it had been, there had just been less for him to remember, so he hadn't noticed.

The pale young man called Tomas made a wry face. “Hope you don't think too badly of me, Lydia, nor you, Trainee Mags, but 'tis holiday season, and I had rather
not
think of tales of misery at the moment.”

“And from the unease in his eyes, I suspect Mags would rather not talk about them,” observed round little Dia, looking at him shrewdly from deep brown eyes.

Mags nodded, though he wasn't sure what he
could
talk about with these sleek, well-dressed young people. It wasn't as if he had a lot in common with them.

“First, have some cider to warm you.” Dark Jak, whose skin was nearly as tanned as Mags', pushed a mug into his hands, and motioned him to a seat on one of the cushioned benches. “Then tell us what you know about those mercenaries that lot of merchants brought with them. You have to have seen them, since I know they are doing weapons work at the Palace salle.”

He blinked, and sat down gingerly. “Well,” he replied, slowly, “Aye . . . but I on'y seen them at that salle . . .”

Tomas, red-haired Marc, and Jak all nodded vigorously. All of them leaned forward eagerly.

“That's what we want to hear about.” Somewhat to Mags surprise, it was Lydia who said that, not one of the young men. “We want to hear what their fighting technique is like.”

Well, there, at least, he was on solid conversational ground. Slowly and carefully, he described what he had observed; that they absolutely preferred to gang up on someone in a pack, who in that pack was weakest, who was strongest. With all of them hanging on his words, he detailed the style they used, and where it differed from what the Weaponsmaster taught, and how. They listened hard, nodded, and occasionally made intelligent comments or questions.

Finally—“That's all I c'n think of,” he said, spreading his hands apologetically, then looked with surprise at the empty mug in one of them. He didn't remember drinking all of that cider.

“That's enough,” Dia replied. “That's more than enough.” She looked at the others. “Well?”

Marc nodded. “I think you girls can take them down.”

Mags blinked. He had halfway suspected that the boys were thinking of challenging the mercenaries—but the
girls?

Lydia gurgled a chuckle. “They'll never know what hit them. And they will be utterly humiliated.”

Mags blinked again. “There a reason why yer wantin' t' do that?” he asked carefully. It seemed to him to be a very odd sort of thing to want to do. If they
knew
those arrogant young men, if one of them had been bullied by the mercenaries, that would be different. But of course, they didn't, or they wouldn't have been asking him so many questions.

They all exchanged glances. It was Jak that answered.

“These fellows that are supposed to be merchant princes,” he replied. “The ones the mercenaries are guarding. They're no more merchants than my pet hound is. Princes—maybe. But why they are here—they're looking us over. Testing us. Call them spies in diplomatic clothing. They've got some of their lot testing the Heralds and the Guards to see what kind of fighters they are. But we want them to discover that if it comes to a fight, it won't be just the Heralds and the Guards that they meet.”

“So we're going to challenge them,” Dia said, with her little chin in the air. “And we are going to humiliate them. And they will go home knowing that they had better make peace, because they truly do not want war with us, not when the women will fight at the sides of the men, and just as fiercely.”

Mags gazed at them all with enormous respect. His initial vague impression of them had just gotten an abrupt shift.

Lydia nodded, her green eyes twinkling. “And before you ask, yes, our parents know about this. And with the proviso that we
could
do this with a minimum of damage to ourselves, they agreed it was a good idea. It is one small part of a larger plan, you see.”

“It was my father who saw how they were testing the Heralds and the Guards and sensed something more was going on,” Jak said, motioning to a servant to bring them all more spiced cider. He waited while the servant poured, and then until the man was out of earshot, before resuming his conversation. “He came to me to find out if we thought there was anything we could do to help. And so you have it—” He spread his hands wide. “Master Soren and our parents are not at the highest level of rule—but my father says that gives them a broader scope, so to speak. They see things that the ones that sit in Council might not.”

“And of course, everything
they
see and do, they consult with the King's Own about.” Amily, who had been very quiet until now, spoke up in a matter-of-fact voice. She was nothing like as vibrant as Lydia or as bold as Dia; in fact, she seemed to fade into the background a bit. Even her clothing was in a subdued shade of soft brown. But when she looked up at Mags, he saw a glittering intelligence in those eyes, and he realized that the image she projected was deliberate on her part.