Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (29 page)

Huh. Reckon I'm learnin' more than I thought I was.
He hadn't been able to read Jakyr nearly so well before. It had seemed that nothing could shake Jakyr—but it appeared that beneath his façade, Jakyr was just as fallible as anyone else. And just as human. This must be Jakyr's big flaw, that he was skittish about being tied down to anyone, afraid of demands on himself. Well, whatever his reason for that was, it wasn't Mags' to sort out.

And he still liked Jakyr, even with having “heard” that unflattering thought. But now he had a lot more sympathy for the Bard that had been his lover. If that was how the man felt about
her
—well, no wonder she was sharp with him. Being thought of as a weight around someone's neck—that was enough to make anyone angry. Especially if they were perfectly competent on their own and had no thought to make demands. It was sadly clear that Jakyr saw such things where nothing of the sort actually existed.

In Mags' case, he had not wanted Jakyr to be a father (as the man seemed to fear he did), nor a brother, nor a mentor, nor even a protector anymore. He had Dallen as a brother, he had friends—and as for a mentor, in a real sense, he had Herald Nikolas, who seemed to have appointed
himself
as mentor. As for a father, well, he had gotten this far without one. He supposed he could continue to function without one.

Protector—well, that had always been up to him, to protect himself.

:And you have me,:
said Dallen.
:I will always protect you.:

He smiled a little. That was no small thing.
:Aye, I have you.:

They headed up the hard-packed snow path, the clear, bright light of a cloudless winter day making both of them squint against the glare. The buildings loomed darkly against the hard, bright sky, and with so little activity about the sound of hammering and sawing rang out in the clear air. Jakyr turned toward the Collegium; Mags had to correct him. “I got a room in th' stable, there ain't 'nuff room up there. I like it. An' it lets me be near Dallen.”

Jakyr frowned and looked as if he was about to be angry. “The stable? That hardly seems . . . right. A Trainee doesn't belong in the stable, like some—stablehand.”

Mags only smiled. “What ain't right is th' way they got them Trainees packed in rooms up there, like sheeps all penned up t'gether. I got privacy! Ye'll see—” By this time they were inside the stable, and half a dozen Companions beside Dallen whickered a welcome. Mags waved to all of them, then flung the door of his room open and bowed Jakyr inside.

The older Herald looked around and rolled his eyes a little. Mags was glad he had neatened it up that morning; the small window let in a lot of light, even if the panes of glass were thick and bubbly and no bigger than his hand. The thick walls kept out the drafts better than some rooms at the Collegium did at this moment, what with doors being left open, and access to the roof, too. His back wall radiated warmth, since the ovens had been pressed into use by the Palace kitchens to bake bread for the Midwinter Feasts taking place each night. His bed had been neatly made, and over the course of the last few weeks he had managed to get extra blankets, cushions, even a rug. Candles on the table, an oil lamp on the wall; not even the best rooms at the Collegium were better than this. Jakyr nodded a grudging approval. “All right, this is reasonably cozy. If things are as crowded up there as you say—I'd probably prefer this, too.”

“Here,” Mags said, taking the little package from the shelf where he had left it, and thrusting it at Jakyr. “Happy Midwinter, sir. Jest a liddle thing, kinda t' thank ye fer bein' persistent 'bout getting' me outa there.”

“Nonsense, it wasn't—” He opened the package and blinked. “Jesses! Aylmer jesses! And I take it this is Dallen's hair! But how did you—”

“Dallen said. Ain't much Dallen don't know about,” Mags said with pardonable pride. “Him an' me, we worked t'gether on these things. Taught me t' make the braids, he did. Made page markers fer m' other friends, down th' hill. Master Soren Mender's niece an' her lot. Been spendin' most of the holiday with 'em, since Bear and Lena're gone.” He did not add that the page markers were his excuse to see them and vice versa, if they needed to get information from him directly. Just undo the braiding a little, and bring it to him to fix. Or send a message asking him to bring another.

Jakyr blinked. “Soren Mender?
Councillor
Soren Mender?” At Mags' nod, he shook his head. “Lad, you are not only like the cat that lands on his feet, you are the cat which has landed on his feet in front of a bowl of cream, and had a trout leap out of the water to land beside him. Next, I'll probably learn that the King's Own has decided to be your mentor.”

Mags managed not to choke. Fortunately, Jakyr was looking down at the jesses, which were round horsehair braids with a knot on one end, each about twice as long as Jakyr's hand. Mags hadn't the foggiest clue what they were for, but Jakyr seemed very taken with them.

“In any event, I was hoping you could spend the rest of the morning with me. Have you that time free?” He smiled. “Since you've been so kind as to give me these, I thought you might want to see my bird hunting.” Since Jakyr looked as if he meant it, Mags nodded.

Together, they took Jakyr's falcon out for some exercise and enough hunting to satisfy her—she was more than happy to rid the Palace of a couple of pigeons—and Jakyr showed Mags how the little braided jesses worked on the falcon's legs. She had something on each leg that Jakyr called a “bracelet” that was a bit of leather with metal grommets hammered on each end. When Jakyr came to get her, she had something he called “Mews jesses” slipped through the grommets. These had a loop on the ends that was tied off to a leash. When Jakyr popped a kind of eyeless hat that he called a “hood” on her head, and picked her up, he changed these out with the ones that Mags had made.

“You see, if she decides not to come back, these will pull out of the bracelets, and they don't have a slit on them to get caught on a branch,” Jakyr explained. “Once the jesses are off, she could rid herself of the bracelets, too.”

He seemed unperturbed at the notion that she might not come back as he took the hood off, let her see the pigeons feeding, and sent her aloft. In less time than it took to think about it, she had struck down one of the feeding birds. Jakyr came to take her up, and she mantled her wings over her kill so that he had to move up very slowly and ease his hand under her from behind, taking her up with her kill. She seemed an aloof and bloodthirsty creature to Mags, and he said as much as Jakyr stowed the pigeon in a game bag.

Jakyr laughed at that, as he sent her in pursuit of another pigeon. “Hawks are not pets, Mags. It's a rare hawk that shows you even a morsel of affection. Generally, the best you get from them is tolerance as a hunting partner and provider of food and shelter. I never know when I cast her from my wrist if she is going to come back this time. And do you know, I don't really mind that. I know being with me has made her a better hunter. If she decides never to come back, well, that is how it goes.”

She made her second kill, but now the pigeons were all scattered or in hiding.

He sent her aloft again, then looked up at the circling bird, disappointed that all the pigeons were in hiding. He took out an odd contraption of a pair of wings mounted on a stuffed form, all on the end of a long string. He began swinging it around and around his head, whistling as he did so.

The falcon folded her wings and dropped from the sky, opening them at the last minute, hoping to grab the thing. Jakyr jerked it out of the way just in time, and she shot back up into the air.

He let her make another half-dozen passes at this thing—which he called a “lure”—before fastening a bit of her last kill to it. Once more he whistled and swung the lure, once more, she dove for it, and this time he let her catch it.

She hunched over her prize, wings spread, glaring at them both. Carefully, Jakyr came in behind her and worked her and her bit of bloody pigeon back up onto his gloved hand. “So, she didn't leave, and I am her keeper for another day,” Jakyr said lightly. “Or rather, the Royal Falconer is. I have an assignment and it's not somewhere I can take her.”

Jakyr took his leave of Mags at the stable, just before luncheon, pressing a little bag that jingled into his hand as he did so. “I didn't have time to find you anything, so go and find what
you
want,” the Herald said. “I am not very good at getting people presents.”

Mags had the shrewd notion that Jakyr hadn't even tried to get him a present, but that would not have been from lack of generosity on his part. No, it would have been because he had been afraid that a gift would provoke a bond. And a gift of money was impersonal enough—many would say, “too impersonal,” which would make it just right so far as Jakyr was concerned.

Jakyr's Companion was already saddled, with everything Jakyr needed for yet another journey stuffed into the saddlebags. Both of them looked ready to be gone. And now Mags had to wonder, just what kind of a personality Jakyr's Companion had, if he fitted well with someone who didn't want any ties on him.

:It is not that Jakyr doesn't want any ties. It is that he doesn't want any more than he already has.:
If Dallen had had a voice, it would have been very dry.
:And in his defense, he does do some very dangerous things, and he does not want anyone around him who can't take care of himself.:
There was a lot there that Dallen wasn't saying, and Mags got the feeling, the very distinct feeling, that Jakyr's Companion was a lot like his Chosen.

Still, none of that harmed Mags—

“Ye didn' need t' give me a thin'—but I ain't likely t' turn it down,” Mags said gratefully. He was actually going to have a coin or two of his very own! Not that he needed money, but . . . what if he wanted to get Lena or Bear a present? He couldn't keep making things from Dallen's hair, or soon the poor fellow would be snatched bald. “Thenkee, sir. Reckon I owe ye again—”

“You don't owe me anything, Mags. That is why it is a present.” The words were said with more ease than Jakyr had shown earlier this morning, and the Herald even reached out and ruffled Mags' hair. “Looks like you're doing well, settling in and getting on. I am happy for you. I never would have dreamed that under all that mud was a fine young Trainee when I first saw you.”

Mags stretched his mouth in a grin. “Me neither, sir. Tha's Dallen's doin'. Seems he managed t' housebreak me.”

Jakyr laughed aloud. “You get on down to Master Soren's house and your friends. I have a bit of a ride ahead of me, and the sooner I start, the less ground I will have to cover after dark.”

Mags waved to him as he headed off down the road to the Herald's Gate, but didn't linger. Tonight was a highly significant night in a week of special days. It was Midwinter's Eve, the longest night of the year, and the reason for the holiday in the first place. Mags had permission to spend the night at Master Soren's house, by express invitation. Soren Mender was unusually casual in most things, but it seemed he was unusually sober in one; he kept the Midwinter Solstice in the old-fashioned way, or so he said.

Now there had been enough priests prattling about the mine for Mags to have picked up that most religions considered the night significant. And Dallen had explained the whole year-turning religious business to him—how this was, in most of Valdemar's religions, the night that the dark forces tried (and failed) to keep the mother-god from giving birth to the god, or in some, to keep the dead god from rising and being reborn. And none of that really mattered much to Mags—

But it did seem to matter to Master Soren, so he would give this all his due attention.

Since Mags had
no
idea just what was meant by “keeping Midwinter Solstice the old-fashioned way,” he had simply nodded gravely, thanked Soren sincerely for the honor of the invitation, and went to get permission to spend the night away. As he had expected, Herald Caelen was only too pleased to give it.

Which was why he was packing up a small bag with overnight things now.

“You told me you'd explain,” he reminded Dallen, as he slung his slender pack behind his saddle. “You told me you'd tell me what it is that Master Soren is going to be doing tonight.”

:Oh, it's simple enough. Midwinter Eve is the longest night of the year. Most religions here in Valdemar consider that significant; that on this night, the boundaries between the material world and the spirit world are thinner, that spirits can cross over, and that dark and evil things can, too. So on Midwinter Eve, the “old-fashioned” thing to do is spend the night in vigil and do what you can to keep evil at bay. Music usually, and singing, and remembering good things. There is a special ceremony at midnight. Then when the sun rises, everyone has a breakfast feast of foods that are supposed to be lucky, and goes to bed—or to celebrate further, depending on how hardy you are.:
Dallen shook his head. :
There will be many sore heads the day after tomorrow. I can promise that there will be no hammering on that day either.: