Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (30 page)

Mags considered this.
:So I'm—:

:To hold as much of the vigil as you are up to, and to join everyone at the breakfast feast. The hardest time is just before dawn, anyway, and I can promise you that it will be lively enough you aren't likely to fall asleep. In fact, things are likely to get a bit rowdy:
Dallen looked back over his shoulder at his Chosen.
:I have every intention of holding vigil. I am rather old-fashioned myself.:

Well, if Dallen was going to, Mags didn't intend to be outdone.

:They'll take you to your room when you get there, and it would be wise to get a bit of a nap if you can,:
Dallen added, stopping for a moment to let a swirl of partygoers cross the road in front of them.
:I certainly will, and so will most of Soren's guests. They'll wake you when it is time for the vigil to start.:

When he arrived at Soren Mender's house, it was, for the first time since he had begun coming there, completely quiet. The Great Hall was empty, and the only person visible was the man who opened the door to his knock. “Where is everyone?” he asked the servant at the door.

A smile warmed the man's eyes. “Today and early tomorrow are for only a few, select guests, Herald-trainee Mags. In the evening the usual open house will prevail until the end of the season, but this is what the Master calls his ‘quiet holiday.' You will find that the opposite prevails among many other households here; there are so many parties tonight that people may attend as many as twelve between now and dawn.”

Mags head spun. “Twelve! How c'n anyone do that?”

The servant shrugged. “It is not my place to say. However . . .” He raised an eyebrow. “It is perhaps easy for those whose time is almost entirely taken up in the pursuit of pleasure.” He consulted a list by the door. “Ah, you are the last of our expected guests. I can close and lock the gate now, while someone sees you to your room.” He rang for another servant. “Now, you are certainly free to do whatever you choose, sir, but as we are keeping vigil, most of our guests are sleeping before dinner, and you might want to do the same. Dinner will also be later than you may be accustomed to.” A boy a little younger than Mags appeared, and the servant gestured to him. “Dur, show Herald-trainee Mags to his room, if you please.”

Given what Dallen, and now the servant, had told him, Mags was not at all averse to getting some sleep. The room that the boy brought him to was certainly decorated with sleep in mind. The walls were covered by green embroidered hangings showing nothing more exciting than stylized flowers, small birds, and rabbits. There were heavy curtains over the window and a screened fire blazing cheerfully on the small hearth. A fleece covered part of the floor beside the bed, which took up most of the space.
That
construction was almost a room unto itself, curtained and covered with some soft but heavy green fabric, with a reading lamp and a bookcase built into the headboard. All of the mine kiddies could have fitted into it at once—a bit snugly, but they would have fit. The boy showed him what he called (to Mags' vast amusement) “the necessary room” that was shared between his room and the next. There was a mug warming on a little shelf at the hearth that the boy offered to him. As he put down his bag, he noticed that on the same shelf was a plate of the little egg pies he had come to like so much. That was good, if dinner was going to be late.

Ah, Mags, ye've got spoiled! T' think yer worried about one meal bein' late!
He almost laughed at himself. But still, it was hard to sleep if you were hungry, and he'd skipped luncheon to go hunting with Jakyr.

“What be in the cup?” Mags asked with interest.

“Milk, honey, spices and brandy wine,” the boy replied. “To help you sleep.”

Now Mags had never in his life had trouble sleeping, not even when he had nightmares, but he was not at all going to object to being served something that sounded so tasty. He thanked the boy, and since the youngling seemed to be waiting for something, wolfed down the pies and drank the potion down. And it was tasty. He found himself wishing there might be a little more, and handed over the cup.

“Thankee, sir,” the boy said. “Good rest to you.” He left, closing the door behind himself, leaving Mags alone in the room.

After a moment of indecision, Mags elected not to spoil his clothing by sleeping in it. Instead he took it off and folded it neatly over a rack at the foot of the bed and got in wearing only his singlet. To his delight the bed was already warm, although he could not imagine how they had managed that. And it was soft, softer than any bed he had ever slept it; he literally sank into it. The sheets were crisp and smelled of lavender. It felt like being in a warm bath, but without the danger of drowning if you fell asleep and without the water getting cold around you. Between the warm, soft bed and the drink, he found his eyes starting to drift closed before he could investigate the books in the headboard. But he had plenty of books to read already, and he had never felt more comfortable in all his life, so he just let his lids drop closed—

The next thing he knew, there was someone stirring about the room, lighting more candles over the hearth and poking up the fire. He blinked and sat up. How long had he been asleep?

“Here to wake you for dinner, sir,” said yet another servant, straightening. “Will you need assistance in dressing?”

Mags coughed, surprised. Assistance in dressing? What kind of booby couldn't dress himself?

“Ah, no, I'll be fine, thenkee,” he said carefully.

The servant bowed slightly. “There is hot water laid on in the necessary room. I believe we have anticipated your needs. You will hear a bell when dinner is ready, or if you would care to, some of the others are gathering in the Great Hall beforehand. Is there anything else?”

Mags silently shook his head, and the servant went away—perhaps to “assist” someone else in dressing. Mags hopped out of bed and into the shared room; there was indeed hot water in there, a large pitcher of it, steaming away. There was not enough for a bath, but he'd already gotten one after the hunt with Jakyr. He gave himself a quick wash just to wake himself up, donned his uniform, and headed for the Great Hall, blowing out the candles behind him for safety's sake as well as thrift as he left.

“See, I told you he wouldn't be laggard!” Lydia called gaily as he appeared in the doorway. The Great Hall had a very different appearance tonight than it had the rest of the week. Comfortable chairs and padded benches had been arranged in a semicircle at the hearth, at the center of which, quite oddly, was a large ornamental pot filled with earth, and beside that, a table with a small brass box, a stack of candles and a tinderbox. He could guess that the candles were for the rekindling ceremony at midnight, but he could not imagine what the pot of earth was for.

Mags didn't get a chance to wonder or ask about that, though, because Lydia claimed him for the evening, coaxing him to come and sit beside her. Most of her friends were oddly absent—

“For people like Uncle Soren, this is a family night,” she explained, as she seated him in the circle between herself and Amily. “Since there's only me and Uncle Soren here, he invites more people who like the old-fashioned sort of festival, people that he thinks highly of—”

“More sad and solitary little orphans,” Amily interrupted, smiling and looking like neither. “People he likes who haven't families to spend this night with, and who are not the sort to chase the hours from party to party.”

Mags blinked. “But your father—”

“Spends Midwinter Eve with the King and his private gathering,” Amily replied. “Which I
am
invited to, make no mistake about it, but it's either folk who are a lot older or a lot younger than I am. And it's the
King.
They have
far
too many priests there, and it is all terribly solemn and portentous, there is a great deal of prayer and remembering people who died in the last year. Instead of the hearth, they hold vigil in the Royal Chapel, which is
freezing
and, really, I prefer coming here.”

Lydia hugged her friend. “And we like having you.”

Mags started; he hadn't realized that Dallen was “listening in,” but he willingly relayed the offer.

“You'd do that?” Amily asked and smiled broadly. “That would be perfect. Should I send word—”

:Tell her no need, I have already told Rolan, Nikolas' Companion.:
There was a pause.
:Nikolas sends to thank you and me and asks you to tell Amily she's to stay as late tomorrow as she wants.:

“Herald Nikolas says you're to stay as late as you want. Which's good, 'cause that means I got a reason t' stay as late as
I
want.” He smiled at her, and she chuckled and shook her head.

At that, Amily seemed to relax a bit more as some of the rest of the guests began to trickle in. Mags recognized all of them, although he still didn't know most by name. They had all been in attendance at the house throughout the week. They were a wildly assorted lot. Some were clearly important and respected; some were, it seemed, just as ordinary as Mags was.

One was a Bard named Aiken, a man older than Master Soren, though brisk and vigorous. From the look and the cut of his scarlet tunic and trews, he was considered a Master in his own right. There were twin young men, a little older than Lydia, greeted by her as cousins, Blake and Eddin.

“Distant cousins,” said one of them, with a grin. “We've been sent up here to learn the business from Uncle. When he reckons that we've learned all he can teach us, we'll be off home again and set up our own business.”

Mags nodded, and finally asked the question he still didn't have the answer to. “So . . . what is 't Master Soren
does?”

“Oh, good gad, we've never said!” Lydia laughed, her hands going to her mouth. “He makes buildings. He plans and designs them, and oversees them being built, and sometimes does very fiddly bits himself.”

“Less now than I did before. The bones grow old and object to being made to climb ladders. Welcome, Mags,” said the man himself, motioning for Mags to sit as he began to rise. “I am what is referred to as a Master Builder, although I have yet to construct anything
I
would call a Masterpiece.”

Mags was saved from having to make any sort of response to that by the arrival of several more of the guests: a priest, Father Gellet, that Mags had enjoyed listening to—very much more than he would have ever imagined—another builder and the man's nephew, who was apprenticed as the twins were to Master Soren. There was a ramrod-straight granite-faced fellow by the name of Okley who was the Royal Falconer and, in fact, tended Jakyr's bird along with the King's and any others that the King saw fit to be permitted to be lodged in the mews. With him came Marc, and only now did Mags learn that Marc was the Royal Falconer's son, but had no aptitude for the birds and instead was in training to be the Master of the Royal Hounds. There were three highborn gentlemen, and five ladies, all of whom had grand homes built by Master Soren and had become fast friends with him in the process.

There was another Master Craftsman, this one a fellow who built bridges and roads. This was the group, and they all had but two things in common. They all thought the world of Master Soren and he of them—and for all of them, this would have been an evening spent alone or with one or two others.

By the time they all went in to dinner, Mags was convinced that this was going to be a very interesting evening.

O
NCE they were all seated, Master Soren rose, and the company fell silent. “We have a young man among us who is with us for the first time. This is Herald-trainee Mags, and as the host, I bid him welcome to our Vigil Night.”

“Welcome,” the others murmured, most with smiles.

Mags nodded. “Thenkee,” he said, feeling a bit awkward. “Right honored, sir. 'm glad t' be here.”

Dinner was served then, and Mags sensed Dallen watching through his eyes. He smiled with some amusement.
:Might as well stop lurkin',:
he thought.
:I don' mind ye bein' there, do y' ken.:

Dallen sounded amused when he replied.
:I should have thought so. Well, there are several dishes that will be served that are highly symbolic. Would you like to know about this feast?:

:Please,:
he replied, thinking wistfully that he wished he had first-hand knowledge of what was going on. The way that Lydia and her uncle shared warm glances made him wonder, with almost a start, what it would be like to have
family.
How would it be to have someone that close to you that you could say things to them without words? To have people you had shared this sort of night with all of your life?

His thoughts were interrupted by Dallen.

:Aye,:
he replied.
:An' we grubbed up grassroots an' cureds it, back at the mine. Roots, anythin' green, that cures it.:

Since Mags had never once encountered a food he was afraid of, he conveyed a mental snort of derision to his Companion, watched what the others were doing, picked up his fork and tried them. And they were good; crisp and tasty, with some sort of vinegar dressing.