Mercedes Lackey - Changes

“Aye,” she replied, and got up. She brushed off her skirt and walked resolutely back to Bardic Collegium. Mags watched her go and nodded with satisfaction.

::Pocket pie?:: Dallen asked hopefully.

He laughed. ::Aye, ye greedy git. I’ll find ye a pocket pie.::

::Good. Make it two.::

By the time dinner came, Dallen had been stuffed with pocket pies. Mags had found a herd of younglings hanging around the door to the Companion’s Stable, watching the door yearningly. He made it known that many of the Companions from the Kirball game were inside recuperating, that they were all partial to pocket pies, and that as long as he was there, they were welcome to come in and offer treats. The kiddies shot off like so many barn swallows chasing insects and came back with their hands full of pies.

::You know you’ve been nominated for the status of a minor god, don’t you?:: Dallen told him as he cleaned himself up a second time. Even without doing anything other than stand about answering Kirball questions or questions about being a Heraldic Trainee, he had been sweating, and he wasn’t going to change into something nice without a second wash.

A second wash! Until he’d come here, he’d never had any kind of a wash except by accident when he got rained on. On a hot day like today he not only didn’t mind a cold bath in the pump, he preferred it.

::I’ll take it,:: Mags chuckled. ::Wouldn’ mind bein’ a god. Ye kin hev m’ four an’ twenny handmaids lay out me good uniform. Take it back, ye kin send twa out here t’ wash m’back.::

He heard Dallen’s snorting laugh even outside. ::If I sent even one, you’d be blushing so hard they’d think you’d fallen into a vat of scarlet dye.::

::Oh, thet’s right. I keep fergettin’; ye’re th’ ladykiller, not me.:: He toweled off his hair vigorously. ::There. Reckon I won’t offend no ’un’s nose now, ’cause now I don’ smell like you.::

::I take back all the nice things I said about you.::

::Thet’s cause now yer stuffed too fulla pie t’move.:: He let himself into his room in the stable and got out his “good” uniform. Not his “best”—that was for fancy occasions like the special parties that Master Soren held. Or for use on the remote chance he would be required to attend some Court function or other, but that was about as likely to happen as for Dallen to sprout wings and fly.

This outfit was something new, something the Dean had decided he needed and had again found among the stored Trainee uniforms outgrown by highborn Trainees. “Best” was far more suitable for winter, being of warm materials. “Good” was for summer. The tunic and trews were light moleskin rather than canvas; they felt like soft leather but were thinner and cooler. The shirt was a very light linen of the same sort that highborn and wealthy ladies used for chemises. The boots were light leather, glove-weight. The tunic and collar and cuffs had very subtle embroidery at the hem—Lydia had told him it was called a featherstitch.

Everyone would be wearing some form of “good” clothing tonight at dinner. Most of them, except for the Bardic Trainees, would not be wearing uniforms. This was not a Collegium dinner, this was a family affair, and now that the Trainees had spent a full week with their families seeing them only in uniform, it was time for them to dress and act as part of their families for a few hours. Everyone with family visiting would be seated with them rather than among their fellows.

Dinner would also not be in the dining hall; it would be outside, in the gardens. It was the only way to accommodate all the visitors, though anyone who was not a relative was being gently ushered out the gates right now, since the big concert would be held down in Haven itself.

Mags wasn’t sure he was going to attend that. He would have gone if Lena was playing a solo but now . . .

Well, he’d see how he felt after dinner.

He ambled up to the Palace, noting that the noise had died down considerably and that a small army of people was busy cleaning up the grounds. Not that they needed much cleaning; people had been very respectful, but there were places where flowers had been trampled, things had been spilled or upset, bits of ornamentation or half-eaten treats discarded. Given how fast the folks were working, though, it wouldn’t be a candlemark before everything was set to rights. Finally, now that the sun was westering, the worst of the heat was over, and those fitful breezes had turned into a nice, soft zephyr of a wind. The picnic was actually going to be a pleasure.

He heard footsteps on the path behind him and recognized them immediately. Only one person he knew walked with that particular care, choosing each step with an eye to making as little noise as possible without actually sneaking. “We’d better hurry, or everything decent will have been snatched up,” said the King’s Own, Herald Nikolas, with a chuckle, as he came up even with Mags. “I swear, you would think these people had never had a decent meal in their lives. They’ve been devouring everything in sight all week.”

If you had to pick Nikolas out of a crowd, you would never be able to. His hair and eyes were indeterminate brownish colors, his face was so unmemorable it practically fled from your memory the moment you looked away. Part of this was just Nikolas himself, but most of it was skill, a skill he was training Mags in with particular intensity. And only with a handful of people would he have let his guard down enough to have made a remark that was something other than innocuous.

Since Mags now knew very well that when a Trainee came from a family that was living in poverty, the Crown compensated them quite generously for the loss of a working pair of hands, he laughed. No Trainee from any of the three Collegia had to endure guilt, knowing how good his life had become while his family struggled. So—no, no one who had turned up here was actually starving most of the time.

“Might be, bein’ as it’s here at the Palace, makes ’em think food mun somehow be better,” he offered. “Might jest be ’cause celebratin’ means food t’workin’ folk. But most likely ’cause ’tis stuff they never seed afore, an’ figger never t’see again.” He scratched his head. “I mind when I got ’ere, I didn’ even know what t’call ’alf uv what they gi’e me.”

“Very likely. Care to eat with me and Amily, Mags?” his mentor offered. “Bear and Lena too, of course. I—suggested to the Healers that they should keep Bear’s brother away from him for now. There’s no way to keep a confrontation from happening—family has rights, of course—but there is no reason to ruin the lad’s day, or a triumphant week for that matter. Tomorrow will be soon enough. At the moment, I don’t believe Bear even knows his brother is here.”

Mags heaved a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said sincerely. “Thet yer doin’, sir?”

“In part, in part. I’d like you and Bear to come with us to the concert as well.” Nikolas sighed a little. “We have a lot of work ahead of us, you and I, and this will probably be the last chance you’ll have for a lot of social time with your friends. You and I have a project we will have to undertake that is going to occupy every bit of your free time and probably some of your class time as well.”

Mags felt as alert as if someone had doused him with a pail of ice cold water. He waited for Nikolas to elaborate.

But it seemed he was going to have to wait. “I am not going to discuss it with you right now,” Nikolas continued. “You might as well enjoy this last truly free day without having to think about much of anything. Just remember the relaxation exercises you have learned, put this aside, and enjoy the evening.”