Foundation

biceps. In fact, so far, Mags hadn’t seen any women here at all. Which was interesting, because Master Cole had very firm ideas about what was “man’s work” and what was not, which meant there would have to be an awful lot of men doing “women’s work” here if there were no women about.

:Cole Pieters is wrong about most things.: Dallen sounded amused. :And the few he is right about, he is right entirely by accident:

Mags nearly choked on his porridge, which caused one of the kitchen staff to make a detour, fetch a mug and pour it full of something, and plunk it down next to Mags, all without missing a beat in his other task. Mags looked at it. It wasn’t water ... it was hot.

:Herb tea. You will like it. Be careful not to burn your mouth.:

The novel sensation of drinking something hot—and flavored—was startling, and a pleasure he had never expected. For that matter, being able to drink water that was fresh and clean, not out of the sluice and full of silt, or stale from sitting in a mildewed bucket all day, or metallic-tasting mine water, had been an unanticipated pleasure. The only time he had ever been able to drink clean water was when he had escaped for a bit to hunt wild food and got a drink from the stream where he went to hunt cress.

The food was doing more than just fill his stomach, it was filling his senses. His nose was so full of the aroma of the tea, all sweet and green, that he felt as if he was floating in it. The porridge had left the flavor of honey and currants in his mouth. And this all seemed to be waking up his thoughts, too. He found himself with a newly-aroused smoldering anger at Cole Pieters. How hard would it have been to give the kiddies clean water to drink? How hard would it have been to give them hot water to drink in the winter? It didn’t even need any flavoring in it, and the fires were going for the cooking already. That simple device would have cost nothing, yet would have made such a difference ....

:Cole Pieters is a vile, cruel man,: Dallen said, his thoughts gone cold and hard. :And no one was aware just how vile and cruel he is until now. He will be dealt with.:

Dallen gave him nothing more, shutting off the thought, leaving Mags wondering just what “dealt with” meant.

Mags was carefully scraping the last little bit of the porridge out of the bowl and sucking the last of the sweetness off the spoon when Herald Jakyr came ambling into the kitchen. He was immediately greeted not only by the Healer, but by the cook as well, and his presence evoked smiles from the rest of the staff. He seemed to be a great favorite—the helper in charge of the bread pressed a roll hot from the oven on him, the one in charge of soup begged him to taste it, and the cook himself carved a bit off a haunch of bacon and fried it then and there, to add to the roll. Mags was ignored, which was exactly the way he liked it. He sat and sipped his tea while the adults discussed him as if he was not there.

“The boy’s not fit to travel, Jakyr,” the Healer said firmly, as Jakyr munched on his snack and the kitchen staff went back to work. “Maybe if it was summer—but he’s malnourished and overworked, and travel with winter coming on, even Companion-back ... I wouldn’t advise it. You’ll be courting sickness with him, and what if you’re caught in weather? What if he got sick and you were stuck in some Waystation somewhere?”

I’m keeping the Herald from going somewhere—The thought suffused him with guilt and apprehension, both of which were blown away like mist in the wind by Jakyr’s next words before Dallen could say anything other than start that wordless reassurance again.

“I’ve a bit to do here yet, and I’m not averse to a rest. There’s nothing that urgent waiting for me at Haven that we can’t afford to let the lad rest and at least start to get some meat on him.” Jakyr even seemed a bit relieved. “I’ve friends enough here to make a pleasure out of necessity.”

“And if something urgent should come up?” the Healer persisted, his brows furrowed.

“Then I’ll go back alone, and one of the Guard can give the boy an escort to Haven.” Jakyr smiled as the Healer nodded with satisfaction. “And if, because of that, they go at a horse’s pace and not a Companion’s, well, that will do no harm.”

“I want that boy eatin’ meat afore you take him out of here,” the cook tossed over his shoulder, with a scowl. “Gods’ a-mercy, if the rest of them mine kids look’s bad as him, I’m tempted, sore tempted, to ride over there meself and thrash the bastard till he bleeds.”

“It’s being dealt with, Scully, never fear,” was all that Herald Jakyr said, the same words that Dallen had used. But Mags had no chance to think much about that, since the Healer whisked him away for that threatened bath.

Only this time he didn’t have anyone scrubbing at him with floor brushes; in fact, he was left quite alone, and to be honest, he would have been at a bit of a loss if Dallen hadn’t told him what to do and how to do it. Soap, that was new. Hot water enough to drown in. More outgrown clothing was waiting for him, dropped off by some young fellow of the Guard, when he got himself well dried off. It, like the last batch, was a bit oversized but soft and warm, and without tears or holes of any sort.

Then he was at a complete loss. Never in all of his life, had he ever had a moment when he was not doing something, except when he was asleep. It was a strange feeling, unsettling, and once again he felt as if the world had suddenly turned upside down. And although he still found himself wrapped in that calm lassitude, he wasn’t sleepy as such. He finished cleaning up the room where the baths were so that it was in the same pristine state it had been before, and then stood there in the damp heat, wondering what to do with himself. His hands twitched a little. His body knew what it expected to be doing—it expected him to be down in the mine. What was he supposed to do with himself?

:Would you like to read a real book?:

Of all the things that Dallen could have said, that was one that took him utterly by surprise. His mute assent led Dallen to direct him down a hall and up two flights of stairs to a small room that was comfortably warm and lit with two of those large glazed windows. There were heavily cushioned benches beneath both of them, and the walls were lined with cases crammed with something he had never seen before, but which the memories he had gotten poured into his mind told him were those mysterious objects—books. Row upon row of them, thick ones, thin ones, bound in all manner and colors of cloth and leather. The room had a smell like nothing he had ever known; leather, but also an odd, faint, sharpish smell, and a hint of dust. The scent Dallen identified for him as peculiar to books. He stared at them avidly. There must be so many things in those books, and he wanted to read them all.

But which one to start with? There was no way of telling what was inside any of them.

:Let me look through your eyes,: Dallen suggested, and when Mags gave him a