Collegia complex. Mags hardly dared look at the enormous homes of the highborn, now that he knew what they were. Crowded closely together, they occupied every inch of space around the Palace, and most were decorated with banners and garlands of evergreen branches, holly, and other indications that this was a festive season. There was a great deal of coming and going, too, mostly of young children with escorting adults.
:Morning is the time for small children’s parties,: Dallen informed him. :Afternoon for those from about twelve to fifteen. Evening is for the adults and those old enough to be married. Every child and adult will attend at least one party every day during this season, and most will attend two or even three.:
Mags stared at one of the houses, where so many tots were streaming in the front door that it looked like a procession of ants, and blinked. :Is that all them highborn do?:, he asked. :Go to parties?:
He’d never been to an actual party, unless you counted the “feasts” that were held for the mine kiddies in order to make it look as if they were taken care of well. There had been several at the Collegium since he had arrived; he’d heard laughter and conversation from them as he had passed open doors, and took a shy glance out of the corner of his eye, but he’d not been invited. Parties looked like they were fun. Music and talking and food. And games, though he didn’t think he would be any good at games. The only games he knew were gambling ones, and that was mostly from watching rather than playing.
:Oh, going to parties is very serious business for the highborn,: Dallen replied shrewdly. :First, you must make sure you are invited to the right parties. Then, you must make sure when you get there that you have brought the right sort of gift, and associate with the right people. You must seem to be having a good time, without seeming to be having too good a time, because then people might wonder what you thought you needed to prove, or if you were hiding something. Once you are with the right people, you must make certain that they are aware that you also are the right sort of person. You mustn’t arrive too early, or leave too late. Your arrival should cause a stirring of interest, your departure go unnoticed. You must talk about the right things when you are with the right sort of people, and of nothing if you happen momentarily to be stuck amongst the wrong sort. You must dance, and again, with the right people. You must not dance anything too country, for that is too old-fashioned:
:What are the right sort of people?: he asked, watching the kiddies in their brightly colored clothing being shooed along like so many rainbow-hued hens by the black-clad nursemaids. Each of them wore more clothing than any six of the mine kiddies put together. Did a child really need boots, leggings, undergown, overgown, shawl and coat, plus mittens and a hat? They were so bundled up they looked like yarn balls.
:In general, people that are higher in rank than you, although there are the occasional exceptions, like an especially honored scholar, Guardsman, exceedingly wealthy merchant, or anyone else who is currently being lionized.: Dallen sounded as if he had been to one of these parties personally.
:Children, too?: Mags asked, wondering how children could possibly be expected to act like anything other than children. Granted, the mine kiddies hadn’t acted like children, but the mine kiddies had incentive in the form of beatings and the loss of food to make them forget about playing and settle down to work.
:Children, too,: Dallen replied, then added :Usually, it is their nurses that are the ones to make sure that their charges are seen with the right people, but yes. Children, too.:
A moment before, he had been envying them. Not now. It would be exhausting.
:Oh, and did I mention that if you are of the female persuasion you must wear a different dress to each party? Or, at least, appear to do so.:
That was sheer insanity.
:The ones old enough to marry are expected to use this season to hunt down a suitable partner among the right people,: Dallen continued, :I have to say that I do not favor Midwinter among the highborn and the wealthy. It becomes a season of partial madness, with everyone scrambling to further themselves or their families, and almost no one getting so much as a crumb of pleasure out of it.:
Mags blinked. :Not real fond of them, eh?:
Dallen snorted and bobbed his head, :I have my reasons.:
Whatever those reasons were, Dallen did not elaborate. Instead, he quickened his pace through the area, trotting briskly on the hard-packed snow that covered the road. Mags wondered why they had not cleared it off, then his question was answered when he saw the sled pulled by two matching chestnut mares. It was obvious then. It was better to glide on runners than try to control a wheeled vehicle as it bounced over ruts in the snow.
They passed quickly through the area where the merely wealthy lived, then the well-to-do, all of which were so much grander than the Pieters’ house that Mags wished with some amusement Cole Pieters could see them. He’d have gone scarlet with anger and envy.
The farther out from the Palace they got, the more crowded the streets became, until at last, Dallen slowed down to an amble and then moved out of the way of traffic and came to a stop in an open square that was filled with what looked like open-sided tents, each tent holding one or more people with things spread out on tables before them and other people crowded around.
:Midwinter Market,: said Dallen. :Go walk about and look. Enjoy yourself. No one will trouble you, wearing that uniform.:
Mags dismounted, and eased himself into the crowd.
Unlike most of the people here, he was too interested in watching what the people were doing to look at what the booths held. Now, while they were engaged in trying to find gifts, they tended not to control their expressions. Some looked bored, or harried; some had the look of a person who knows exactly what he wants and is only hunting for the best possible price. Some looked worried, some uncertain. Some had a kind of serene and happy look to them. Some—rather few—bore a contented, almost lazy look. Those last, Mags thought, had probably already gotten all the gifts they needed, and were just enjoying the market itself.
Booth tenders either huddled with potential customers or cried their wares aloud. Mags ignored this for the most part, until a few words caught his ear.
“... the finest of yellow topaz ...”
