Foundation

and Dallen rode a grueling obstacle course which left both of them sore and tired. He gave Dallen a good rubdown, got another hot bath and a change of uniform, then went looking for some food.

It was late by luncheon standards, and it looked as if a plague of rats had overrun the table where the luncheon foods were laid out. There were mostly empty plates and crumbs, although those crumbs would easily have filled up one of the smaller kiddies back at the mine. But he found pieces of cheese here and there, the ends of a couple of loaves, a forgotten piece of ham and a few hard-boiled eggs, and plenty of pickles. He felt well satisfied with his gleanings, and was about to carry it all back to his room. That was when Dallen Mindspoke him.

:Herald Caelen is looking for you. I told Peshta to tell him you would come to his office.:

Well, that was convenient. It was the first time that Dallen had done anything of the sort like that, relaying a message, but Mags could see how useful it was. He borrowed one of the baskets that had held the bread, wrapped his luncheon in the napkin that was still in it, and went on up to Caelen’s office. Once again he was struck by how noisy the Collegium was, with the sounds of hammers and other tools echoing down the empty corridors.

“Mags!” the head of the Collegium greeted him, perhaps sensing his presence with some Gift or other, before he even came into view. “I told you I would sort something out about things to wear to Master Soren’s Midwinter festivities, and I have. Come along, I have a stack of things for you.”

Curious now, Mags hurried to do as he was requested. The office was a good bit cleaner; the number of books was at least halved. Evidently, the workmen had been putting in good progress on the Collegium library.

Herald Caelen indicated a pile of folded gray fabric on one of the chairs. “Some of our Heralds have been highborn or very wealthy, you know,” he said with a smile. “And even though they are supposed to wear the same uniforms as the rest of the Trainees, you can’t keep their parents from having nonregulation Grays made for them. I just canvassed the Heralds assigned to the City and those that were visiting their families here at Court until I found three sets of personally tailored Grays that I thought would fit you.”

Nonregulation Grays? Mags picked up the topmost garment from the pile and the soft fabric caught a little on his rough hand. A few moons ago he wouldn’t have known what these things were except soft. Now he had names for them; velvet and damask, doeskin leather, lambswool. No one looking at these Grays would mistake them for the sort worn for classes and more physical lessons; the cut was the same, and the design, but that was where the resemblance ended.

Mags had names for these fabrics, but he had never actually expected to touch any of them, much less wear them himself.

“They told me that you might as well keep these, Mags. They’re never going to wear them again, and any youngling in their families that gets Chosen will have his own sets of Grays made to fit him. Or maybe I should say, ‘made to fit him exactly’ The highborn never seem to run out of money for new clothing.” He shook his head. “Well, everyone I went to said the same thing—they’re never going to wear these, obviously, there is no point in them going to waste, so I should take them. Which is not a bad thing at all, since now I’ll have some fine uniforms on hand the next time one of you Trainees needs such a thing, and with as much as I had to pick from, I was able to get you more than one change of clothing. There’s a couple sets of boots there, too,” the Herald added. “Yours are beginning to look a bit grim.”

Well, that was true. They’d never actually matched his Grays, since they were the ones he’d gotten from the Guards, and were really “civilian” boots that had been outgrown and returned to their storerooms. And they had only fit with three pairs of stockings. Not that he was complaining. Not when, for the first time in his life, he had warm feet in the winter. Feet like his could take anything a badly fitting pair of boots could deliver, and not even feel it.

At Caelen’s urging, he picked up the whole pile and carried it off to his room, not forgetting his lunch, of course. And at Dallen’s insistence, once he was done eating, he put on one of the outfits. Instead of canvas tunic and trews, and heavy wool shirt, he found himself in elegant doeskin tunic and trews, and a shirt of lambswool so fine and soft it felt as if it would float. There were hose that matched the shirt, and the deer-hide boots that matched the tunic fit his feet as if they had been made for him. But they hadn’t; there were subtle signs of wear on all of these things that made it clear they were second-hand. Not that he cared about a little wear. The outfit, except for the boots, was a little big, but that was easily fixed with the matching belt. When he was clothed, he turned this way and that, trying to see himself.

:Come out, and I will show you a trick.: Dallen sounded uncommonly merry, and Mags obliged, stepping back out into the stable and facing his Companion, who was hanging his head over the top of his stall.

:Now look—do this with your mind, and this, and ... there you are. Now you can look at yourself through my eyes.:

And sure enough, he could. It startled him. He was used to seeing himself in the wall of mirrors at the salle, but now he looked ... elegant? He looked like the sort of fellow that those mercenaries would not dare touch, for fear of reprisals. His black hair and tanned skin looked a little startling against the gray of his clothing. He straightened, and tucked a thumb in his belt, and smiled at himself.

“I wouldn’ know me,” he said aloud, and with that, he was looking out of his own eyes again. “Huh. That was diffrent.”

:You look quite respectable.:

He smiled. :Yah, I do.:

:So let’s go to Master Soren’s home.:

That startled him. :What, now? But:

:We’ve nothing in particular to do, and he keeps a Midwinter open house, as you have been told. You showed that you are not some social climber by not rushing over there at once. If he did not want you to come, he would not have invited you. So let’s go.: Dallen shook his head impatiently and stamped one hoof.

Mags might have tried to argue, but he could think of no good reasons not to go. So, with a sigh, he gave in, saddled Dallen and put on the special bitless bridle that Companions wore, and the two of them trotted out into the afternoon sun.

Somewhat to Mags’ relief, Master Soren did not live in one of the first-tier dwellings, the constructions that were little palaces unto themselves. His home was down in the second tier of the “merely” wealthy. It had nothing to distinguish it from the other half-timbered stone-and-plaster homes except that unlike theirs, the gate was standing wide open, there were lights in virtually every window, and the sounds of music and voices carried out to