the street. There was a stone wall about the entire property, snow-topped, and within that wall the building faced on an area that was about half snow-covered garden and half paved courtyard.
As soon as Mags entered the courtyard, a servant appeared so quickly he might have materialized out of thin air. “If I may, sir?” he said politely, not to Mags, but to Dallen. “The stables are this way.” Now he looked up at Mags. “Master Trainee, just go up to the door and ring; someone will be with you before the sound dies away.”
Bemused, Mags dismounted; the servant did not so much as touch Dallen’s bridle. He might have been escorting a dignified gentleman. Mags’ first thought was that Dallen must have been eating that sort of treatment up.
Amused, Mags went on to the door, and rang the bell with a single pull on the strap attached to the clapper. The door flew open and another servant, even more correct than the first one, bowed slightly. “Welcome to the House of Mender, sir,” the servant said, and bowed low. “How shall I announce you?”
Mags did all these things, and the man waved him through the door, announcing at the same time in a clarion voice, “Herald-trainee Mags.” There was a small entryway into which he passed, a tiny box of a room that opened up into another space that was much, much larger.
The enormous room just past the entryway was about half full of guests, but even at only half full, there must have been more than a hundred people in it. It was at least as big as the dining hall at the Collegium. It, too, had a high ceiling, two stories tall at least, and there were many windows along the wall behind Mags. The ceiling was criss-crossed with heavy black beams, from which hung garlands of evergreen branches. The pungent pine scent filled the air, added to by the spice-and-apple scent of mulled cider. The walls were white plaster and black beams just like the outside, hung with gorgeous tapestries, and there was a huge fireplace at the end opposite the door, easily big enough to roast an entire ox. Benches lined the walls with tables between; if they were all like the one nearest Mags, they were laden with things to eat and cauldrons of hot mulled cider. People seemed to sit or stand or walk about as they fancied.
Another servant took Mags’ cloak as there was a little stir, and Master Soren came striding up to him, both hands extended in greeting. Today he was dressed as Mags would have expected a man of his rank and wealth to dress; in wine-colored velvet and fine linen, with a silver belt around his tunic and a silver chain around his neck.
“Mags! Welcome!” He took one of Mags’ hands in both his and shook it. “Come this way, and I’ll introduce you to some of my guests.”
Mags followed him with some trepidation; if Master Soren took him to meet some of the King’s advisors or other important people—well, he wasn’t certain what he would do or say.
But Soren did nothing of the kind; instead, he brought Mags to one side of the huge fireplace where, to Mags’ intense relief, there was a group of people about his age.
“Lydia, this is Mags, who found the bird in your ring. Mags, this is my niece Lydia.”
Lydia, a sweet-faced girl with a tumble of intensely red curls smiled up at him, her smile warming her eyes which were as green as fine beryls. Mags saw she was wearing the ring her uncle had bought her yesterday. “That is so clever of you! But from what Uncle says, you bought your skill rather dearly. I am glad that horrible man is not going to be able to continue as he has been.”
“There’s a mort o’ folks that’re happy about that, mistress,” Mags said, with an awkward half-smile, as Master Soren moved away. So Master Soren had told his niece, at least, quite a bit about Mags. He wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or otherwise. He finally decided to be pleased. It probably saved him a lot of awkwardness.
The girl smiled again, warmly. “Just Lydia. And this is Marc, Amily, Tomas, Saski, Jak, Renton, and Dia.”
Mags nodded in turn to each of them, fixing their names and faces together in his mind. Fortunately, he was rather good at that, and getting better all the time. Sometimes he wondered if his memory had always been this good, and he finally decided that it had been, there had just been less for him to remember, so he hadn’t noticed.
The pale young man called Tomas made a wry face. “Hope you don’t think too badly of me, Lydia, nor you, Trainee Mags, but ’tis holiday season, and I had rather
“And from the unease in his eyes, I suspect Mags would rather not talk about them,” observed round little Dia, looking at him shrewdly from deep brown eyes.
Mags nodded, though he wasn’t sure what he
“First, have some cider to warm you.” Dark Jak, whose skin was nearly as tanned as Mags’, pushed a mug into his hands, and motioned him to a seat on one of the cushioned benches.
“Then tell us what you know about those mercenaries that lot of merchants brought with them. You have to have seen them, since I know they are doing weapons work at the Palace salle.”
He blinked, and sat down gingerly. “Well,” he replied, slowly, “Aye ... but I only seen them at that salle ...”
Tomas, red-haired Marc, and Jak all nodded vigorously. All of them leaned forward eagerly.
“That’s what we want to hear about.” Somewhat to Mags surprise, it was Lydia who said that, not one of the young men. “We want to hear what their fighting technique is like.”
Well, there, at least, he was on solid conversational ground. Slowly and carefully, he described what he had observed; that they absolutely preferred to gang up on someone in a pack, who in that pack was weakest, who was strongest. With all of them hanging on his words, he detailed the style they used, and where it differed from what the Weaponsmaster taught, and how. They listened hard, nodded, and occasionally made intelligent comments or questions.
