Intrigues

into his pocket and pulled out the two small rectangular pastries—a special treat for the colder day from the kitchen staff. They were a handy way to take the dessert out of the dining hall and eat it later, they kept your hands warm, and the students always appreciated them. It took a little more effort to make the individual pies, but then again, the dining hall tended to clear that much faster if the food was taken out. That meant the dishes could be worked on faster, tables wiped, floor mopped and the whole job done that much sooner. Everyone benefited.

The door banged open again, showing that Mags wasn’t the only Gray-wearer that had thought to take the chance of a few stolen moments with his or her Companion. Possibly with an extra pie to share as well. Companions did have a sweet tooth. He didn’t bother to see who it was; if they wanted to talk to him they’d already know he was here. And if they wanted privacy he wasn’t going to invade it.

Mags watched the pie vanish as Dallen practically inhaled it.

“I got no idea why you like ’em so much,” he said, “considerin’ that you couldn’t possibly taste it. I’d be surprised if it e’en touched yer tongue.”

Mags took a bite out of his own pie. It was delicious; it tasted as if the apples had been picked today, which was remarkable, considering it was probably made from dried apples from last year. The head cook did pride himself on making food for well over a hundred people still taste as though it was made for a small family meal. He almost always succeeded. Luncheon today, for instance... Mags licked his lips, thinking about it. Thick bean soup with bacon in it, winter greens cooked with ham hocks, lots of bread so fresh from the oven it burned your hands a little as you cut open the rolls and spread them with butter. “Good plain food and plenty of it is what these younglings need,” was what he’d overheard the man saying. “And if the highborn are too good for it, they can go and eat elsewhere.” Well, if this was “good, plain food,” he really didn’t want to eat with the highborn. His head would probably explode.

And, of course, after this luncheon there had been the pocket pies waiting to be taken away at the door instead of regular pies on the table. There were always pies. The cook reckoned pie was a good way to share out fruit now that it was winter, and make it last. Another undreamed-of luxury. At the mine, the only time he ever tasted anything sweet was chewing the ends of clover-blossoms, stealing honey from a wild-bee nest, or grubbing something sweet and burned out of the pig-food.

:I taste my pie just fine, thank you. So, do you feel that you are getting on in classes now?: asked Dallen, his enormous tongue licking teeth and lips and curling up around his nose in an effort to retrieve every crumb and speck of sugar, honey and spices. :Sometimes it’s hard to separate your general air of anxiety from things you and I genuinely need to address.:

:Not doing too badly,: responded the boy in kind, thinking, as he took another bite from the pastry, how he was glad to be able to use Mindspeech. It allowed him to “talk” and eat at the same time. :I think I’m gettin’ better at the history. An’ I like figurin’, but today they started givin’ us this stuff they call geometry, an’ it just makes my head spin. Lena’s not as much help there as she is with history. I can’t imagine why we need anythin’ past sums and all. I ain’t going to be an artificer!: The thought of the morning maths class made him sweat a little. Angles and unknowns and calculations, and nothing as straightforward as adding or subtracting.

:No, you aren’t, but you still need to have a grasp of such things when you go out to the villages. It’s not just artificers that need geometry. It’s part of a Herald’s duty to reset boundary markers after a flood or some other disaster, and to check them when there is a dispute over land.: Dallen nodded thoughtfully, and Mags got one of those mental glimpses of a Herald—as usual, someone he didn’t know—laboring over calculations, then going out to reset boundary stones while two farmers watched him, waiting for the slightest hint of favoritism. :All too often, especially well away from Haven, a Herald is the closest thing to an expert that some villager may have to depend upon for help. That’s why, for example, you take quite a lot of wound-tending and basic healing classes. Nobody expects you to be a Healer—but there might be times when someone is hurt, and you’re all they’ve got.:

Try as he might, he couldn’t picture himself in that position of authority. It still made his brow knit, and sometimes his head hurt, to think that some day someone would be depending on, listening to, him. Impossible. Who would ever believe in him?

:I believe in you. And anyway, it’s not whether people believe in you, personally. When you turn up on Circuit, they won’t know you, and they don’t have to. They believe in the uniform and what the uniform represents. They don’t care who is inside that uniform as long as he makes good decisions, because the uniform is what they trust.:

Mags chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. There was one thing he could imagine himself doing. He could easily see himself standing between danger and people who couldn’t defend themselves. After all, he’d already done that, hadn’t he? He’d put himself in danger to save Bear. And before that... he’d given all the information that the Heralds needed to shut down the mine and save the rest of the slaveys.

He shuddered involuntarily when he thought of the revenge his old master might take, if ever he discovered who had betrayed him, and said, with forced levity, “I reckon I might, one day, need th’ healin’ stuff for m’self. I heerd wha’ th’ real Heralds call th’ Whites. ‘Oh Shoot Me Now.’ ”

Oh yes. Being a Herald was dangerous. Sometimes he was glad of that... it was rather like an “I have good news and bad news” scenario. “The good news is that you are going to be respected and all your needs and wants will be taken care of forever. The bad news is that your new name is ‘Target.’ ” Sometimes he was relieved because he just could not bring himself to believe in this life unless there was a steep cost attached.

And sometimes he was terrified. So despite his casual words, there was a little chill down his neck when he thought about using the Healing skills he was getting on himself. It had gotten dreadfully close to that when he’d helped save Bear.

Dallen gave Mags a piercing look. :I won’t pretend it’s not possible, but it will be a good long time before you ever need to worry about being in that position. You have years of learning ahead of you. And who knows? You might end up being stationed in Haven or some other city and never go out on circuit at all. All right?:

Dallen’s mind-voice had an undertone of anxiety. Mags smiled, and rubbed his cheek against his Companion’s neck. “I’m not gonna worrit ’bout it. Just—s’ppose ’tis a good reason t’ keep payin’ more attention in harder classes, belike. ’Specially if they involve bandages!” He laughed a little. “I got a long ways t’ go afore I’m catched up wi’ ev’one else, anyway. By time I get Whites, I’ll prolly be white-haired t’ match!”

He worked on Dallen until the Companion’s thick winter coat was as soft and clean as the down from a new pillow, and his mane and tail as shiny as silk. He carefully saved away all the long mane and tail hairs for later braiding, now that he knew just how much people valued the little trinkets Dallen had taught him to make with Companion and horse-hair. He even had a little net-bag hung up on a nail in the stall to collect the hair in. He’d wind what he collected into a little circle and carefully stick it into the bag, as he did now.

With Dallen clean and under his blanket again, Mags looked out of the stall. “ ’Tween you and me, when I come in like that, Rolan looked as though I’d spoilt his best chat-up lines. Was he on ’bout business—or pleasure?”

Behind him, Dallen made a noise that closely resembled a snicker. :It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you did interrupt him flirting, you know. Not that he would ever come off his dignity to admit it. I’m pretty sure that most of the mares have a crush on him.:

Mags turned and cocked his head. “Reckon he’s poachin’ in yer woods, Dallen?” He grinned.

Again the stallion snickered. :I’ll have you know that, pure resplendent perfection that I am, I’m in no danger of losing a light’o’love even to Rolan. It’s not as if I’m languishing away in this this box waiting for you to visit.: He managed to curvette and prance in place like a showy parade horse.

Mags had to laugh.

:Though I must admit that it does help that you are so attentive with the grooming. It puts the polish on what is already exquisite.: Dallen curved his neck and struck a pose.

“An’ modest too!” Mags chuckled.

:But of course. It is part of what makes me so lovable.: Dallen batted his enormous blue eyes at Mags.

He had to chuckle even more. “I swear, yer worse’n one’a them court fellers. Next thing, ye’ll be wantin’ me t’ find ye a silk’n’velvet blanket ’cause wool just don’t show off yer coat good ’nough.”

:Hmm. You think?: Dallen paused just long enough for Mags to begin to wonder if