door that presumably let the light from the room beyond pass through, and that was it for illumination.
“You won't be living on this side of the common room,” Teren told him. “This is the girls' side. The common room where you take all meals is between the boys' and girls' side. Come along, and you'll see.”
He led the way down the corridor, opened a door, and Skif preceded him into the common room. There were windows and fireplaces on both sides, and the place was full of long tables and benches, rather like an inn. Skif made a quick reckoning, and guessed it could hold seventy-five people at a time — a hundred, if they squeezed in together. “How many of them Trainees you got?” he asked, as Teren held the door in the opposite wall open for him.
“Forty-one. Twenty-six boys, fifteen girls.” Teren turned to catch his grimace. “That does make for some stiff competition among the ladies — or are you not interested in girls yet?”
“Never thought 'bout it,” he said truthfully. “Where I come from — ”
Where I come from, you don' get no girl 'less you pays for 'er, an' I got better things t'spend m' glim on, he thought. But no point in shocking this man. He'd probably go white at the thought.
“And this is your room,” Teren said, interrupting his thoughts, opening one of the doors. Eager now to put down his burdens, Skif hurried through the door.
He was very pleasantly surprised. There was a good bed, a desk and chair, a bookcase, and a wardrobe. It had its own little fireplace — no hoping to get warmth from the back of someone else's chimney! — and a window that stood open to whatever breeze might come in. All of it, from the wooden floor to the furniture to the walls, was clean and polished and in good condition, though obviously much-used. When Skif set his clothing down on the bed, he was startled to realize that it was a real mattress, properly made and stuffed with wool and goose down, not the canvas-covered straw he'd taken as a matter of course.
He had never, not once, slept on a real mattress. He'd only seen such things in the homes of the wealthy that he'd robbed.
“Grab a uniform and I'll take you to the bathing room,” Teren told him, before he could do more than marvel. “You need to get cleaned up and I'll take you down to the kitchen for something to eat. Then I'll take you to Dean Elcarth, and he can determine what classes you'll need to take.”
It didn't seem that Herald Teren had any intention of leaving Skif alone.
With a stifled sigh, Skif picked out smallclothes, a shirt, tunic, trews, and stockings, debated between the boots and the shoes and finally decided on the latter as probably being more comfortable, With an eye long used to assessing fabric, he decided that the trews and tunic must be a linen canvas, the shirt was of a finer linen, the boots of a heavier canvas with leather soles and wooden heels. Interesting that the temporary boots were of canvas rather than leather — they'd be quicker to make up, and a lot more forgiving to feet that weren't used to boots. Or even shoes — some of the farmboys who came in to the markets went barefoot even in the city, right up until the snow fell.
Trailing behind the Herald, wondering if the man considered himself to be guide or guard, Skif left his room.
The bathing room was a shock. Copper boilers to heat the water, one with a fire under it already, pumps to fill them, pipes carrying cold and hot water to enormous tubs and commodious basins, boxes of soft, sage-scented soap and piles of towels everywhere —
Skif forgot Teren's presence entirely. No matter how hot it was, he reveled in a bath like no one he knew had ever enjoyed. He soaked and soaked until the aches of that horrible ride with Cymry were considerably eased and he felt cleaner than he ever had in his whole life.
In fact, it was only after he'd dried off (using a towel softer than any blanket he'd ever owned) and was half dressed in the new clothing that Teren spoke, waking him to the Herald's presence.
“Mop up your drips with the towel you used, and wipe out the tub, then drop the towel down that chute over there. Send your old clothing after it.” Teren nodded toward a square opening in the wall between two basins, and Skif finished dressing, then obeyed him. How long had he been there? Had he left while Skif was filling the tub? It bothered him that he couldn't remember.
I always know where people are. Am I losing my edge?
Teren waited for him by the door, but held out a hand to stop him before he went back through it. “Hold still a moment, would you?” he asked, and put a single finger under Skif's chin, turning his face back into the light from the windows. “I thought most of that was dirt,” he said contritely. “I beg your pardon, Skif. Before I take you to Elcarth, I'd like you to see a Healer for that nose and eye.”
Another moment of mixed reaction — a little resentment that the man would think he was so slovenly that he'd have that much dirt on his face, and small wonder that the House keeper had been so abrupt! But that was mingled with more astonishment. A Healer? For a broken nose?
But within moments, he found himself sitting across from a green-clad Healer, a fairly nondescript fellow, who examined him briskly, said “This will only hurt for a moment,” and grabbed his nose and pulled.
