Redoubt (11 page)

Often he had cried himself to sleep, unable to understand why he could not have the
food he smelled, or tired and worn out with work he was barely strong enough to perform.
But once he had been banished from the kitchen to the mine itself, and a hammer and
handpick put in his little hands, he dimly began to think of the kitchen as paradise.
The older he got, the more like paradise it seemed. When he and the others sluiced
the gravel in winter with water just barely above freezing, he would think bitterly
of the relative pleasure of scrubbing crusted pots in water that was at least
warm.
When he and the others huddled together under the barn floor in their sleeping pit,
fighting over scraps of blanket, he would remember how he could press his back against
the bricks of the hearth and be comfortable all night. When he managed to steal burned
bread or otherwise ruined food from the pig buckets before they went into the trough,
he would think of how his caretaker had picked the least-burned bits out of the husk
and fed them alternately to herself and him.

So, all things considered . . . he found himself quite content to scrub dishes here
in the Collegium kitchens, in good, hot water, with plenty of soap, conscious of a
full stomach and the cheerful chatter of his fellow Trainees. Knowing that when he
went to bed tonight it would be in a real bed, and he would sleep without being kicked
awake, and . . . he just found himself marveling all over again at the change in his
life.

There were not as many dishes to be washed as he had anticipated, although there were
plenty to keep him and the other Trainees busy until sunset. He was freed just in
time to run down to the stables and change into his
other
Trainee “best.”

When he had first started coming out of his shell here at the Collegium, he had made
the accidental acquaintance of Master Soren, advising him that a gem he intended to
buy for his niece Lydia was flawed. Soren had invited Mags to his Midwinter open house,
and when Dean Caelen was advised of this, the Dean had known he had nothing in the
way of clothing that would pass muster on such an occasion.

Fortunately, there were easy remedies for this.

All Trainees were supposed to wear the same uniform. But, of course, there were Trainees
who were highborn, and wearing the common uniform at something
outside
the Collegium could make them stand out in a way that was flattering neither to them
nor to the Collegium. So wealthy or highborn Trainees were permitted to have uniforms
made of finer materials, to be worn only outside of the Collegia—provided that those
uniforms went into the common pool once they were outgrown.

So Mags had been given one of those. He had more than one set now, a couple for winter
that were made of heavier velvet and fine wool, and some of lightweight and supple
leather and fine linen for warmer weather.

And, of course, thanks to the wedding, now every Trainee had one especially good outfit
of formal Grays that were the equivalent of formal Whites—but Mags’ new wedding gear
was very much in need of cleaning, so his second set would have to do. Any deficiencies
in it would be covered by the fact that it would only be seen by lantern and torchlight.

:Go get Amily, would you?:
he begged Dallen, as he cleaned up and changed
. :I don’ want her tired out, and she’s done a mort of walkin’ these past three days.:

:Not only will I do that, I’ll make sure that her father insists she ride me,:
Dallen replied.
:We’ll meet you at the stands.:

Several grandstands had been set up beside the river for this procession, but, of
course, the best were in the middle and were reserved for the King, Queen, Heir, and
Princess, and their respective entourages. Mags had only just learned that the term
“Court” did not actually refer to what he had
thought
it did—the collection of highborn and wealthy folks who thronged the rooms of the
Palace by day, some of whom actually lived in the Palace, some of whom lived in their
great manors outside the walls of the Palace and Collegium up here on the Hill, and
some of whom lived far from Haven and only put in an appearance in winter, when the
business of running their estates was fundamentally over.

Most people used “Court” to mean all those people, but it was not entirely accurate.
There were—or would be—
four
Courts now. There had been two. The King’s was composed of his gentlemen, his advisors,
and his officials. It was almost entirely male. The Queen had her own Court, much
smaller, consisting of her ladies-in-waiting. Now that he was back in Haven and taking
his place at the King’s side, the Heir had his as well, consisting of his gentlemen
and friends, although he himself actually belonged to the King’s Court. And now the
new Princess would have a Court of her own, smaller than the Queen’s, though she was
also part of the Queen’s Court. Of all these four Courts, the Prince’s was the one
that was most under the control of its head; no one expected the Prince to have anyone
in his Court except his particular friends. In fact, it would have been shocking to
discover that Kingdom business of
any
sort might be negotiated with the Prince. He was supposed to remain his father’s
subordinate until the King died or handed over the reins. The other three Courts,
however, were very much subject, not to the wills of the King, Queen, or Princess,
but to politics.

Court
also meant the formal session held every day during which the King made pronouncements
and held judgment on matters of state and between his courtiers.

Mags had never quite realized it before, but most of the people who hung about the
Palace were male; although the ladies-in-waiting might have their entire families
here if their husbands were part of the King’s Court, that was rare, and the Gentlemen
of the King’s Court and the Prince’s Court generally were on their own or had only
their eldest sons with them. This made the place a very desirable hunting ground for
any mother hoping to marry off daughters and for daughters wishing to marry well.
So positions in the Queen’s Court, and in the new Princess’ Court, were greatly desired.

All of this had gone right past him. Maybe it had just been because he was male, and
males (even the ones in Court!) were often oblivious to such things. It was Amily
who had introduced him to these realities in the weeks before the wedding, while she
was recovering from her surgery. It had made his head reel, to think of all of this
white-hot jousting and jockeying that had been going on under his nose without him
ever being aware of it.

“The Courts are like a swan,”
she had said with a chuckle.
“Serene on the surface, with furious activity below.”

So tonight he and Amily were going to be actually useful to Lydia. There would be
twice as many young ladies in the stands around the Princess than there were places
in her Court—quite literally, because they would all have rooms in her section of
the Palace, and there were only so many rooms to be had. It was true that there were
young ladies who would be
part
of her Court who would be living in their parents’ stately mansions outside the walls,
but they would not be her actual ladies-in-waiting. It was the ones who would be living
together in the close confines of the Palace walls, sharing rooms, that were the concern.
He and Amily were going to have to try to help Lydia choose a set of ladies-in-waiting
who were unlikely to ignite a firestorm of infighting.

Thank goodness that breeze was still blowing. At least he wouldn’t have to try to
decide if a flare of temper was due to being overheated and overstimulated, or due
to genuine ill will.

He arrived at dusk as the lanterns and torches were being lit. There were pages at
the ends of the grandstands to show the guests to their proper seats. One of them
caught his eye and motioned to him; Mags went to the boy. “Amily’ll be along—ah, she’s
here,” he said, catching a glimpse of Dallen coming through the crowd, which parted
to let a Companion through. He lifted her down off Dallen’s back, rather than cause
her to crease her gown, which suited her admirably. For once, she wasn’t dressed to
hide, she was dressed to fit in. In this case, to fit in with Lydia’s potential ladies.
Her gown was of the finest linen, soft and supple and, as he was aware, an extremely
expensive fabric. It was hard to tell exactly what color it was in the torchlight,
which made everything look yellowish, but he thought it was a dark gold. It had been
trimmed in woven bands in a geometric pattern, and a wider version of the same served
her as a belt that passed twice around her waist with two lengths depending from a
knot in front.

She had a flower wreath with ribbons at the back around her dark hair instead of a
jeweled filet, as did many of the ladies, and Mags thought she looked wonderful.

The page took them to their place, at the back and top of the grandstand. Lydia was
at the front, of course, with some of the more important of her guests and potential
ladies, but also with some of her closest friends. From the back Mags and Amily had
a fine view not only of the river but also of everyone in front of them.

He relaxed and eased his shields down just slightly. Not enough to be bombarded by
thoughts, just enough to get telling, strong fragments.

As the stands filled, he and Amily watched the young ladies below them while appearing
to be engrossed in each other. Most of the young ladies were, in fact, watching the
young men in the Prince’s entourage rather than each other. A few were actually eyeing
some of the older men in the
King’s
train with some covert avidity. One of them, somewhat to his amazement, was openly
trying to flirt with one of the Guildmasters, who was easily old enough to be her
grandfather.

:She knows what she’s doing,:
Dallen said dryly.
:Large title, small fortune, and her brother will get all of it. She reckons to be
a young, wealthy widow, and she supposes a few years of serving an old man is a small
price to pay.:

Well, that made sense, he supposed, especially since very few marriages at this level
of wealth or title were love matches. And it wasn’t his job—thanks be to the gods—to
pick out who was and was not suitable to be one of Lydia’s ladies. It was only his
job to observe and report.

Amily knew them all by name and was making careful notes, covertly, in a little book
that hung from her belt. Mags, who did not know them at all (except for Lydia’s friends),
murmured his observations to her.

And somehow in all of this, they even managed to enjoy the lighted tableaus on the
barges and the music coming from the bridge. Some were scenes from legend or history,
others were just general “scenes”—like a pair of shepherd and shepherdess lovers and
their sheep, or gods among clouds. The barges probably looked tawdry in daylight and
up close, but at night and lit only by their lanterns, they looked magical.

And the music was certainly wonderful, with a special short piece for each tableau.

It was, however, a very long pageant, and it came at the end of three very long and
(for Mags at least) very active days. By the time it was over, he knew he was not
going to be among those who were having one last loft party—and Amily herself was
yawning.

“I think ye’d better go back by Dallen,” he whispered to her, and she was so tired
she just nodded.

“I think I am going to be able to stay awake just long enough to write down my notes
in a way that someone other than myself can read them,” she confessed.

He stole a kiss under cover of getting her on Dallen’s back, and a second when she
leaned down to bid him good night. The second kiss was quite long, and rather warm,
and kept him in a pleasant state of satisfaction right until he opened his windows
for the night breeze, lay down, and closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again—it was morning.

Morning and, he realized with a touch of regret as he rousted himself out of bed,
back to classes and the regular schedule of the Collegium.

* * *

“Well,” Bear said three days later at luncheon, leaning over the table in a conspiratorial
manner as the others helped themselves to fruit mixed with a little beaten cream.
“You’ve had time to think about it. So?”

Mags didn’t have to ask what Bear meant. And Bear was right, he
had
had time to think about it. He’d even asked Dallen’s opinion a second time. And he
thought he had an answer.

“Ye’re still set on this, aye?” he asked.

Bear nodded.

“Elope.”

If he hadn’t been trying so hard to keep his face sober, he’d have laughed aloud at
the expression on Bear’s. He looked as utterly dumbfounded as if he had been presented
with a singing pig. “What?” Bear stammered, finally.

“Elope,” Mags repeated. “Dallen says ’tis easier t’ask fergiveness than permission.
Ye know that priest down in Haven what tends to the poor folk—ye help him all th’
time. Ye know he’ll help ye in turn. You an’ Lena just go down there an’ ask him t’marry
ye, an’ I bet he will, without much question. Then ye come back up here an’ tell the
Deans ye’re married, an’ what ye intend t’do with yerselves. They’ll see ye thought
it all out, an’ it’s mortal hard t’ unmarry someone that’s been priest-married if
they don’ want t’be unmarried. So there. Elope. Then ask fergiveness.”

He sat back. Bear remained where he was, blinking blankly for a good long time.

Then he got up without a word and went out.

* * *

“I need you to come with me.”

Mags looked up from the book he was studying and blinked in surprise to see Bear standing
next to him as he sat at his table, trying to puzzle out some sort of complicated
etiquette.

How had Bear managed to sneak up on him?

Granted, he had all the windows and the door to his room wide open for the breeze,
and granted, there was plenty of sound from both outside and inside the stable to
cover any footsteps. But—