Closer to the Chest Read online

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  The Court was finally over. The King shooed her off, retiring to the privacy of his own quarters with an expression of relief. The courtiers dispersed; some few going to their rooms and suites in the Palace, most returning to their sumptuous homes up here on the Hill. In the absence of any formal entertainment scheduled for tonight, some would return to mingle in the Greater Throne Room or the Great Hall or the gardens. Others would have entertainment planned at their own homes. And Amily would have a rare evening off.

  She cut through the gardens to get to the quarters she shared with Mags—quarters not in Heralds’ Wing, in the suite of rooms formerly reserved for the King’s Own, but a nice, cozy sitting room and bedroom attached to Healer’s Collegium. The gardens were empty, or nearly, at this hour, and Amily took her time meandering down the path that would end at the greenhouse-end of Healer’s Collegium. :It seems like the only time I ever get to see the gardens is when I’m eavesdropping or following someone. I would never have guessed there are actually flowers here!:

  :Your sarcasm is wasted without a proper audience, Chosen,: Rolan replied with amusement.

  She chuckled. :You’ll do,: she replied. :You appreciate it.:

  She left the ornamental Palace gardens for the more practical gardens and lawns around the Collegia. The “new” arrangement still had the odd feeling of unfamiliarity. Until just before Mags had arrived here, there had only been two Collegium buildings, not three. The Herald’s Collegium, still looking a little raw and new, at least to her eyes, was where an ornamental fishpond had once been, an oblong water feature that had been one of those things that seemed desirable in theory and on paper, but in practice had proved to be something else altogether. It was, sadly, deep enough to swim in—chest deep on a tall man to be precise—which made it a hazard to small children who didn’t know how to swim and could not touch the bottom. It had been stocked with colored carp, but the Trainees would persist in trying to fish for them, or tickle them, neither of which pursuits made it the picturesque, placid bit of tamed nature it was supposed to be. Or worse, Trainees and courtier’s offspring alike would throw things into the pond that were not good for the fish, or overfeed the fish, both of which pursuits ended up with pathetic little discolored corpses floating in the water or discarded on the stone curb surrounding it. Then the gardeners would have to pull all the dead fish out, making sure none were left lurking on the bottom to surprise someone with a terrible stink when they finally rose. And the gardeners would silently curse the miscreants, and curse the job, and go to complain to the Seneschal that they were gardeners, dammit, not zookeepers or fish-keepers and this was not properly part of their duties. Then the Seneschal would agree, and promise to stock the pond only with pretty waterlilies, until the next courtier decided the pond looked too quiet without some fish, would present his offering to the King with a proud smile, and it would all begin again. The whole farce seemed to be on about a three year cycle.

  So when it was decided to replace the old Heraldic Trainee system of Senior-Herald-and-“apprentices” with the same Trainee-Collegium system that the Bards and Healers used, the fishpond was sacrificed without a backward glance.

  No one missed it, though now and again it still seemed strange to see a three-story-tall building rising there. Four, if you counted the kitchens and storage rooms in the half-basement.

  She would have known she was out of even the informal gardens and into the practical ones belonging to Healer’s Collegium even if she’d been blind. The scent of flowers gave way to the sharper and more complex scents of herbs, and “home” was in sight, the greenhouse attached to the rear of Healer’s Collegium. Just past the actual greenhouse itself were two sets of rooms; drying and stillrooms for the preserving of herbs and the making of medicines, and the suite of bedroom and sitting room given to whoever volunteered to keep an eye on the greenhouse and let the actual gardeners know if anything was amiss. Up until recently that person had been a Healer, or at least a Trainee—generally someone who was primarily an herb-Healer. But Amily had been loath to dispossess her father of the rooms he’d had as King’s Own for as long as she had been alive, and none of the herb-Healers at the Collegium had wanted to take over Bear’s old rooms, and she had gotten them when Bear had essentially “gifted” them to her. Then, of course, once she and Mags had gotten married, there was no need to move out; his old quarters in Companions’ Stable, were obviously not suited to a couple who were both full Heralds, much less the King’s Own.

  She went in through the greenhouse entrance with a sigh of relief that no one had come running up to her with some purported emergency, or to complain about something—no one to her recollection had ever come running to her father with petty complaints, but people certainly seemed to take it as read that they could do so to her.

  The greenhouse had all its windows propped open, with a nice, gentle breeze coming through. She took an appreciative breath of the damp, green smell and went on in.

  “Just in time!” said Mags, from where he was sprawled on a padded bench. “I’m starving.”

  The dining hall was full; full enough that there was a steady babble of conversation echoing off the ceiling, and Mags had to look hard to spot some room for himself and Amily at one of the long tables. Spring and summer tended to bring more Trainees to all three Collegia. For the Bards and Healers, the reason was obvious; it was easier to travel then, and Spring in particular made people inclined to make new beginnings. Why there should be more Herald Trainees in Spring and Summer, however, Mags could not think—

  :Simple, if it’s not a screaming emergency to fetch our Chosen, we’d rather wait until good weather,: Dallen said, as he and Amily took their places at a table that had just been cleared. Mags chuckled; Amily gave him a knowing look. They had scarcely sat down when a server bustled up with mugs and a pitcher of cold, clean water and another of herb tea, followed by a second server with wooden platters, bowls, and so forth, and a third with food. As usual, the aromas were enough to make anyone’s mouth water. The Collegia never stinted on food and always made sure they had excellent cooks. The meals might not be the fancy stuff served at the Palace, but they were always perfectly made and tasty.

  As they served themselves from common platters and bowls, Mags caught a few words of conversation behind them that sounded very familiar; in fact, it could have been a repetition of the sort of animated conversation he and his mates had had a scant three years ago. The subject was Kirball, of course. As he concentrated a little to make out what they were saying through the babble of dozens of voices all speaking at once, he figured out that the Trainees behind him were discussing the best sort of strategy to use against a team that had someone with the Fetching Gift when they themselves didn’t have anyone of the sort. Oh, it was tempting to lean over and give them a bit of advice, but Amily caught his eye and shook her head. “Let them work it out for themselves,” she mouthed. He sighed a little, but nodded. And she was right; the only way for them to learn to work together was to actually do it . . . even if it was a bit disconcerting that they didn’t recognize that (former) Trainee Mags, the first ever star of one of the very first four Kirball teams, was sitting right behind them.

  But before he could feel too much of the sting of not being recognized, he felt a slap on the back as someone slid in next to him, on the side not occupied by Amily. “You’d best have saved some of those dumplings for me, old horse,” said Pip as he made a grab for the bowl full of dumplings, chicken, and gravy. “I shall be aggrieved otherwise.”

  “Well, if I’d known you was back, I’d’ve et it all,” Mags teased, handing him the basket of bread, and snagging a roll for himself. “When did you sneak in?” When Pip had taken the bread and set it aside, Mags handed him the new peas.

  “I was right behind you on the road up the Hill, if you’d’a looked,” Pip replied, filling his plate with dumplings and chicken, then reaching for the peas.
“I said to myself, ‘that ass looks familiar,’ and my Companion says, ‘it should be, you were behind it on the Kirball field often enough,’ and that’s how I knew it was you.” He paused long enough to shove a huge spoonful of dumplings into his mouth and let out a sigh of happiness. When he’d chewed and swallowed, he sighed again. “I’ve been South. Sheep country. Mutton, lamb, mutton, everlasting mutton. They’ve got chickens, but they don’t trot ’em out even for Heralds. It’s mutton pie, stewed mutton, hashed mutton, mutton chops, mutton roast, and for a little variety—mutton ground up and stuffed into pocket pies! Sheep’s-milk cheese. Mutton-fat instead of butter. Oh, and barley-bread, and barley-porridge, and never a sign of wheat. They do have every kind of root you can imagine, and plenty you can’t, and peas and lentils and beans, but their idea of how to flavor ’em is . . . mutton fat. Almost no herbs that aren’t for medicine. Not a sign of a fish. Not a glimpse of a goose or a duck. Now and again, they let loose of one of their precious eggs, and they stare at you while you eat it, to make sure you appreciate their sacrifice, I guess.” He shook his head woefully.

  “It could have been worse,” Amily pointed out. “It could have been goat.”

  Pip shuddered. “It was goat in some places. At least where it was goat, the cheese was good. I am so glad to be back. Still. The weather wasn’t awful, and the good thing about sheep-country is every bed I had was a nice fat wool mattress. Yes,” he said, at Mags’ look of astonishment. “In the Way-stations. Nice, tufted, wool mattresses, and wool blankets if you please, all put up with some sort of herb to keep the moths away. So if the food was enough to make you weep with boredom, I slept good.”

  “Sounds to me like you made out all right,” Mags observed, as Dean Caelen took a seat opposite them and silently began helping himself. “No disasters?”

  “Nothing worth talking about,” Pip replied. “Just the usual lot of foolishness you get all the time out on circuit. Quarrels to break up before they become feuds. Boundary disputes, sheep claimed by three different people. Gossipy old hags and interfering old men trying to run everybody else’s life for ’em. Runaway younglings, abandoned girls halfway to birthing, lost littles, claims of curses. People not liking the new laws, people wanting old laws changed right that moment, people wanting this, that, or the other, and me having to put their best case for them.” He waved his hand vaguely in the air. “The usual. Which is to say, I am very damn glad I don’t get the kind of excitement that you’ve gotten.”

  Pip had been a tall, lanky, brown boy, and he had become a tall, lanky, brown man, and he looked very handsome in his Herald Whites. He’d always been one for spending as much time out of doors as possible; being a Field Herald clearly suited him.

  There were more than one or two of the older female Trainees watching him out of the corners of their eyes, and several of the younger ones who were looking at him as if they were star-struck; Mags smiled to himself, though he felt a little sorry for them, for they had no hope at all. No full Herald would ever dally with a Trainee; it was considered very bad form. Pip would pretend not to understand any outright advances, although he’d be quite polite and not at all condescending about it.

  Dean Caelen, the head of Herald’s Collegium, smiled a little as Pip stopped talking so he could concentrate on eating. “Perhaps East on your next circuit?” he suggested, buttering a slice of bread. “We’ll try and keep you out of sheep country, but from the sound of it, you do a good job with country-folk.”

  “Nobody complained, at any rate,” Pip offered. “We might be highborn, but we’re country highborn; more squire than Duke, if you take my meaning. My Ma is sort-of the peacemaker back home for everyone all around. Less than a judge, not a Herald, but more than just the manor lady. People were in and out of the manor, all day, every day, taking their troubles in with them, and mostly leaving those troubles behind them. Maybe some of it rubbed off.”

  Dean Caelen nodded. Like Pip, he was brown of hair and eye, but unlike Pip, he did not give the impression that he was a coiled spring, ready to bounce off at the first hint of something to release all his pent-up energy. Instead, he had an air of quiet, unruffled confidence that was very soothing to harried or troubled young Trainees.

  “We’ll talk that over later, when we’ve had a chance to review all your reports,” the Dean told him. “Meanwhile, enjoy your leisure. If we get someone injured out in the Field that needs replacing, your holiday may not last long.”

  “So how is the latest crop?” Pip asked, raising his eyes from his food long enough to cast a skeptical eye across the dining hall. “They look a bit grubby.”

  As those discouraging words met the ears of the nearest young ladies, they looked flustered and crestfallen, and quickly turned their attention to their food.

  “I expect we looked a bit grubby at that age,” Amily pointed out, and chuckled. “I wager every new crop of Trainees looks grubby and unfinished to the ones that were here before them.”

  “That’s because they are unfinished,” the Dean observed with a smile. “It would be rather astonishing if they were not. We wouldn’t need the Collegia, and we wouldn’t be calling them Trainees now, would we, if they came to us ready to be put into Whites and on to the job?”

  “You have a point,” Pip chuckled. “Although, I have been lending half an ear to the grubby lot behind us, and take it from me, they have a lot to learn about Kirball. I hope they are farther along in their Trainee studies than they are in game strategy. Unless their opponents are just as bad, they’re going to fall flat on their noses.”

  But Mags had heard something more than faulty Kirball strategy as he had been listening to those young (so young!) Trainees. He’d heard a kind of careless freedom, freedom that gave them the ability to see a game as the most important thing in their lives at that moment. “Innocence” probably wasn’t the right term for it . . . but he couldn’t think of a good word. Not “ignorance,” either, unless you subscribed to the notion that “ignorance is bliss,” which he did not. Ignorance was dangerous. This . . . was more like the carefree certainty that right now, they would be so safe in the hands of their elders that they could concentrate on what they pleased.

  “Didja ever wish you could go back?” he asked, wistfully.

  Pip gave him an odd look, as if he had said something incomprehensible. “Go back? To what?”

  “Bein’ a Trainee again,” Mags elaborated. “When things was simpler. When the worst thing that happened was failin’ a test, or losin’ a game.”

  The Dean chuckled. “Only if I could do so from the perspective of my older self, so I could enjoy the contrast,” he replied. “Because, remember, when you say ‘the worst thing that happened’ it literally is the worst thing that can happen to these younglings, and it can seem devastating. They haven’t had experience of anything worse, a lot of them. And, trust me, that makes them feel just as miserable as if what had just befallen them was an adult-sized disaster.”

  “An’ hell, Mags, maybe that’s how it’d be for me, but you had some pretty adult-sized disasters when you were a Trainee,” Pip observed, as Amily nodded and passed him the bowl of chicken and dumplings again. “And what you came from? Three-quarters starved, near beaten to death, and a slave in the mines? You sure you’d want to go through all that again?”

  “You got a point. I wouldn’t,” Mags admitted. “Still, I’d kinda like to know what it was like t’have been a normal Trainee, though. Like you, say, or Gennie.”

  “Define normal,” the Dean replied dryly. “From my point of view, the entire Collegium is composed of people with issues, anxieties, and quirks. Some of our Trainees might come from homes of wealth and status, but that doesn’t mean they’ve had an easy time of it. And as for those that have, well, suddenly finding themselves without personal servants and all the good things that come with rank is quite a shock to their systems!”

  They all chuckled at that, and wit
h that as the opener to a new conversation, Amily encouraged the Dean to talk about some of the more amusing “quirks.”

  Mags quietly ate, and considered all that, and with a burst of nostalgia decided, on the whole, he would like to come back here all over again as a Trainee. Provided, of course, that as the Dean said, he still had his adult perspective, and had not had the parentage he’d had. The idea of spending four or five years with nothing more life-challenging than classes and games . . . sounded rather heavenly.

  Nothing more engrossing than classes, nothing more desperate than exams, and nothing more exciting than Kirball . . .

  Then again . . . not bloody likely. Even if he could have somehow sloughed off his own past, if some magic had given him a regular family, the Dean was right, and who was to say whether or not some other drama would have cropped up?

  And even if he’d had a normal family, there would still have been Lena’s wretched father, the unfortunate Bard Marchand, who had single-handedly made a wretched mess of her life and had betrayed the King with his carelessness and pride. And there would have been Bear’s horrible family, and all the messes and misery they had caused. The Karsites would still have been sending their spies and agents here. And who knows? There still might have been a missing Sleepgiver “Prince,” and the Sleepgivers still could have turned up, taking jobs for the Karsites with an eye to getting paid while looking for their missing heir.

  There was no telling how that might have ended, if he had not, after all, been the “missing Prince.” The only change likely would have been considerably less grief for him, since he wouldn’t have been a foreigner, and there wouldn’t have been any ambiguous visions from the Foreseers involving him. Or, rather, there would have still been ambiguous visions from the Foreseers, but it wasn’t likely that anyone would have interpreted them as involving him . . .