“I know you can’t cook,” Mags said. “I
can,
but not a lot of things.” He made a rueful face. “Wish I could say different, but if we depend on me, we’ll be eating a lot of porridge, beans, and eggs.”
“I can cook very well, actually, although I would really rather people think I can’t. My mother and father are both cooks, they run a good inn, known for its food.” Jakyr flashed a grin at him. “Don’t fear you’re going to starve around me. What you
will
do, is learn to cook as well as me.”
“I’d like that,” Mags said honestly. It seemed not only a generally useful skill, but a skill he could use. He could walk into just about any inn and have a job, if he could cook, and inns were fine sources for information. If he were to be sent someplace where he wasn’t supposed to be known as a Herald, he wouldn’t have to concoct much of a disguise at all if he could cook.
“I was cooking before I learned to read.” Jakyr shrugged. “Ma was either cooking, having a baby, or both, and once you were old enough to be trusted in the kitchen, it was your job to feed yourself. Once you could feed yourself, you had a job, either cleaning or cooking, and I hated cleaning, so I learned to cook well, and that right soon. At least with so many of us, we weren’t worked past what was reasonable for a youngling.
“I just let people think I am a terrible cook so no one argues with my choice of eating at inns.”
Mags nodded. Though the highborn would have been astonished at such a statement, to him, it seemed normal for kiddies to begin work as soon as they could walk. The difference between a good home and a bad one, or a good master and a bad one, was whether they made sure you got your basic learning, good food, and plenty of rest. And, of course, if it was your own family, love, and plenty of it. He, obviously, had none of these things. “Must have been good to be working alongside your kin.”
Jakyr snorted. “There were so many of us you almost couldn’t call us ‘kin’ at all. Half the time Ma and Pa called us kids by the wrong names. It wasn’t that they had so many because they needed that much help at the inn, either. They’d have done just fine with only half of us. It was religion. They belonged to some religious sect that said you had to have as many younglings for the Glory of God as you could manage.”
Mags blinked at that. “Uh. Why?”
Jakyr shrugged again. “I have no idea. They were so busy having the kiddies, they never bothered to teach us why. Seems a backward way to go about things, to me. Every sennite there they were, in the Temple, telling everybody how much they loved God and us. Oh, how they loved God, giving Him so many children! When I left? According to the brother I still talk to, they never noticed. He says they
still
haven’t noticed. And as for their God, whenever I see one of their Temples, I turn around and ride in the other direction.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Anyway, since I know good cooking when I taste it, I make a habit of keeping track of good inns. The one we’re heading for right now is excellent for plain, farmer food, and they make a specialty of pocket pies.”
:Pocket pies?:
Dallen’s head came right up, and his ears perked.
Jakyr noticed, and laughed. “You’ll get your fill, Dallen. They love to spoil Companions there.”
:Tell him I approve of such attitudes.:
“Dallen can’t wait,” Mags said.
“My Jermayan is looking forward to it too.” Jakyr patted his Companion’s neck. “It’s a fabulous place to eat. Terrible rooms, though. Maybe because people rarely stay there. It’s situated just close enough to Haven that people coming out get there about luncheon time, and people coming in want to press on and get to Haven proper. I got stuck there in a blizzard once.” He shuddered. “Never again. Two tiny rooms, the mattress on the bed was practically flat, the pillows were like boards, and it was like sleeping in a shed, it was so cold. I ended up taking my pack and curling up in my cloak by the hearth.”
They left the orchard and entered fields that had been recently reaped. The grain was standing in shocks, waiting to be collected. Off in the distance was the grain wagon, and people tossing the shocked grain up to the man on top of the growing mound. All the colors seemed to glow in the sunlight—the golden grain, the yellow and red of leaves on the trees, the green of the hedgerows between the fields.
“We’ll be in inns until we break our trail, so enjoy it while you can. Now, when Heralds are actually on
their Circuit, they don’t stay in the inns, unless there is no other choice. They stay in the Waystations or occasionally Guardposts. This is to prevent people from trying to bribe them with comforts and luxuries,” Jakyr went on. “On the way to and from a Circuit, though, you can stay in inns, Waystations, or Guardposts, it’s your choice. Most of us prefer the inns or the Guardposts. It always seems to happen that when you hit the worst weather and choose a Waystation, the one you get is the one that somehow got neglected on the last inspection. Innkeepers get a chit out of it, lets them out of some taxes, so they’re happy with the arrangement.”
Mags scratched his head. “Seems like a good one to me,” he ventured.
“It’s terrific if you know the good inns,” Jakyr agreed. “Not so good if you don’t. That’s why we’re going out on this road—I know all the good ones here.” He paused a moment. “Huh. I wonder if the reason my parents never noticed I was gone and that instead they were getting the Trainee Stipend was because they thought it was part of the chit system. We always had Heralds coming through.”
“Trainee Stipend?” Mags asked.
“If you lose a working youngling, the Crown compensates you while he’s a Trainee. They figure once a Trainee goes into Whites, he’d have been old enough to strike out on his own, so you couldn’t count on having him. Of course, if he’s an only child, and you figure he’d have been supporting you in your age, you get a different sort of stipend.” Jakyr waved his hand in the air. “I don’t know who figured all that out, but it’s all to make people happy about their offspring haring off on the back of a white horse. Or, at least, not
unhappy.”
“You mean—” Mags said, something suddenly occurring to him. “If Cole Pieters had been treating us decent—paying us wages—feeding and clothing us proper—”
“As your guardian, he’d have gotten a stipend, aye.” Jakyr snorted. “In fact, that just proves how damned stupid he was. He would never have gotten exposed at all if he’d just been smart about things. When Dallen first showed up, all
he needed to do would have been to let Dallen have you, shut up, and present his papers to Haven. He’d have been collecting a nice little packet every year until you got your Whites, and all for doing nothing. If anyone asked about the shape you were in, he could have found a way to explain why you were in such bad condition. Orphaned and running the streets alone or something. The smartest thing would have been if he’d claimed he’d only just gotten you when Dallen showed up for you.
You
wouldn’t have told the truth, would you?”
Mags shuddered. Even now, sometimes, he had fleeting nightmares about Cole Pieters. “Never. I’d’a been sure no one would believe me. Not even Dallen could’a got me to tell.”
“So, there you are. Dumber than a box of rocks.” Jakyr snorted. “And how many younglings of his own did he have?”
“A lot,” Mags told him, though he had no idea why Jakyr had asked that question. “A whole lot. He was under the skirt of every maid in the house, plus the ones from his wife.”
“And there you have it!” Jakyr exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Like my parents. Just because you
can
have a quiverful of youngsters, it doesn’t mean you
should.
Or
any.
Right?”
“I guess,” Mags replied, completely bewildered now as to where
that
statement had come from. What on earth had prompted it?
:Huh . . . I wonder . . . :
Dallen said.
:You wonder what?:
Could it be Dallen had gotten some insight about Jakyr that would explain . . . a lot?
:Care to let me in on the secret, horse?:
For once, Dallen seemed reticent to say anything.
:Right now it’s just a . . . speculative insight. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything useful.:
• • •
The inn was as good as Jakyr had said it was. To Dallen’s intense pleasure, they indeed made pocket pies—but, oh,
such
pocket pies!
These were not just the tasty, but unvarying treats made by the Collegium kitchens, nor the pies of uncertain quality you found at Fairs, whose contents could be dubious.
Oh, no.
There was no doubt at all as to the quality and provenance of the contents of these pies. You could
taste
every ingredient, separately and as a harmonious whole. And the list of what you could get filled two boards on the wall of the inn.
Mags hardly knew what to choose. There were pies full of chopped beef or pork, minced carrots, onions, peas and barley, all seasoned and savory, with just a touch of juice, enough to keep it all from being dry. Pies full of something like stew, only thicker; “gravy pies,” those were called. Chicken pies. Game pies. Egg-and-cheese pies, flavored with bacon. Apple, currant, blackberry, quince, pear, and cherry pies. Mince pies. The crust was amazing, and for any
other
pie that Mags had ever tasted, it would have been the best part, but here it was something that was part of a delectable whole. Mags had a half-and-half—half chopped beef, half chopped pork—and a cherry pie. These astonishing pies were washed down with exactly the sort of cider that Mags like best—spiced, with a touch of honey, and served warm. Evidently the beer was just as good, as Jakyr sipped his as slowly as Mags sipped his cider.
The fruit pies would keep and were just as good cold, so they rode off with some for later. Dallen and Jermayan were stuffed full, and Dallen didn’t complain in the least that he hadn’t had enough. Mags was just glad that the constitution of a Companion was a
lot
more robust than that of a horse. That many pocket pies would have sent horses straight to the Healer.
They rode past sunset to reach the next inn, but it, too, was worth it. It didn’t have the variety of fare that the first inn did. The custom here was that everyone was offered the same thing, and tonight it was roast pig with roast vegetables and very good bread. But the food was cooked perfectly, the beds were good, and there was a bathhouse.
If Jakyr had been conducting a pleasure trip, the next three days could not have passed better. Sometimes they ambled, sometimes they went at the Companions’ ground-eating lope. Jakyr said this was to throw off anyone who was attempting to follow them, but Mags secretly suspected their varied pace had more to do with Jakyr’s favored inns than the stated reason.
He didn’t mind. He was enjoying himself to the top of his capacity. The weather remained fine. He studied the people around him assiduously, keeping in mind he might have to pass as one of them some day. He took pleasure in the good food and the comfortable accommodations. There was something to be said for Jakyr’s philosophy of enjoying oneself as one could, in the moment.
After three days, they cut North and spent two nights in Waystations rather than inns. This was to break their trail; Jakyr was, indeed, a very good cook, and he’d made certain to get provisions before they went off the roads. He introduced Mags to a fantastic dish made of white beans and a little sausage that Mags thought he could probably eat five or six days in a row before he grew tired of it.
Then they cut West again, this time back to the pleasant pattern of using inns—but under different names. Jakyr was “Herald Boyce,” and Mags was “Trainee Hob.” Mags could only assume that either Jakyr was known by that name on their new route—entirely possible, since he was
an intelligence agent—or he had made very certain not to be memorable on his last visits to these inns. Whichever reason it was, no one hailed him by his real name, nor did anyone look puzzled when he gave the false names.
They were not going truly West; it was a bit North as well. Mags was very glad that they were staying at inns at this point, as the leaves were starting to drop rapidly from the trees, and the nights were getting bitter. When they stopped it was lovely to walk into a warm common room, full of the smell of cooking food, knowing you wouldn’t have to tend the Companions, build a fire, and wait until your dinner was cooked before you could eat it.
“We’re close,” Jakyr said, one morning as they rode out under a sky that was overcast and leaden instead of cloudless. A wind too cold to be called “brisk” was finding its way down Mags’ neck past the upturned hood of his cloak.
“How soon will we catch up with them?” Mags asked.
“Tonight. It’ll be after dark, but if we ride good and hard, we’ll meet them at the Waystation tonight.” Jakyr glanced at Mags for a reaction. “I imagine you’ll be glad to see Amily again.”
Hang you and your problems,
Mags thought, with a touch of irritation.
Whatever they are, that’s no cause for me to pretend I’m indifferent.
“Very,” he said, “It can’t be soon enough, in fact.”
“In that case—” Jakyr didn’t do anything, but his Companion surged into a lope that was almost a canter. Dallen snorted and matched the other, pace for pace.
At least Jakyr wasn’t scornful of his wish to see Amily soon. In fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to accommodate it. They barely stopped for food, pushing hard; although the weather threatened, nothing came of the threat, and nightfall found them forging along a river road, with the river at least a full story below them, at the bottom of a steep and stony bank. Mags was very grateful when Jakyr led the way off that road and onto a little trail; putting a foot wrong would have sent them tumbling down that nasty little cliff into water that could not be much warmer than ice.
He was even more grateful to see the glow of light through the trees ahead of them almost immediately. By now he was chilled, and the prospect of a warm fire was almost as enticing as the prospect of seeing Amily again.