Brightly Burning (4 page)

Archer turned back to his son, and rewarded his wary hope with a faint smile. “Times change, more so here in Haven, maybe. We've got another place for you, and you can think the Collegia for it.”

“I'm going to the Collegium? But I'm not—”

He wasn't a Bard or a Healer, and he certainly wasn't a Herald! But his father laughed and shook his head.

“Na, na, not to the Collegia—that's for the highborn, not for the likes of you! Or at least, not unless you show some kind of genius, my boy, and since you've not shown anything so far, I rather doubt you're going to start now! But it's the Collegia and the way the highborn send their younger sons and sometimes daughters there for extra learning that made the Haven Guilds think something of the kind was a good place for our younglings.” He cocked his head to the side and took in Lan's baffled expression. “You're going to
school,
lad.”

“School?” Now he was more confused, not less. He knew how to read, write, and cipher, so what more could he possibly learn? “I've already been to school.”

“Not like this, you haven't.” Archer settled back on his heels and tucked his thumbs into his belt, looking as proud as if he had thought of the idea of this “school” himself. “This is the school all of the Trade Guilds in Haven put together. You'll be going beyond what the priest at Alderscroft could teach you—history, fancy figuring, oh, I don't know what all else.
And
the schoolmasters will be testing you, seeing what it is you're good at. When they've got you figured, they'll be finding a Master for you to 'prentice to; something you'll fancy more than clothwork, I reckon.”

“You'll start tomorrow,” Nelda stated, narrowing her eyes, “And you should be thanking your kind father for such a blessed opportunity.”

“I am—I mean, thank you sir,” Lan replied, still in a daze, and not quite certain if this was something to be glad about, or otherwise. More schooling? He hadn't been particularly brilliant at bookwork before. . . .

But as he continued to stammer his thanks, he evidently sounded sincere enough to satisfy both his mother and father. They dismissed him, and made no objection when he went back to his room.

He stood beside his bed in the open window, staring at the blank wall of the neighbor's house, close enough that if he leaned out, he could touch it. The wall seemed an apt reflection of his state of mind.

Only one thought was at all clear.

O
NE of the manservants woke Lan at dawn the next morning, gave him barely enough time to dress, and chased him downstairs. While the sullen fellow stood there with his arms crossed, tapping one foot, Lan threw on the first things that came to hand—his tunic and trews from yesterday. His mother waited for him at the foot of the stairs, and eyed him with patent disfavor.

“Get back up there and put on something decent. You don't have to make people think we're too niggardly to clothe our children properly,” she ordered sharply. “And get your hair out of your face. You look like a peasant.”

He straightened abruptly with resentment, but didn't feel up to a verbal joust that he'd only get the worst of, since most of what he would like to say was likely to bring on some sort of punishment. Instead, he stalked back upstairs with his spine making a statement of irritation and did as he was ordered. He rummaged through his wardrobe, changing into tunic, shirt, and trews of his father's best white linen and indigo-blue wool, and slicking his hair back with a wet brush.

His mother gave him a brusque nod of approval when he descended again, and allowed him to proceed to the breakfast table. The sun was just at the horizon as the servants placed his food in front of him, for once in company with Sam as well as his father and mother. Samael didn't have much to say this morning, and Nelda ate quickly, leaving the table before any of the male members of the family. Lan had the distinct feeling that once she had made certain that he wasn't going to disgrace her in the way of his appearance, she felt that her duties had been entirely discharged.

Towering over his brother, Sam nodded at Lan as he shoved his empty bowl and plate away, reached for a last hot buttered roll, and stood up. Sam had his father's height, his mother's handsome looks with auburn hair and hazel eyes, and a gentle patience that couldn't have come from either parent. Lan often wished that Sam had more time for him; he had more confidence in Sam's temper than that of his elders. “Good luck today, little brother,” he said as he headed for the door himself, giving a quick shake of his head to get his own red-brown hair out of his eyes and a sympathetic grin at his sibling. Sam's clothing was a utilitarian dark gray, so as not to show dye stains, and it was a bit worn at the hems; Lan couldn't help notice that he and Sam had been dressed almost identically before Nelda had made Lan change.

But Mother never says anything about
him
looking like a peasant.

“Get another helping while I finish,” Archer ordered, his long face wearing an expression of solemn satisfaction with his meal. “I'll take you to the school myself today; after this, you find your own way.”

So Lan took an unwanted roll and slowly picked it to pieces while his father worked his way through porridge and eggs and bacon, hot rolls, and small ale. His emotions were so mixed at this point that he couldn't sort them out. They blended into a general tension that had him ready to spring up like a startled hare at the least provocation. In contrast, Archer was at his most stolid and phlegmatic this morning, moving so slowly and deliberately that Lan wanted to scream.

Finally, at long last, Archer waved away the hovering servant offering yet another helping, and pushed away from the table. Lan leaped up from his place causing Archer to make a sound that could have been a smothered chuckle, perhaps at what he thought was Lan's eagerness. “Come along,” was all he said, though, and Lan followed his father out the front door and onto the street.

They walked side-by-side, not talking. Lan was very much conscious of how much taller his father was than he, though they were both alike in their loose-jointed frames, reddish-brown wavy hair, and elongated faces. Macy, Lan's sister, took after Nelda, she was pretty rather than beautiful, and square-jawed like her father. And Nelda's features were masculinized in Sam, to a much better effect. But all three of Archer's sons resembled their father to a greater or lesser degree, at least externally. Lan couldn't get over the idea that his father was disappointed in his short stature and turned his eyes self-consciously away.

It was earlier than Lan was usually about, but there were plenty of people on the street, most walking in the direction of the manufacturing and trade quarters. There was a general buzz of noise in the background that never stopped until well after sundown. It was one of the many things Lan hated about the city, and after several weeks he still wasn't used to it. The cool, still air had nothing in the way of what Lan would have called a scent; most of the autumn flowers growing in and around the houses were scentless, purely decorative. Fallen leaves got swept up immediately by servants, and there wasn't so much as a single weed or blade of grass to be seen. So there weren't any of the aromas that Lan assoociated with fall.

The street was paved with cobblestones; the door-steps were slabs of stone, and the cobbles went right up to the bases of the houses, for even the fenced front yards were, for the most part, paved over. The town houses themselves were statements of the inhabitants' wealth, with a great deal of attention paid to the street facade. Some were of stone, like a great manor in the country, roofed with slate and ornamented with fantastical animal-shaped spouts at the corner of each gutter. Others were brick, with the brick laid in ornamental patterns, and the roof laid in an imitation of thatch. There were no thatched roofs in this quarter; with the houses so close together, thatch would have been a terrible fire hazard. There were homes with huge, heavy black beams and white plaster between, the plaster painted with fanciful designs. There were wooden manses roofed with tile, and there was even one wooden house completely covered in lacy carvings.

This was nothing at all like Alderscroft, where most of the houses were modest thatched cottages, where there was plenty of room between each house, where everyone had flowers growing at the foundations and little gravel paths led from each cottage, through patchwork gardens, to the fences and gates letting onto the dirt street.

The houses back home were warm and welcoming, giving glimpses of the personality of the people inside. These houses gave away nothing, offering a blank-eyed stare to the passersby, aloof and proud as a wealthy matron.

The occasional horse or donkey and cart came along the street—more merchants, who had farther to go than just a few streets, and preferred not to walk. And once or twice a Guardsman patrolling the neighborhood on horseback paced past them. Lan stared longingly after them, wishing that he could be wearing that uniform, not plodding along beside his father.

They left the street that dead-ended on their own court and traveled eastward, away from the center of town but toward more of the same sort of houses. There were occasional stores here, or rather, “discreet business establishments,” mostly dressmakers, milliners, and the like. From the street, except for a gown or a hat prominently on display in a window, it wouldn't be possible to tell these places from an ordinary house.

Archer wasn't disposed to conversation, but finally he made an effort. “You'll be getting in with some lads your age, then,” he said heavily. “More like back at the village.”

Lan couldn't imagine a situation less like home, but he murmured, “That would be good.”

“Aye.” That sentence seemed to exhaust Archer's store of conversation, and the rest of the walk continued in silence.

There was a much larger building on the right side of the street they were on, one that towered over its already impressive neighbors and was enclosed by a high wall. Where the town houses were two and three stories tall, this was six; and it occupied a lot that was easily five or six times the size of any of that of the magnificent homes around it. Lan had never been this far on any of his reluctant walks.

“That'll be the school,” Archer said with satisfaction as he surveyed the exterior, his expression as pleased as if he owned it himself. “You'll be coming here every morning about this time; lessons start early, but we're going to meet the Master first.”

Lan still couldn't comprehend what sort of “lessons” could be taught here, and thought for certain that his father must be mistaken. But the nearer they came to the building, the less certain he became.

His father showed no evidence of hesitation. He led Lan along the high wall—easily a story tall itself—until they came to the wooden gate. It must not have been locked, for Archer pushed it partly open, and motioned Lan to precede him.

Lan moved hesitantly past his father, and into a mathematically precise courtyard. Most of it was paved. Along the base of the building were pruned evergreen bushes, cone-shaped ones alternating with bushes of three spheres, one atop another. Defining a pathway toward the door were long flower boxes containing neat stands of greenery. Ivy planted in similar boxes climbed the inside of the fence.

“Come along, then. Master's waiting,” Archer said, pulling the gate closed behind him. He led Lan to the front door of the building, a surprisingly small door for such an edifice. It appeared no larger than the door of their own home.

Archer pulled open that door without knocking, revealing a long corridor with more wooden doors on either side of it, a corridor far plainer, with ordinary wooden floors and plastered walls, than Lan had expected. There was a hum of voices, a murmur that drifted along the corridor like the murmur inside a major temple during a festival.

Archer immediately turned to the first door on the right and rapped on it. A muffled voice invited them in.

Lan found himself in a small, plain room, furnished only with a brace of chairs and a large desk that faced the door. An older man sat at the desk, a man with close-dropped gray hair and a stern face, all sharp angles, a face made by a mathematician rather than an artist. This gentleman looked up at their entrance, and gave Archer a thin smile.

“Ah, Master Chitward,” the man said, his voice no warm-er than his coolly pleasant expression. “I have been expecting you.”