Closer to the Chest (4 page)

:This would be entertaining speculation for a writer imagining alternate versions of history,:
Dallen reminded him dryly.
:But it didn't happen that way, and we are here, and your life is scarcely wretched now, is it?:

The others were still being entertained by the Dean, and he smothered a smile.
:True, horse,:
he replied. Look how things had turned out, after all! He was
married,
for heaven's sake, to the loveliest and most patient and dearest girl he had ever known. A girl he could count on in any situation, and who would always be honest with him. Someone who would not pout and feel offended when the job took his attention and time from her. And rather than being faced with the perils of Field duty, he and Amily had positions here, in Haven. True, you could not call what they did
safe,
since nothing a Herald did was
safe,
but they were in the safest possible place to be a Herald. And they weren't moving all the time, the way Heralds on Circuit were. They had a real home, together with all of the creature comforts that meant. Any possible separations would be temporary at worst. There were scarcely any Heralds in the entire Heraldic Circle who could say that.

Life, in short, was rather good.

:Yes it is. It will be even better if you bring me a pocket pie,:
Dallen prompted.

:Sorry, not on the menu tonight,:
Mags replied.
:You'll have to make do with pears.:

There was a long pause from Dallen.
:I take it back about life being good.:

•   •   •

Mags and Nikolas had turned over the day-to-day running of the pawn shop to their hand-picked half-dozen ex-actors and retired Guards. They still went down to it several times a week, but generally only to check in on things, and seldom stayed to work the counter. This wasn't one of the nights when Mags had planned to do that, and since the King was having one of
his
nights with his family, there was nothing formal for Amily to attend. As a consequence, he was about to suggest a stroll down by the river, when Dean Caelen stopped them as they were all picking up their plates to take them to the serving hatch for cleaning.

“Some of the Bardic Trainees put together an informal concert for tonight,” he said. “They're having it at the Yew Garden.” The Yew Garden was one of several gardens inside the Palace walls; this one was particularly suited to informal concerts, being far enough from the Palace itself that those who were more interested in gossip than listening to music would probably not make the effort to attend, and would instead stroll the Rose Garden or one of the other flower gardens, chattering away about—whatever it was courtiers found to gossip about.
Each other, mostly. . . .

“I think we should all go!” Pip said, happily. “Just what I need for the end of my first day back here!”

Mags and Amily exchanged a quick look, but it was clear to each of them in that glance that they both wanted to go. Pip was right. No matter what kind of day
anyone
had had, short of one filled with tragedy, there could be no better ending to it than a night of music. If nothing else, being friends with Lena had taught them that.

However, the wearing of white uniforms did come with a certain hazard—and by common consent, they all went back to their quarters to get something to sit on before re-gathering on the terrace to go down to the Yew Garden.

Of the many benefits of actually
living
here, one was that Mags and Amily had plenty of storage, and could keep things
around that had only one purpose—like an old rag rug good only for picnicking and similar pursuits, and a couple of cushions covered in a patchwork of leather from worn-out tunics that would hold up under any amount of outdoor abuse. When they met up with the rest, it was clear that Pip had just grabbed his sleeping roll, something he might later regret when the time came to spread out his blankets on whatever bed he'd been given. Sharing his bed with ants, for instance, was probably not high on his list of “ways to get a good night's sleep.”

The Yew Garden was just that; a garden full of yew trees that were kept clipped into pleasing shapes. Some people went so far as to have their yews clipped into the shapes of animals; tradition held here, however, that the trees should merely be abstract and ornamental. At one end of the garden a curve of hedge as tall as a house gently framed a half-circle of paving. Tonight this paving held lanterns and lamps a-plenty, and six Bardic Trainees—and far more instruments than Mags cared to count. In order to be admitted into Bardic Collegium, would-be Trainees had to demonstrate two out of three things for qualification: Bardic Gift, compositional ability, and exceptional ability on at least one instrument, the voice counting as an instrument. It was Mags' impression that most Trainees had all three; in order to become a full Bard, after all, they had to create and perform a musical work of sufficient quality to be deemed a “master” piece, so even those with the Gift had to learn what they lacked.

Given the number of different instruments waiting to be played, it was pretty obvious that this set of six was a proficient bunch.

White shapes began to ghost into the Yew Garden; the fence around Companion's Field was never meant to keep the Companions
in,
it was more to keep other things
out.
Plenty of Companions enjoyed music, and it seemed they had gotten word of this little concert, too. Two of them ambled over to the spot where Amily and Mags had spread their rug and placed
their cushions. Rolan simply folded up his legs and laid himself down on Amily's side of the rug, but Dallen blew into Mags' hair, meditatively.

“Hey!” Mags objected.

:There were no pocket pies,:
Dallen said mournfully.
:Life is not worth living. I shall eat yew.:

“Go right ahead,” Mags said without pity. “An' I'll tell the Healers y'ate yew, an' they'll come and force a purge down yer throat, an' ye'll get t'spend all night with a bellyache.”

Rolan snorted, and Amily giggled.

:Heartless,:
Dallen sighed.

“Y'might have a bellyache anyway,” Mags continued. “Since you et not less'n a half dozen pears. Might've been more.”

:I never!:
Dallen exclaimed, indignantly.

:I counted,:
Rolan interjected.
:He's right.:

Dallen's head came up and he stared at Rolan with indignation.
:You traitor!:
he gasped.

:You didn't share,:
Rolan pointed out.

“Hush, both of you,” Amily put in. “They're about to start.”

And so they were. Dallen grumbled a little, folded his legs under him, and elected to make a backrest for Mags and Amily. Mags put his arm around Amily; she smiled and snuggled as near as was physically possible.

The six Bardic Trainees in their rust-colored uniforms were a mixed lot. There was a very tall young man, who surely would be going for his Scarlets soon, and a serious-faced, long-haired girl in the skirted version of the uniform who looked to be about the same age, and four younger ones who were more or less androgynous, and at the moment, distinguished only by the differences in their coloring. Mags had assumed the oldest boy would be the leader, but rather to his surprise, it was one of the younger four who they all looked to for direction when they finally settled with their instruments.

Well, they're not Lena,
he thought to himself, after two short numbers.
But they're pretty good.

:Lena is a Master's Master,:
Dallen pointed out.
:And once she got over her shyness, she proved just that.:

Mags couldn't help but smile at that. It was the first time Dallen had ever said anything like that about Lena, and to hear a
Companion
say that Lena was just that good . . . well it made him feel warm all over.
I'll remember to write her and tell her.

Then he just relaxed with his arm around Amily and enjoyed the music. Despite their fierce concentration, it seemed to him that the musicians were enjoying themselves, too. He could tell that Amily was having a wonderful time—and he could tell which people here—at least of those he could see—were really music lovers, and which wished to be
thought of
as music lovers. The little thing in full Healer's robes sitting all alone, for instance, who bobbed her whole body a little in time to the fast pieces as if she was dancing, and swayed slightly to the slow ones—she was enjoying every note. But the fellow with the fixed, stern expression, who visibly winced at what he supposed were mistakes—you couldn't call such a person a music lover. Mags would bet he'd probably spend a considerable piece of time tomorrow, buttonholing someone to describe in detail everything that these youngsters had done “wrong.”

:Actually, he'll just have to seethe about it until the next time, I'll bet,:
Dallen replied with amusement.
:By this time everyone he knows is well aware of what he's like. They'll either avoid him, cut him off, or ignore him while nodding vaguely until they can escape.:

Mags nearly choked on a laugh. Amily looked curiously at him, then smiled. Rolan must have told her what Dallen had said. As if to confirm that, she reached back and gave Dallen an approving pat.

The entire group of Trainees didn't play the entire time; they took it in turns to solo, duet, or trio, as well as performing
as six. And it wasn't all instrumental music; they sang as well. They all had good, strong voices, though none of them was the sort to take your breath away, and if any of them had the Bardic Gift, they didn't demonstrate it. Frankly, Mags didn't particularly miss that; people actually
using
the Bardic Gift could get you so wrapped up in the performance you wouldn't notice if it was mediocre—a fact that was probably lost on Milord Critic sitting on the bench beside the pyramidal yew.

As a finale, they played a very complicated original piece for gittern, harp, viol, lute, flute, and hautboy. Although they didn't announce it as such, Mags figured it must be an original. If so, whoever had composed it was clearly talented.

At the end, they got up and bowed, and the tall young man cleared his throat when the applause finished. “That's the end of what we had planned, but we're just going to hang about and play around for a while longer. If anyone wants to join us, you're welcome, and if anyone just wants to stay and chat, we won't be offended.”

That last brought an appreciative chuckle from several of the listeners, Mags and Amily especially, since they had, more than once, been the recipients of one of Lena's irritated plaints about people who considered the musicians at court events a sort of musical background that could be talked over. And what Master Bard Lita, the Dean of Bardic Collegium had to say on the same subject was . . . vivid.

The Dean, who had been sitting as near to the musicians as he could get, and Pip, who had placed himself where he could stretch out on his bedroll, both picked up their things and moved to join Amily and Mags. A few moments later, as if drawn by some unheard signal, they were joined by Herald Jakyr, Amily's father Nikolas, and Lita herself.

“Well, what do you think of them?” Lita asked, as Jakyr spread out a rug nearly as battered as the one Mags and Amily were sharing, and she dropped some flat cushions on it for them both to sit on.

“They're good,” Mags said. “Have they been playin' together long?”

“One week,” Lita replied, satisfaction coloring her voice as they all exclaimed in surprise. “And the three youngest haven't been here for more than six months. That last piece was composed by the oldest lad. Trainee Dani's his name, and we expect great things of him.”

Mags chuckled. Lita gave him an odd look. “What's so funny, my lad?” she asked. Ever since they had all traveled together, with Bear and Lena, combining an attempt to hide Mags from the Sleepgiver assassins trying to find and kidnap him with Mags' Field Year, the Master Bard, though technically far senior to anyone except Amily, tended to treat them all rather like family.

“Oh, Amily and Pip an' me were sayin' at dinner as how the current lot of Herald Trainees looked a bit . . . grubby,” Mags replied.

Jakyr laughed, and Lita waved her hand in the air. “Of course they look grubby,” she agreed. “My six over there got polished within an inch of their lives before we let them come out here for their concert; give them another couple of candlemarks and at least the three youngest will look like they've been rolling in the grass. The First Years all live in the moment, or at least, the ones that come to us as younglings do. Even
you
lived in the moment to a certain extent, Mags.”

“Huh,” he said, thinking about it. “Reckon I did. Mostly, it was enjoyin' the food, and havin' a real bed, an' good clothes. Now that I think about it, I kinda lived in the moment a lot.”

“Especially at mealtimes,” Jakyr chuckled.

“Living in the moment is all well and good when you're merely reveling in taking a second helping of apple pocket pies,” Lita sighed. “The problem comes when you are living in the moment and doing mischief.
My
lot don't have Companions in the back of their minds giving them the scolding of a lifetime if high spirits turn into something potentially harmful.”

Mags raised an eyebrow at her. “Is this gener'lly a problem with your Trainees?”

Lita made a sour face. “Marchand isn't the only Bard or Bardic Trainee with a monumental ego and monumental self-centeredness to match monumental talent. We haven't got one like that
yet
this year, but we're only halfway through the year. The last one . . .” She paused. “Let's just say the amount of drama he caused made it very clear that no amount of talent
or
Bardic Gift was going to make up for his first six months alone. We turned him out to fend for himself and find what teachers he could. And before we did that, we got the Healers to shut his Gift down.”