Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (24 page)

:Morning is the time for small children's parties,:
Dallen informed him.
:Afternoon for those from about twelve to fifteen. Evening is for the adults and those old enough to be married. Every child and adult will attend at least one party every day during this season, and most will attend two or even three.:

Mags stared at one of the houses, where so many tots were streaming in the front door that it looked like a procession of ants, and blinked.
:Is that all them highborn do?:
he asked.
:Go to parties?:

He'd never been to an actual party, unless you counted the “feasts” that were held for the mine kiddies in order to make it look as if they were taken care of well. There had been several at the Collegium since he had arrived; he'd heard laughter and conversation from them as he had passed open doors, and took a shy glance out of the corner of his eye, but he'd not been invited. Parties looked like they were fun. Music and talking and food. And games, though he didn't think he would be any good at games. The only games he knew were gambling ones, and that was mostly from watching rather than playing.

:Oh, going to parties is very serious business for the highborn,:
Dallen replied shrewdly.
:First, you must make sure you are invited to the right parties. Then, you must make sure when you get there that you have brought the right sort of gift, and associate with the right people. You must seem to be having a good time, without seeming to be having
too
good a time, because then people might wonder what you thought you needed to prove, or if you were hiding something. Once you are with the right people, you must make certain that they are aware that you also are the right sort of person. You mustn't arrive too early, or leave too late. Your arrival should cause a stirring of interest, your departure go unnoticed. You must talk about the right things when you are with the right sort of people, and of nothing if you happen momentarily to be stuck amongst the wrong sort. You must dance, and again, with the right people. You must not dance anything too
country,
for that is too old-fashioned:

:What are the right sort of people?:
he asked, watching the kiddies in their brightly colored clothing being shooed along like so many rainbow-hued hens by the black-clad nursemaids. Each of them wore more clothing than any six of the mine kiddies put together. Did a child really need boots, leggings, undergown, overgown, shawl and coat, plus mittens and a hat? They were so bundled up they looked like yarn balls.

:In general, people that are higher in rank than you, although there are the occasional exceptions, like an especially honored scholar, Guardsman, exceedingly wealthy merchant, or anyone else who is currently being lionized.:
Dallen sounded as if he had been to one of these parties personally.

:Children, too?:
Mags asked, wondering how children could possibly be expected to act like anything other than children. Granted, the mine kiddies hadn't acted like children, but the mine kiddies had incentive in the form of beatings and the loss of food to make them forget about playing and settle down to work.

:Children, too,:
Dallen replied, then added
:Usually, it is their nurses that are the ones to make sure that their charges are seen with the right people, but yes. Children, too.:

A moment before, he had been envying them. Not now. It would be exhausting.

That was sheer insanity.

:The ones old enough to marry are expected to use this season to hunt down a suitable partner among the right people,:
Dallen continued.
:I have to say that I do not favor Midwinter among the highborn and the wealthy. It becomes a season of partial madness, with everyone scrambling to further themselves or their families, and almost no one getting so much as a crumb of pleasure out of it.:

Mags blinked.
:Not real fond of them, eh?:

Dallen snorted and bobbed his head.
:I have my reasons.:

Whatever those reasons were, Dallen did not elaborate. Instead, he quickened his pace through the area, trotting briskly on the hard-packed snow that covered the road. Mags wondered why they had not cleared it off, then his question was answered when he saw the sled pulled by two matching chestnut mares. It was obvious then. It was better to glide on runners than try to control a wheeled vehicle as it bounced over ruts in the snow.

They passed quickly through the area where the merely wealthy lived, then the well-to-do, all of which were so much grander than the Pieters' house that Mags wished with some amusement Cole Pieters could see them. He'd have gone scarlet with anger and envy.

The farther out from the Palace they got, the more crowded the streets became, until at last, Dallen slowed down to an amble and then moved out of the way of traffic and came to a stop in an open square that was filled with what looked like open-sided tents, each tent holding one or more people with things spread out on tables before them and other people crowded around.

:Midwinter Market,:
said Dallen.
:Go walk about and look. Enjoy yourself. No one will trouble you, wearing that uniform.:

Mags dismounted, and eased himself into the crowd.

Unlike most of the people here, he was too interested in watching what the people were doing to look at what the booths held. Now, while they were engaged in trying to find gifts, they tended not to control their expressions. Some looked bored, or harried; some had the look of a person who knows exactly what he wants and is only hunting for the best possible price. Some looked worried, some uncertain. Some had a kind of serene and happy look to them. Some—rather few—bore a contented, almost lazy look. Those last, Mags thought, had probably already gotten all the gifts they needed, and were just enjoying the market itself.

Booth tenders either huddled with potential customers or cried their wares aloud. Mags ignored this for the most part, until a few words caught his ear.

“. . . the finest of yellow topaz . . .”

Topaz . . . that, he had learned, was what his “yellow sparklies” had been called. Feeling a morbid interest in seeing just what became of those bits of glitter so laboriously chipped out of the rock, Mags worked his way in the direction of the voice.

He squeezed between two giggling young women to find himself abruptly at the side of an older man in a sober brown cloak, as both of them stood before what must have been a jeweler's booth. But there was just one problem with the velvet trays of rings, brooches, and necklaces. They were not what the man was claiming them to be.

His “finest yellow topaz” was inferior stuff carefully cut to hide the flaws, but Mags, who had learned to judge to a hair the stones that would get him the most bread, could spot them. And he could not help it. His mouth opened, and the words came out before he could stop them, tinged with scorn.

“Ain't so fine as all that.”

The jeweler started, and glared down at him. The man who was examining the ring looked at him with interest.

“Be off with you!” the jeweler barked. “This is none of your business!”

“ 'Tis if you be makin' claims that ain't stric'ly true,” Mags retorted, quaking a little inside, but determined to stand his ground.

The jeweler glowered. “Go back up the hill, before I call my man—”

“Now, now, I should like to hear what the
Trainee
has to say,” the man in brown interrupted, the emphasis on
Trainee
to drive the point home to the jeweler that this was not just some random boy in gray clothing. He turned to Mags. “Now why do you say that this stone is not so fine?”

“Turn her sideway, and tilt her a bit. Ye'll see the flaw. He's cut it t' hide it, but it's there. 'Tis a pretty stone, and 'tis cut well, I reckon, but ‘finest,' it ain't.” Mags shrugged.

“By the Havens, there it is . . .” The man stopped peering at the stone to look down at Mags. “However did you know?”

“Useter mine them things,” Mags replied, and would have slipped away, had the man not detained him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, my young friend. Please stay here a moment.” He turned back to the jeweler. “Now, as it happens, I like the stone and the setting, and I know my niece will as well, regardless of the flaw. “So what would be a fair price for a
flawed
stone?”

Deflated, the merchant named a price, there was a little haggling, and the merchant placed the ring in a small satin bag and handed it over in exchange for several coins.

“Now, Trainee, as you have saved me from being cheated, I would like to treat you to luncheon. Would you permit me?”

Mags gaped at him. “Ah . . . er . . .”

:It's all right, open your shields a bit and you'll see,:
Dallen advised. Mags followed his suggestion, and let the man's surface thoughts wash over him for a little.

And Dallen was right; this was nothing more sinister than a kindly man who was grateful for Mags' help. And it did not hurt that Mags was a Trainee. Mags got the distinct impression that the man was getting a bit of a thrill to be around a Heraldic Trainee.

He ducked his head. “Was doin' no more than I should, sir,” he said modestly. “But thankee. 'Twould be kind on ye.”

The man smiled broadly and held out his hand. “Soren Mender,” he said. Mags took the proffered hand and shook it.

“Trainee Mags,” he replied. He liked the man's face. Seamed with wrinkles, which all looked as if they had been formed out of good humor rather than bad temper.

“Well, Trainee Mags, there is a nice little tavern just over that way—” the man pointed to Mags' right, “—and if you'll come with me, I suspect you could wrap yourself around the outside of something hot and filling.”

Mags laughed. “ 'Spect I could, Master Soren,” he replied. “Lead on.”

M
AGS was no fool. He knew very well that Master Soren could be harboring intentions that were not good toward him.

But they were going to eat in a public place, he
had
done Master Soren a favor, his own brief glimpse at the man's thoughts revealed no guile, and Dallen vouched for the man. All of these things counted for something; Dallen vouching for him counted enough that Mags felt reasonably safe.

And Soren gave him none of the signals he would have thought showed danger. They sat down, one on either side of a small table in the window, where the sun streamed warmly through the hand-sized, thick glass panes. The girl brought them hot cider, poured from the same thick pottery pitcher; Soren gave him no recommendations for food, and ordered the same when Mags asked for meat pies.

“So, you mined gemstones?” Soren asked, when the food arrived. He tilted his head to the side a little. “Aren't you rather young for that?”

Mags surprised even himself with the bitterness of his reply. “Master Cole what owned the mine reckoned th' smaller, th' better. For fittin' inter tunnels.”

Soren chewed his lower lip. “I will take it that this was . . . not a good situation.”

Mags hesitated. Should he tell his story to this stranger? No one had told him not to. And now that he was here, in Haven and at the Collegium, could even Cole Pieters and his friends touch him? By now they surely had figured out that he was the one who had acted as informant for
everything.
They would have to be thicker than even he thought not to have done so.

Mags nibbled thoughtfully on a bit of crust for a moment, then slowly began to tell Soren just what it was like to work for Cole Pieters. Without the murders; he was relatively certain that the Heralds would
not
want him telling about those.

And Soren had a very interesting reaction to it all. He didn't get angry, as Jakyr had, nor did he act as if it didn't matter because it hadn't happened to
him.
Instead, an expression of grave sorrow slowly moved over his face, and the more he heard, the sadder he became.

Finally, he sighed. “I wish there was a way that all this could be made up to you, and your fellows, Mags. That man stole so much from you—years of your lives that you will never get back.” He shook his head mournfully.

Mags could only shrug. “ 'Tis what it is,” he replied.

“But I never dreamed there could be something like that going on in
Valdemar.
It . . . offends me.” He paused, and Mags wondered if he should say something. Then Soren nodded his head as if deciding something. “Now that I know that they do . . . Mags, what would be a good way of keeping youngsters from falling into such places?”

Why is he asking me?
Mags wondered, feeling stunned. He opened his mouth to ask that very question, but what came out was not that at all. “Mebbe you c'd do somethin' with the law,” he heard himself saying. “Make it bad t' put kiddies to work or som'thin.”

“It would have to be the ‘or something,' Soren mused aloud. “We don't want to penalize farm folk who rely on their children and extra hands. But, yes, I see your point, and I think that would be a good start.” He straightened up again, and nodded decisively. “Well, my young friend, is there anything more I can do to thank you?”

Mags shook his head, blushing. “Ye went well over, feedin' me. All I did was wut I should do, aye? Bein' a Trainee an' all.”

“Well, I don't need to ask you why you are still here with Midwinter Festival upon us, so . . . let me do this. If you haven't anything better to do, you are welcome to join our ongoing festivities.” Soren smiled at him, but not in any kind of patronizing fashion. “We don't hold parties as such; we keep an open house, and if people are inclined and like-minded, they more-or-less form parties. Here—” He took a small card out of a pouch at his belt, borrowed a pen and ink from the taverner, and wrote out some directions in a careful hand. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to Mags. “You can simply arrive, and feel free to bring a friend or friends. The only part of our celebration that is set in stone is the Midwinter Day Feast, and a Midwinter Eve ceremony. All the rest is freeform.”