“Anyway, I jest got figgerin’ out how to get somethin’ thet I want bad kinda ground inter me.” He shrugged. “An’ I don’ see no harm in you learnin’ this, an’ neither does Weaponsmaster. So, come on, an’ we’ll get ye started. Hellfires, prolly do ye good in Kirball too, top of ev’thing else.”
“I can’t stay too much longer,” Jeffers warned. “My parents. And—they don’t know anyone in the Foot or anyone in the Riders to ask, but—they might in the Heralds—”
Mags nodded. “Lemme check,” he said.
:Dallen, kin ye make sure nobody rats on Jeffers? Covers fer him? Like, if there’s an ’mergency an’ someone comes up here fer ’im or sends fer ’im?:
Dallen engaged in that long silence that meant he was speaking to all of the Companions within reach, as the two of them headed up toward the salle.
:It’s sorted,: Dallen replied finally. :Some of the Heralds don’t like it, but we reminded them that some of their parents weren’t too happy about them being Chosen. We also reminded them that it isn’t as if the young man is doing anything wrong—and that he is very respectful of his parents’ choice, so they should be respectful of his. No one true way, after all. It seems to have worked.:
“Dallen sez yer covered,” Mags reported just as they got to the salle itself. He listened to what Dallen had to say and repeated it verbatim. “He sez if some’un comes up here lookin’ fer ye, Heralds an’ Grays’ll say yer at salle getting’ some tips on hittin’ an aimin’ from Weaponsmaster. Weaponsmaster’ll say same. Ain’t a lie, neither. An’ afore anyone gets there, they’ll be warnin’, so ye kin get rid of weapon an’ it’ll look like ye was jest talkin’.”
Jeffers dismounted, grinning ruefully. “And you say you aren’t clever!”
“Hey, twasn’t me,” he protested. “That twas Weaponsmaster’s ideer. Now, ye go ’long t’ him, I’ll rub down yer cob an’ walk ’im cool. “
“Mags—” Jeffers was at a loss for words. “You are a star.”
Mags knew he wouldn’t be long. Not like his own practices—Jeffers’ parents probably wouldn’t quibble up to a candlemark for “extra practice” but they certainly would say something about more than that. He got Jeffers’ horse and Dallen rubbed down and in good condition, and Dallen took the cob’s reins in his teeth to lead him off to the horse stables.
Then Mags and the Weaponsmaster showed the young man the exercise they had worked out to simulate sword play. Normally this sort of thing was done by striking with a wooden blade—often weighted—at a padded pole called a “pells.” Obviously that wasn’t realistic for Jeffers to set up in a yard, since everyone knew what a pells looked like. So what the Weaponsmaster had decided on was for Jeffers to take swings with a weighted wooden club at a ball about the size of a melon, suspended at various heights to represent the various target areas on a human.
He could tell them it was Kirball. He wouldn’t even be exactly lying, since one of the defensive moves they had all planned for was to smack the ball away from the goal with a much broader sort of club, more like a paddle, and the Kirball was about the same size. If he was ever challenged, he could say that working with a club instead of the paddle was to make his aim better, because it was harder.
When Jeffers had to leave, he took a club and a leather ball and its marked string with him, nearly falling over himself with gratitude.
But life continued to slide downhill into the mud. Aside from the Kirball practices, in which no one acted as if he was any different than he had been before all those ridiculous visions, that session with Jeffers was the last completely comfortable, happy moment Mags knew.
Gossip about the Foreseers’ vision reached into every nook and cranny of the three Collegia, as did Mags’ own revelation that he was foreign-born. He found himself the focus of far too many speculative glances, laden with suspicion. Granted, most of them did not come from Trainees or Heralds—but some did. And the most suspicious were from the Bards and especially the Bardic Trainees, who had far, far too much imagination for their own good.
He even started to hear wild tales about “Black Heralds” and “Black Companions,” who could somehow pass as the real thing, but inside were evil incarnate. Was that even possible?
:No,: Dallen said emphatically. :They’re just making things up so they can frighten each other. What an incredibly stupid idea! It’s too stupid even to make me laugh.:
Still, the stories persisted, because the surest way to make some people believe almost anything was to deny it completely. “Can you prove that?” the doubters would demand. And of course, no one could prove that what had never happened before never could happen. After all, there had been Trainees who had been repudiated and everyone pointed to Tylendel as the primary example. So why not bad Companions as well? The Companions weren’t infallible . . .
So went the so-called “reasoning.”
Of course, no one actually said anything to him. They just whispered it behind their hands around him and their minds shouted it so loudly that it got past his shields.
Then there were the ones that turned up their noses in contempt at the wilder stories, but still thought, “what if it isn’t him, but someone he knows?” Or “what if he somehow brings old trouble from his past into the grounds and the King gets caught in it?”
What could he say, to people like that, after all? He couldn’t refute what hadn’t happened yet. He couldn’t even say anything, because they weren’t saying anything to him.
It was aggravating. It was more than aggravating. It was sickening. He went around with his stomach in a knot most of the time now, feeling eyes on his back, as people watched him, hoping to catch him showing his “true colors.”
He even got into a shouting match with some of the highborn youngsters and some of the Bardic Trainees. It all started over—of all stupid things—the fact that he was eating soup and a little bread instead of the regular hearty luncheon. Not that he had much appetite anymore.
“Is that what they eat where you come from, foreigner?” sneered one of the Bardic Trainees as he passed Mags’ table. “Or are you too good to enjoy honest Valdemaran food?”
Mags gave him a stony stare. “Nah, I come from an honest Valdemaran mine, where we was worked worse’n donkeys,” he said. “Mine soup was mostly water an’ a couple cabbage leaves. Be good change for them as needs t’ be able t’ fit their uniforms, though, cause ye sure wouldn’ get fat on’t.”
He knew he shouldn’t have said that. All right, the fellow was packing on a good several pounds more than he should, and his tunic was straining at the seams. And yes, he did seem to have half a pie and a cream cake on his plate.
But it was a cruel thing to say, and he immediately regretted it.
Too late, though, because before he could apologize, the Trainee rounded on him furiously. “You need to learn some proper manners, foreigner!” he snarled. “Or better yet, just go back where you came from! We don’t need your kind here!”
“What kind’d that be?” Mags shouted back. “Cause I reckon if’n yer talking ’bout kind, ye be talkin’ ’bout ev’one in Grays or Whites!”
“And how do we know you didn’t somehow bewitch that Companion into thinking he Chose you?” one of the others said viciously.
“Because, Jan, you incredible dunce, the other Companions would certainly have noticed.” Lena ducked into the group and stood next to Mags, defiantly, her hands on her hips, her normally shy demeanor completely gone with her anger. “And because Mags can’t even be as old as you. Since not even the most experienced Karsite priests who were four times Mags’ age could manage to bewitch one Companion, much less the entire herd, I think you’d better give over that stupid idea. I wouldn’t even accept that in a story-song.” She gave him a withering glance. “No wonder you’re failing composition. I’d fail you too, if that is all you can come up with.”