He sat down on a bench in the little entryway, thinking that it was a very good thing that there was an extra hot plate in the bottom of the basket keeping everything warm. He had been here before, now and again; people were allowed to have other people in their rooms. He knew that the Dean of the Collegium had her office quite nearby, and shrewdly reckoned it was to keep any mischief from happening in the girls’ section. Bards were not known for keeping regular hours and the head of Bardic was no exception to this rule. If you didn’t know for sure whether or not the Dean was in her office you would probably think twice about getting up to something.
And that was when he heard it... Master Bard Lita Darvalis, Dean of Bardic Collegium, and head of the Bardic Circle... sounding off in full voice. And she was not singing. Oh no.
“I am appalled! Appalled, Tobias! If you were a Trainee, you’d be in the kitchen peeling roots at this very moment, with an assignment to analyze all three hundred verses of ‘Maddy Graves’ to follow! How dare you order Trainees about as if they were your personal pages? Not even Bardic, but a Herald Trainee, over whom you have precisely no authority!”
There was a moment of silence, which Mags, his ears burning, assumed wasn’t silence at all, but the Bard attempting to answer.
“Well if you are going to act the fool in the middle of a crowded hallway at dinnertime, you had better anticipate that the gossip is going to be all over all three Collegia before the pie is served!” Mags let out his breath. Oh good. He wasn’t going to be the one Bard Marchand was going to blame for being hauled before Bard Lita. “And above all else, how dare you try and turn the King’s Own into your personal flunky? I have children in this Collegium that were raised in barns and fostered by sheep that have better manners than you displayed—in public no less! And you a Master Bard!”
There was another moment of silence. Whatever it was that Marchand said, it only made Lita angrier. “You are a disgrace, Tobias! Dear gods above and below, did every single bit of what you learned in Courtly Graces fly out of your head the moment you left the Collegium? No one, no one, sends the King’s Own a note about a performance unless it’s about a suspected assassin in the audience! If I could do it, I swear I would break you down to Journeyman at this very moment! What in the name of the Seven Hells were you thinking?” Lita didn’t give him a chance to reply this time. “Never mind. I would rather assume that you weren’t actually thinking at all. It’s far preferable to knowing that this was some twisted little trick of yours to prove your inherent superiority to mere Heralds.”
Mags was very, very glad that he was sitting politely in the entryway and right where he was supposed to be, because he really did not want anyone to think he had placed himself deliberately where he could overhear this. Mind, Nikolas would probably be interested to know exactly what had been said . . .
Then again, the entire Collegium was probably hearing this. Lita was making no effort at all to keep her voice down. Now that he thought about it, she might well be projecting it on purpose.
“You are damned lucky that the King specifically requested your presence tonight, or by all that is unholy, I would send in a trained dog to take your place and tell Kiril that I had found a better performer! And you are damned lucky that Nikolas is not the sort to react in kind to such a piece of petty behavior, or this little incident would be all over the Palace by tonight, and what do you think that would that do to your fine reputation, hmm? How many of your noble patrons would welcome you if they thought they’d be treated to a display of such insolence in their own homes?”
If the Bard replied to this, as before, it was inaudible. And Mags was saved further discomfort by the proctor of Lena’s floor arriving to come take the basket from him. It was a girl he knew vaguely, a hearty blond who seemed concerned enough. “Lena’s upset, but I’ll see that she eats,” the girl told him, in a not unkindly tone.
“Thankee,” he replied, and quickly made his escape before he could overhear anything else. It had been uncomfortable enough to overhear a grown man being dressed down like a misbehaving youngling, and he just didn’t want to hear any more at this point.
It could have been a trick of acoustics, something that made what was said in Lita’s office clearly audible in that entryway and nowhere else. It could have been... but he doubted it. Lita was a Master Bard, and he would be very much surprised if she wasn’t aware of the acoustic properties of every inch of Bardic Collegium. No, she wanted people to hear what she was saying, and he was just—accidentally—the only non-Bard to do so.
:Of course she wants them to overhear,: said Dallen, as he made his escape down a path swiftly darkening in the twilight. :Marchand’s behavior really was appallingly rude with even the best possible interpretation. With the worst interpretation—well, you heard Nikolas. Bards are supposed to be examples of deportment and they are supposed to be extremely good at protocol. Lita wants everyone in Bardic Collegium to know that not even being extraordinarily Gifted nor extremely famous and popular is going to save you if you act badly, because your bad behavior will reflect on the Bardic Circle as a whole. By the way, I was passing all that on to Rolan directly. I thought that would be more discreet.:
Ah, another relief; Mags hadn’t been looking forward to a question-and-answer session that was likely to be as embarrassing for Nikolas as it would be for him. He shook his head as he ducked into the closest door, a chill breeze chasing him inside. :Well then, is he stupid, or what? I mean, he had to know this was gonna get ’round and he was gonna get told on.:
:Well, it’s not stupidity,: Dallen replied ruefully as Mags paused long enough to take off his cloak and drape it over his arm. :If I were going to guess—and it has to be a guess, because I don’t know his thoughts—he’s been out of Haven for quite a long time, and he’s been very much made the pet of by several houses of the highborn. They are flattered that he comes to their homes, they fawn over him, and quite frankly, he has gotten used to being treated as if he was practically royalty, so much so that now he thinks he is the equivalent of the King’s Own. You know, I think I have even heard of him being called the ‘King of Bards.’ So perhaps in his own mind, he is a sort of King.:
:Ye kin paint a crow white, but that ain’t gonna make it a dove,: Mags replied shrewdly, nodding at one of the other Trainees as they passed each other in the hall.
:I must remember that one. Well, there is a bit more to it than that. Besides his Gifts and talents, it is true that he has Projective Empathy, and he has used it in several crisis situations, making him something of a hero at the time.:
:Huh,: Mags said. :Still—:
:Indeed. Still. He did stop riots three times. And he did manage to save an innocent man from a mob. And he did hold an entire troupe of brigands spellbound until help could come, twice. But. The thing about Projective Empathy is that it is a very good tool to ensure that the wielder is safe.: Dallen’s mind-voice was more than a bit sarcastic. :If things start to go badly, you can just narrow your focus down to convincing your opponents that you are their new best friend.:
:So it ain’t like throwin’ yerself inta harm’s way, then.:
Mags could feel Dallen’s snort. :The average Guardsman sees more danger in a single incident than Marchand did in all six of his encounters together. Oh, I am not going to say he wasn’t brave, but it is easier to be brave when you know you have a gigantic shield to hide behind if you have to.: