Now there was a horrid thought. In that case the only thing that would save him would be Apprentice-rank; apprentices were not permitted marriage. And galling as it would be to be demoted, it would be a lot worse to find himself shackled to some pudgy baker's daughter with a face like her father's unbaked loaves. But being demoted would give the Bardic Collegium all the time they needed to get him free of the pledge or simply outwait the would-be spouse, delaying and delaying until the parents gave up and fobbed her off on someone else.
Or until they found out about his sexual preferences. Even in Valdemar most fathers would sooner see their daughters married to a gaffer, a drunkard, or a goat than to someone who was shaych.
For one thing, they'd never get any grandchildren out of me, Stef thought grimly. And as long as I'm an anonymous apprentice, there's no status or money to be gained by forcing a marriage through anyway.
That seemed the likeliest - far likelier than that the Circle would convene to elevate an eighteen-year-old barely three months a Journeyman to Master rank.
Well, there was only one way to find out; get himself down to the Council Hall and wait there for the answer.
But first he'd better make himself presentable. He flung himself into the chest holding his clothing in a search for one set of Bardic Scarlets that wasn't much the worse for hard wearing.
Waiting was the hardest thing in the world for Stefen. And he found himself waiting for candlemarks outside the Council chamber.
He did not wait graciously. The single, hard wooden chair was a torture to sit in, so he opted for one of the benches (meant for hopeful tradesmen) instead. He managed to stay put rather than pacing the length and breadth of the anteroom, but he didn't sit quietly. He fidgeted, rubbing at the bandages on his fingers, tapping one foot - fortunately there was no one else in the room, or they might have been driven to desperate measures by his fretting.
Finally, with scarcely half a candlemark left until the bell signaling supper, the door opened, and Bard Breda beckoned him inside.
He jumped to his feet and obeyed, his stomach in knots, his right hand clenched tightly on his bandaged left.
The Council Chamber, the heart of Bardic Collegium, was not particularly large. In fact, there was just barely room for him to stand facing the members of the Bardic Council once the door was closed.
The Council consisted of seven members, including his escort, Breda. She took her place at the end of the square marble-topped table around which they were gathered. There was an untidy scattering of papers in front of the Chief Councillor, Bard Dellar.
The Councillor looked nothing like a Bard, which sometimes led to some awkward moments; set slightly askew in a face much like a lumpy potato were a nose that resembled a knot on that potato, separating a mouth so wide Dellar could eat an entire loaf of bread in one bite, and a pair of bright, black eyes that would have well suited a raven.
“Well,” Dellar said, his mouth stretching even wider in a caricature of a grin. “You've certainly been the cause of much excitement this morning. And no end of trouble, I might add.”
Stefen licked his lips, and decided not to say anything. Dellar looked friendly and quite affable, so the trouble couldn't have been that bad. . . .
“Cheer up, Stefen,” Breda chuckled, cocking her head to one side. “You're not at fault. What caused all the problems was that we were trying to satisfy everyone without hurting anyone's feelings. Making you a Master and assigning you directly to Randale was bound to put someone out unless we did it carefully.”
“Making me - what?” Stefen gulped. Dellar laughed at the look on his face.
“We're making you a full Bard, lad. Shavri was most insistent on that.” The chief Councillor smiled again, and Stef managed to smile back. Dellar picked up the papers in front of him, and shuffled them into a ragged pile. “She doesn't want a valuable young man like you gallivanting about the countryside, getting yourself in scrapes -”
“Nonsense, Dell,” Breda cut him off with an imperious wave of her hand, and pointed an emphatic finger at Stefen. “What Shavri did or didn't want wouldn't have mattered a pin if you weren't also one of the brightest and best apprentices we've had in Bardic in - I don't know - ages, at any rate. We don't make exceptions because someone with rank pressures us, Stefen. We do make them when someone is worthy of them. You are. You have no need to prove yourself out in the world, and your unique Gift makes you double valuable, to us, and to the Crown.”
She gave Dellar a challenging look; he just shrugged and chuckled. “She's put it in a nutshell, lad. We need to keep you here for the King's sake, and the only way to do that is to assign you to King Randale permanently. The only way to give you the rank to rate that kind of assignment is for you to be a Master Bard. But there's a problem -”
“I can see that, sir,” Stef replied, regaining his composure. “It's not the way things are supposed to be done. There's likely to be some bad feelings.”
“That is an understatement,” one of the others said dryly, examining her chording hand with care. “Bards are only human. There's more than a few that will want your privates for pulling this plum. About half of that lot will be sure you slept your way to it. And unless we can do something to head that jealousy off, gossip will dog your footsteps, and make both your job and your life infinitely harder. Need I remind you that we're dealing with Bards here, and experts with words? Before they're through, that risque reputation of yours will be the stuff of tavern-songs and stories from here to Hardorn.”
Stefen felt his face getting hot.
“That's been the problem, lad,” Dellar shrugged. “And this is where we had to make some compromises. So now I'll have to give you the bad news. You'll be assigned as the King's personal Bard, but it will be on the basic stipend. Bare expenses, just like now. No privileges, and your quarters will be your old room right here, rather than something plusher at the Palace. We'll have Medren move out so it's private, but that's the best we can do for you.”
Stef nodded, and hid his disappointment. He was still going to be the youngest Master Bard in the history of the Collegium. He still had royal favor, and he would be in the Court, in everyone's eye, where he had the chance to earn rewards on the side. “I can understand that, sir,” he said, trying to sound as if he was taking all this in stride. “If it looks like I'm not getting special treatment - if, in fact, it's pretty obvious that the only reason I've been made Master is so I can serve the King directly - well, nobody who's that ambitious is going to envy me a position with no special considerations attached.”
“Exactly.” Dellar nodded with satisfaction and folded his hands on top of his papers. “I'd hoped you would see it that way. You'll also be working with the Healers, of course. They're mad to know how it is you do what you do, and to see if it's possible for them to duplicate it.”
Stefen sighed. That would mean more time taken out of his day, and less that he could spend getting some attention where it could do him some long-term good. He'd seen Randale now, and just how ill the King really was; he wouldn't last more than a few years, at best, and then where would Stefen be?