meal, helped himself to some biscuits and bacon and made little tasty sandwiches of them, wrapped them all in a napkin, and took them with him as an incentive to the Dean to be easy with him.
As he had expected, the Dean was already in his office, which was on the third floor of the Collegium, right next to the library. As he had not expected, the office was . . . clean. There were no stacks of books, no piles of papers. The desk was a little untidy, but there was room to work on it, and there were several places for visitors to sit. He stood in the doorway and stared, open-mouthed, until the Dean looked up and saw him there.
Dean Caelen, a plain brown-haired, brown-eyed, mild-mannered man, smiled self-consciously. “I was told by Princess Lydia that I was getting an assistant and I was not going to be allowed to say no,” he said wryly. “I resented it at first, but now I don’t know what I would do without the lad. Come in, Mags, I’ve been expecting you.”
Mags put his wrapped biscuits on a bare spot on the desk and waited.
The Dean didn’t reach for them, as he normally would have. “I know this is going to sound very odd to you, but . . . I don’t have classes for you yet.”
“What?” Mags said, startled. “Why not?”
“The general feeling is that we want you to stay out of classes for now, while we assess you, assess what you have discovered, and decide what to do with you.”
Before Mags could react to that startling statement, the Dean was continuing. “Nikolas and some of the other senior Heralds basically want you to themselves for a while, several days at least. They are adept at extracting information people didn’t even know they had, and you are, at the moment, a veritable treasure trove of information, not only about the people that took you but also the Karsites. In short, a very valuable source of intelligence. So I wouldn’t be able to put you into classes anyway, not right away.”
What could he say but “Yes, sir, of course”? Although he normally would not have minded having a day or two when he wasn’t frantically trying to catch up with everyone else, at this point he was so far behind that his first real reaction was resentment. It seemed horribly unfair—here he was, behind everyone in classes, through no fault of his own, and being forced to lag even farther.
“Mags, I know what you must be thinking,” the Dean said placatingly. “But think a little further. Younglings come in all the time as newly Chosen, and at every possible level of education, and yet we manage to fit them in. You won’t be in the same classes you’d been taking with the same group of Trainees, it is true, but what of it? You might end up in classes with others of your friends. Remember, not all of you are progressing like—like Blues. We don’t have set class-years that begin and end everything together. And meanwhile, you are getting something like a holiday, one that, if you ask me, is overdue. You have been burning both ends of your candle for far too long.”
“But what’m I supposed to do with m’self when I ain’t bein’ questioned?” he asked, plaintively, his hands clasped between his knees.
“What do you want to do?” the Dean replied.
It had been so long since anyone asked him that question that for a moment his mind was blank. “I—dunno—” he managed.
“Something will come to you, I am sure,” the Dean said dryly. “You might consider reading for the pure pleasure of it, for instance. I can think of few things I enjoy more than sitting next to a fire reading a book. In the meantime, you might ask your friends if any of them need any help. If you are going to insist on being useful, I am certain someone will be grateful, even at this unholy hour of the morning.”
That was a dismissal if Mags had ever heard one, so he said goodbye to the Dean and wandered out into the crisp autumn morning. It occurred to him then that he did know someone who could use
As he had expected, the Dean was already in his office, which was on the third floor of the Collegium, right next to the library. As he had not expected, the office was . . . clean. There were no stacks of books, no piles of papers. The desk was a little untidy, but there was room to work on it, and there were several places for visitors to sit. He stood in the doorway and stared, open-mouthed, until the Dean looked up and saw him there.
Dean Caelen, a plain brown-haired, brown-eyed, mild-mannered man, smiled self-consciously. “I was told by Princess Lydia that I was getting an assistant and I was not going to be allowed to say no,” he said wryly. “I resented it at first, but now I don’t know what I would do without the lad. Come in, Mags, I’ve been expecting you.”
Mags put his wrapped biscuits on a bare spot on the desk and waited.
The Dean didn’t reach for them, as he normally would have. “I know this is going to sound very odd to you, but . . . I don’t have classes for you yet.”
“What?” Mags said, startled. “Why not?”
“The general feeling is that we want you to stay out of classes for now, while we assess you, assess what you have discovered, and decide what to do with you.”
Before Mags could react to that startling statement, the Dean was continuing. “Nikolas and some of the other senior Heralds basically want you to themselves for a while, several days at least. They are adept at extracting information people didn’t even know they had, and you are, at the moment, a veritable treasure trove of information, not only about the people that took you but also the Karsites. In short, a very valuable source of intelligence. So I wouldn’t be able to put you into classes anyway, not right away.”
What could he say but “Yes, sir, of course”? Although he normally would not have minded having a day or two when he wasn’t frantically trying to catch up with everyone else, at this point he was so far behind that his first real reaction was resentment. It seemed horribly unfair—here he was, behind everyone in classes, through no fault of his own, and being forced to lag even farther.
“Mags, I know what you must be thinking,” the Dean said placatingly. “But think a little further. Younglings come in all the time as newly Chosen, and at every possible level of education, and yet we manage to fit them in. You won’t be in the same classes you’d been taking with the same group of Trainees, it is true, but what of it? You might end up in classes with others of your friends. Remember, not all of you are progressing like—like Blues. We don’t have set class-years that begin and end everything together. And meanwhile, you are getting something like a holiday, one that, if you ask me, is overdue. You have been burning both ends of your candle for far too long.”
“But what’m I supposed to do with m’self when I ain’t bein’ questioned?” he asked, plaintively, his hands clasped between his knees.
“What do you want to do?” the Dean replied.
It had been so long since anyone asked him that question that for a moment his mind was blank. “I—dunno—” he managed.
“Something will come to you, I am sure,” the Dean said dryly. “You might consider reading for the pure pleasure of it, for instance. I can think of few things I enjoy more than sitting next to a fire reading a book. In the meantime, you might ask your friends if any of them need any help. If you are going to insist on being useful, I am certain someone will be grateful, even at this unholy hour of the morning.”
That was a dismissal if Mags had ever heard one, so he said goodbye to the Dean and wandered out into the crisp autumn morning. It occurred to him then that he did know someone who could use
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