Clothing, clothing, good gods, what am I going to do about clothing?
There was no way his uniforms would be cleaned and mended, and he was going to need to take a few with him even if he didn't plan to wear them. And he had to have uniforms to travel in, anyway; technically a Herald traveling was on duty.
Wait a moment; wasn't there something in that note from Tran about uniforms?
He pushed off the blankets with a pang of regret, pulled the bed curtains aside, winced away from the daylight flooding his room, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for leftovers from half - recollected dreams to clear out of his brain. His shoulders hurt.
Have to do something about that muscle strain before I start favoring that arm . . . remember to put liniment on it, and do some of those exercises.
Birds chirped news at each other right outside his win - dow. It had been a very long time since he'd paid any attention to birdcalls - except as signals of the presence or absence of danger.
The musical chatter was quite wonderful, precisely because it was so sanely ordinary. Ordinary. Peaceful. Gods, I am so tempted just to fall back onto the mattress and to hell with starting for Forst Reach today.
But a promise was a promise. And if he delayed going one day, it would be easy to rationalize another delay, and another, all of which would only lead to Randale's recruiting him. Which was what the trip was supposed to prevent.
He pulled himself up out of bed with the aid of the bedpost and reached for one of Tantras' uniforms. Clean, Lord and Lady, clean and smelling of nothing worse than soap and fresh air. Once he managed to get himself started, habit took over.
He reached with one hand for one of yesterday's leftover apples in their bowl on the table, and Tantras' note with the other.
Go ahead and take my stuff with you. I don't need these; they're spares that were made before I put on all that muscle across the shoulders. A bit tight on me, they ] should be just a little big on you. Tell me what you want done and get out of here; I don't mind taking care of some of your paperwork for you. I'll see that your new uniforms are ready by the time you get back; Supply told me there's no chance of salvaging your old ones. Tran.
More than a little big, Vanyel thought wryly, standing up and surveying himself in the rather expensive glass mirror (a present from Savil) on the back of the door. He'd had to tie the breeches with an improvised drawstring just so they'd stay up, and the tunic bagged untidily over his belt. He looked - except for the silver in his hair - rather like an adolescent given clothing "to grow into.” They'd have been all right a year ago, but - oh, well. Nobody's going to see me except the family. I certainly don't have anyone to impress!
But Tran's volunteering gave him a notion about some other things he needed. He rummaged out the pen and paper he'd used yesterday; by now he reckoned those notes were well on the way to the Border and Forst Reach. Another reason to hail out of here. If I don't arrive soon after the letter, they'II worry. His letters should beat him to the holding by a few days, at least.
He wrote swiftly, but neatly; "neat as a clerk," Tran was wont to tease. Order me new cloaks, would you? And new boots. I need them badly; I'd be ashamed to stand duty the way they are now.
And since you're being so kind as to keep track of this, ask Supply to work me up a set of spare uniforms to leave here, and have them keep a set here at all times. Next time there might not be anyone my size with extras for me to borrow! Thanks, Van.
He packed quickly, without having to think about what he was doing, now that he'd finally gotten his momentum. After the last four years, he could pack fatigue - drunk, pain - fogged, drugged to his eyebrows, or asleep-and he had, at one time or another.
He swung his cloak - it was more gray than white, and a little shabby, but there was nothing to be done about that - over his shoulder, picked up his packs, plucked his lute off the chair, and headed out. In the dark and echoing hall on his way to Companion's Field and the stable, he intercepted a page, gave the child the note for Tantras, and asked for some kind of breakfast to be brought to him while he saddled Yfandes.
She was already waiting calmly for him at the entrance to the tackshed :They've cleaned all my tack,: she told him, :but the saddle needs mending and the rest isn't what it should be. I wouldn't trust the chestband to take any strain at all, frankly.:
:Swordcuts and bums aren't fixed with saddlesoap,: he reminded her :We'll just have to - wait a moment - what about your formal gear? That's next thing to brand new. Gods know we've used it what - once? Twice?:
Her ears went up - her sapphire eyes fixed on him -
And he had that curious and disorienting doubled image of her that he'd gotten sometimes in the past, the image of a dark, wise - eyed woman, weary, but smiling with newly - kindled anticipation, flickering in and out with the graceful white horse.
Gods, if I needed a sign of how dragged-out I am, that's it. Hallucinating again. Dreaming awake. Got to be because I never really think of her as a “horse” even when I'm riding her.
He blinked his eyes and forced himself to focus properly as she replied, as excited as a girl being told she could wear her holiday best- :Chosen, could we use it? Please?:
He chuckled. :You like being dressed up and belled like a gypsy, don't you?:
She tossed her head, and arched her neck. :Don't you? I 've heard you preening at yourself in the mirror of a morning, especially when there was someone to impress!:
"You fight dirty," he said aloud; and went in search of her formal tack, grinning.
One of the kitchen wenches, a bright-eyed little brunette, barely adolescent, brought him hot bread and butter, cider, and more apples about the time he managed to find where Yfandes' formal panoply had been stored. The saddle was considerably lighter than the field saddle, and fancier; it was tooled and worked with silver and dyed a deep blue. The chest and rump bands had silver bells on them, as did the reins of what was essentially an elaborate hackamore. The reins were there more for his benefit than his Companion's, and more for show than either. There was light barding that went along with the outfit, but after regarding it wistfully for a moment, Yfandes agreed that the barding would be far more trouble than it was worth and Vanyel bundled it away.
He paused a moment and bit into the bread; it was dripping with melted butter, and he closed his eyes at the unexpected pleasure the flavor gave him.
Oh, gods - fresh bread!
The taste was better than the manna that the priests said gods ate. "Bread" for the past year had meant rock-hard journey-bread at best, moldy crusts at worst, and anything in between - and it was never fresh, much less hot from the oven. There had been butter – sometimes - rancid in summer, as rock-hard as the journey-bread in winter.