Teren nodded. “That's right. The only Heralds in permanent residence are the teachers at the Collegium and the Lord Marshal's Herald, the Seneschal's Herald, and the Queen's Own Herald. Have you any idea who they are?”
Skif shook his head, not particularly caring that he didn't know. This new feeling, whatever it was, had a very slightly intoxicating effect. “Not a clue,” he said. “I figger ye'll tell me in them lessons. Right?”
“Right, we'll leave that to Basic Orientation; it isn't something you need to understand this moment.” Teren seemed relieved at his answer. “Now, straight ahead of us is Herald's Collegium, which is attached to the residence wing, both for the convenience of the teachers and — ,” he cast a jaundiced eye on Skif “ — to try and keep the Trainees out of mischief.”
Skif laughed; it was very clear from Teren's tone and body language that he meant all Trainees, not just Skif. He couldn't help but cast an envious glance at the wing beside them, though; he couldn't help but think that as a Trainee, he'd probably be packed in among all the other Trainees with very little privacy.
“Healer's Collegium and Bardic are also on the grounds, on the other side of Heralds,’ ” Teren continued, waving his hand at the three-and-a-half story wing ahead of them. “You'll share some of your classes with students from there. Healer Trainees wear pale green, Bardic Trainees wear a rust red rather than a true red. There will also be students who wear a pale blue which is similar to, but darker than, the pages' uniforms. Those are a mixed bag. Some of them are highborn whose parents choose to have them tutored here rather than have private teachers, but most are talented commoners who are going to be Artificers.”
“What's an Artificer?” Skif wanted to know.
“People who build things. Bridges, buildings, contrivances that do work like mills, pumps,” Teren said absently. “People who dig mines and come up with the things that crush the ore, people who make machines, like clocks, printing presses, looms. It takes a lot of knowing how things work and mathematics, which is why they are here.”
“Keep that away from me!” Skif said with a shudder. “Sums! I had just about enough of sums!”
“Well, if you don't come up to a particular standard, you'll be getting more of them, I'm afraid,” Teren said, and smiled at Skif's crestfallen face, “Don't worry, you won't be the only one who's less than thrilled about undertaking more lessons in reckoning. You'll need it; some day, you may have to figure out how to rig a broken bridge or fix a wall.”
They entered in at a door right in the tower that stood at the angle where the Herald's Wing met the Collegium. There was a spiraling staircase paneled in dark wood there, lit by windows at each landing. Skif expected them to go up, but instead, they went down.
“First, Housekeeping and Stores,” Teren informed him. “The kitchen is down here, too. Now, besides taking lessons, you'll be assigned chores here in the Collegium. All three Collegia do this with their Trainees. The only thing that the Trainees don't do for themselves is the actual cooking and building repair work.”
Skif made a face, but then something occurred to him. “Highborn, too?” he asked.
“Highborn, too,” Teren confirmed. “It makes everyone equal — and we never want a Herald in the field to be anything other than self-sufficient. That means knowing how to clean and mend and cook, if need be. That way you don't owe anyone anything — because we don't want you to have anything going on that might be an outside influence on your judgment.”
“Huh.” By now, they had reached the lowest landing and the half cellar — which wasn't really a cellar as Skif would have recognized one, since it wasn't at all damp, and just a little cooler than the staircase. Teren went straight through the door at the bottom of the staircase, and Skif followed.
They entered a narrow, whitewashed room containing only a desk and a middle-aged woman who didn't look much different from any ordinary craftsman's wife that Skif had ever seen. She had pale-brown hair neatly braided and wrapped around her head, and wore a sober, dark-blue gown with a spotless white apron. “New one, Gaytha,” said Teren, as she looked up.
She gave him a different sort of penetrating look than Alberich had; this one looked at everything on the surface, and nothing underneath. “You'll be a ten, I think,” she said, and stood up, pushing away from her desk. Exiting through a side doorway, she returned a moment later with a pile of neatly folded clothing, all in a silver-gray color, and a lumpy bag. “Here's your uniforms — now let me see your shoes.”
When Skif didn't move, she gestured impatiently. “Go ahead, put your foot on the edge of the desk, there's a lad,” she said. With a shrug, Skif did as he was told, and she tsked at his shoes.
“Well, those won't do. Teren, measure him for boots, there's a dear, while I get some temporaries.” She whisked back out again while Teren had Skif pull off his shoes, made tracings of his feet, then measured each leg at ankle, calf and knee, noting the measurements in the middle of the tracing of left or right. By the time he was finished, the Housekeeper was back with a pair of boots and a pair of soft shoes. Both had laces and straps to turn an approximate fit into a slightly better one,
“These will do until I get boots made that are fitted to you,” she said briskly. “Now, my lad, I want you to know that there are very strict rules about washing around here.” This time the look she gave him was the daggerlike glare of a woman who has seen too many pairs of “washed hands and arms” that were dirty down to the wristbone. “A full bath every night, and a thorough washup before meals — or before you help with the meal, if you're a server or a Cook's helper. If you don't measure up, it's back to the bathing room until you do, even if all that's left to eat when you're done is dry crusts and water. Do you understand?”
“Yes'm,” Skif replied. He wasn't going to point out to this woman that a dirty thief is very soon a thief in the gaol. That was just something she didn't need to know.
“Good.” She took him at his word — for now. He had no doubt he'd be inspected at every meal until they figured out he knew what “clean” meant. “Now, I don't suppose you have any experience at household chores — ”
“Laundry an' mendin' is what I'd druther do; dishes, floor washin', an' scrubbin' is what I can do, but druther have laundry an' mendin',” he said immediately. “Can boil an egg, an' cut bread'n'butter, but nought else worth eatin'.”
“Laundry and mending?” The Housekeeper's eyebrows rose. “Well, if that's what you're good at — we have more boys here than girls, so we tend not to have as many hands as I'd like that are actually good at those chores.”
Her expression said quite clearly that she would very much like to know how it was that he was apt at those tasks. But she didn't ask, and Skif was hardly likely to tell her.
“This boy is Skif, Chosen by Cymry,” Teren said, as Gaytha got out a big piece of paper divided up into large squares, each square with several names in it.
“I've got you down for laundry and mending for the next five days,” Gaytha said. “Teren will schedule that around your classes and meals. We'll see how you do.”
“Off we go, then.” Teren said, and loaded Skif's arms with his new possessions.
Back up the steps they went, pausing just long enough at the first floor for Teren to open the door and Skif to look through it. “This is where the classrooms are,” Teren told him, and he took a quick glance down the long hall lined with doors. “We're on Midsummer holiday right now, so all but two of the Trainees are gone on visits home. It's just as well; with this heat, no one would be able to study.”