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“USUALLY, our cook, Mero, is down in the kitchen,” Teren told him as they cleaned up what little mess they'd made. “Now listen, I am not telling you this because I think you're going to filch food, I'm telling you this because all boys your age are always hungry, and after the last couple of centuries running the Collegium, we've figured that out. When Mero is here, you can ask him for whatever you want to eat and if he isn't knee-deep in chaos, he'll be delighted to get it for you. When he's not here — and I know very well from my own experience how badly you can need a midnight snack — only take food from the pantry we just used. The reason for that is that Mero plans his meals very carefully — he has to, with so many inexpert hands working with him — and if you take something he needs, it'll make difficulties for him.”
Skif thought fleetingly of the number of times he'd taken food from Lord Orthallen's pantry — and hoped it hadn't made difficulties for that cook.
Odd. He wouldn't have spared a thought for that yesterday.
“Now. Healed, fed, and ready for Dean Elcarth?” Teren didn't wait for an answer, but strode off, heading for the stairs.
This time they walked through the corridor that held all the classrooms; again, it was lit by means of windows over each classroom door. From the spacing, the rooms were probably twice the size of the one they'd given Skif.
Why so many and so much room?
Maybe in case it was needed. Just because they only had forty-six Trainees now didn't mean they couldn't have more at some other time. And Teren had said that the classes were shared with Bardic and Healer Trainees — and those others. That would be interesting.
They passed through the double doors that marked the boundary between Collegium and Herald's Wing, and Teren turned immediately to a door on the left. “This is where I'll leave you for now. I will see you tomorrow, and we'll start Basic Orientation. And a couple of the other introductory classes. That way, when everyone gets back and Collegium classes start again, you'll be able to join right up.”
He tapped on the door; a muffled sound answered, and Teren opened it, and putting a hand just between Skif's shoulder blades, gently propelled Skif inside before he got a chance to hesitate.
The door shut behind him.
Skif found himself in a cluttered room, a very small room, but one that, from the open door to the side, must be part of a larger suite. There were four things in this room, besides Dean Elcarth; books, papers, chairs, and a desk. There were bookshelves built into the wall that were crammed full of books; books and papers were piled on every available surface. Elcarth motioned to Skif to come in and take the only chair that wasn't holding more books, one with a deep seat and leather padding that was cracked and crazed with age.
He sat in it gingerly, since it didn't look either sturdy or comfortable. He should have known better; nothing bad that he'd assumed about the Heralds ever turned out to be right. The chair proved to be both sturdy and comfortable, and it fit him as if it had been intended for him.
Herald Elcarth folded his hands under his chin, and regarded Skif with a mild gaze. “You,” he said at last, “are a puzzle. I must say that Myste and I have searched through every Chronicle of the Collegium, and I cannot find a single instance of a thief being Chosen. We've had several attempted suicides, three murderers — which, I will grant, were all self-defense, and one of them was Lavan Firestorm, but nevertheless, they were murderers. We've had a carnival trickster, a horse sharper, and a girl who pretended to be a witch, told fortunes which turned out to be correct ForeSight, but also took money for curses she never performed, relying instead on the fact that she'd be long gone before anyone noticed that nothing bad had happened to the person she cursed. We've had a former assassin. We've even had a spy. But we've never had a thief.”
Skif tried to read his expression, and didn't get any clues from it. Elcarth merely seemed interested.
“So, I have to ask myself, Skif. Why you? What is it about you that is so different that a Companion would Choose you?” He tilted his head to the side, looking even more birdlike. “Alberich, by the way, has told me nothing of why he recognized you. In fact, he didn't say much at all about you, except that he knew who you were, but until Kantor told him, he had not known you were specifically a thief.”
“What d'ye wanta know?” Skif asked. The best way to limit the damage might be to get Elcarth to ask questions, so that he could carefully tailor his answers.
“More to the point, what do you want to tell me?” Elcarth countered. “Usually — not always, but usually — the Chosen sitting where you are start pouring out their life stories to me. Are you going to be any different?”
“I ain't the kind t'pour out m'life story to anybody,” Skif replied, trying not to sound sullen, wondering just how much he was going to have to say to satisfy the Dean's curiosity. “I dunno. I ain't never hurt nobody. I stick t'the liftin' lay an' roof work…”
He hadn't given a second thought to whether Elcarth would understand the cant, but Elcarth nodded. “Picking pockets and house theft. Which explains why you were in that park in broad daylight. Taking advantage of the fact that no one was about in the heat, hmm?”
Skif blinked. How had —
“Your trail out of the city was shatteringly obvious,” Elcarth pointed out. “Not to mention hazardous. From the moment Cymry left the park with you, there were witnesses, many of them members of the City Guard. But that only tells me what you do, not what you are — and it's what you are that is what I need to know.” At Skif's silence, he prodded a little more. “Your parents?”
“Dead,” he answered shortly. But try as he might, he couldn't stand firm in the face of Elcarth's gentle, but ruthless and relentless questioning. Before very long, Elcarth knew something of his Uncle Londer, of Beel, and of Bazie and Bazie's collection of “boys” — and he knew what had happened to all of them. Especially Bazie. And he knew about the fire.
He managed to keep most of the details to himself, though; at least he thought he did. The last thing he wanted was to start unloading his rage on Elcarth. It was a handle to Skif's character that Skif didn't want the Dean to have.
But he didn't manage to keep back as much as he would have liked, though, and just talking about it made his chest go tight, his back tense, and his stomach churn with unspoken emotion. Part of him wanted to tell this gentle man everything — but that was the “new” part of him. The old part did not want him to be talking at all, and was going mad trying to keep him from opening his mouth any more than he had.
Fortunately at that point, Elcarth changed the subject entirely, quizzing him on reading, figuring, writing, and other subjects. That was what he had expected, although he didn't care for it, and his stomach soon settled again. It took longer for the tension to leave his back and chest, but that was all right. The tension reminded him that he needed to be careful.
Outside the office, the day moved on, and the heat wave hadn't broken. Thick as these stone walls were, the heat still got into Elcarth's office and both of them were fanning themselves with stray papers before the interview was over. “I think I can place you, now,” Elcarth said, by late afternoon. “But I'm going to be putting you in one class you probably aren't going to appreciate.”