And sure enough, he could. It startled him. He was used to seeing himself in the wall of mirrors at the salle, but now he looked . . . elegant? He looked like the sort of fellow that those mercenaries would not dare touch, for fear of reprisals. His black hair and tanned skin looked a little startling against the gray of his clothing. He straightened, and tucked a thumb in his belt, and smiled at himself.

“I wouldn’ know me,” he said aloud, and with that, he was looking out of his own eyes again. “Huh. That was diff’rent.”

:You look quite respectable.:

He smiled. :Yah, I do.:

:So let’s go to Master Soren’s home.:

That startled him. :What, now? But—:

:We’ve nothing in particular to do, and he keeps a Midwinter open house as you have been told. You showed that you are not some social climber by not rushing over there at once. If he did not want you to come, he would not have invited you. So let’s go.: Dallen shook his head impatiently and stamped one hoof.

Mags might have tried to argue, but he could think of no good reasons not to go. So, with a sigh, he gave in, saddled Dallen and put on the special bitless bridle that Companions wore, and the two of them trotted out into the afternoon sun.

Somewhat to Mags’ relief, Master Soren did not live in one of the first-tier dwellings, the constructions that were little palaces unto themselves. His home was down in the second tier of the “merely” wealthy. It had nothing to distinguish it from the other half-timbered stone-and-plaster homes except that unlike theirs, the gate was standing wide open, there were lights in virtually every window, and the sounds of music and voices carried out to the street. There was a stone wall about the entire property, snow-topped, and within that wall the building faced on an area that was about half snow-covered garden and half paved courtyard.

As soon as Mags entered the courtyard, a servant appeared so quickly he might have materialized out of thin air. “If I may, sir?” he said politely, not to Mags, but to Dallen. “The stables are this way.” Now he looked up at Mags. “Master Trainee, just go up to the door and ring; someone will be with you before the sound dies away.”

Bemused, Mags dismounted; the servant did not so much as touch Dallen’s bridle. He might have been escorting a dignified gentleman. Mags’ first thought was that Dallen must have been eating that sort of treatment up.

:Of course I am. Shoo.:

Amused, Mags went on to the door, and rang the bell with a single pull on the strap attached to the clapper. The door flew open and another servant, even more correct than the first one, bowed slightly. “Welcome to the House of Mender, sir,” the servant said, and bowed low. “How shall I announce you?”