MAGS sat gingerly on the edge of a short wooden bench. Gingerly, on the edge, because the rest of the bench was taken up with a huge pile of books with a pillow balanced inexplicably on top. It was, however, the only available seat in Herald Caelen’s office, as the rest of the room was also taken up with books. Herald Caelen’s small desk, however, was immaculately clean, and the blocklike fellow gazed at the piles of books with distaste. Mags immediately got the sense that Herald Caelen had not put those books there himself, and the man’s words confirmed that. “I don’t know why my office should be the repository of every book that the librarian thinks is too valuable to keep in the library,” he said, aggrieved. “When it was only one or two, or even a dozen, I didn’t mind . . . or at least, I didn’t mind that much.” He shook his head. “My own fault. I’ll deal with it. Now—you would be Dallen’s new Chosen, according to Merlita—I didn’t get your name? No, wait a moment—” He opened a drawer, pulled out a sheaf of paper, and leafed through it quickly. “Ah, yes. Mags. Just Mags. Mixed up in that business with the mine. Well, let’s see . . .” He read some more. Mags tried not to squirm; his natural inclination at the moment would have been to make himself as unobtrusive as possible; Dallen had to keep reminding him that he was not in trouble, and that Herald Caelen might have his feelings hurt if Mags tried to hide from him. “Hmm. Hmm.” He looked up again, and Mags held himself very still; not quite the paralysis of fear, but not far from it. “You’ve probably gathered that we are chronically short of room. And, in fact, there is no room. I haven’t got a bed to put you in. And if you were from some other background, I would never ask you to do this—but would you be willing to sleep in the Companions’ stables? Not in a stall or anything of that sort,” the Herald added hastily. “There are some perfectly good rooms, with heating that makes them as cozy and warm as anything in this building and as clean and all, that the stableboys use. But it is the stable—”

Mags blinked. Here he was, someone who had, a few weeks ago, been sleeping in a hole under a barn floor—and this man was asking if he minded sleeping in a bed, in a warm room, just because it was in a stable. “Be fine, sir,” he said, in a voice just above a whisper.