Herald Caelen let out a huge sigh of relief. “Bless you. I pray to the gods that the next Trainee we get in here will be Healer or Bard, because finding space for him will be Lita or Paako’s problem, not mine. Unless we can get some of you graduated to field trials and out of here, I am going to be stacking you like so many hens in nestboxes atop one another soon.” He went back to his papers, occasionally looking up to ask Mags a question. When he had finished, he took out a fresh sheet and began writing on it, then got up and edged his way around the desk, taking care not to topple over the piles of books. “Follow me, then, and I’ll get you taken care of. Uniforms first.”

Right. Uniforms. He had some memories from Dallen about that. He nodded, and followed Herald Caelen out of the office and into a building that was clearly half finished on the inside. There were still workmen putting up wall panels and plastering the ceiling.

The borrowed memories sharpened, and he understood what was about to happen when they were halfway down the corridor. He would be a Heraldic Trainee, and he would wear a gray uniform, identical to Jakyr’s and Caelen’s except for color. That was how they did things here; Trainees—they might as well be called apprentices, really—wore something in the same color family as the Bards, Heralds, and Healers, but it was more than enough different to let anyone who saw them know that they weren’t exactly ready to act like the real thing yet.

They went through a set of double doors at the end of the corridor, and then made an abrupt turn to go down a set of dark little stairs. This brought them to a cramped room piled high with neatly folded clothing in white and gray. Herald Caelen pulled tunics from the top of piles, held them up against Mags, muttering to himself, refolded and stowed them away again until he found something that met his criteria. At that point, Mags found himself burdened with a staggeringly tall pile of things. “Do those boots fit you?” Caelen asked abruptly. Mags peered at him over the top of the clothing.

“Uh—”

“Do they pinch your feet?”

He had to think about that. His feet were so tough, he probably wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. “Nossir.”

“Are they falling off you? Did they rub blisters anywhere?”

Well, that he was sure of. “Nossir. Mebbe a bit big . . .”

“Wear extra socks, then.” A couple more pairs got tucked under the top of the pile. “Right. Come with me.” He grabbed a couple of cloaks, draped the gray one rather haphazardly over Mags’ shoulders and the pile of clothing, and slung the other, white one, around his own neck.