And also split, as if there were two of him. One, the old Mags, kept thinking, “You can’t trust these people. You can’t trust anyone. Why should they help you? They’re leading you on for some reason of their own.” The other, the one that shared Dallen’s memories, kept thinking that everything was going to be fine, and although this whole Collegium thing was new to him, to them both, it was a good thing and it would make everything easier. . . .

And the old Mags was thinking “Make what easier?”

In the back of his mind, he felt Dallen, very quiet. :I could . . . cushion you again. I could help you to not think about these things. . . .:

He understood then that the calm he had felt so far was all artificial. It was something Dallen had imposed on him to help him deal with all of these new experiences. And now Dallen was taking that away.

And that was when old . . . instinct? . . . or was it experience? . . . rescued him. When you don’t know what to do, do nothing, watch, and wait. He was not calm, but he could pretend to be. He could stay quiet, not draw attention to himself, and wait to see what happened. People always revealed what their intentions were when you did that. Always. When you did nothing, you forced them to act even when they didn’t intend to.

He sensed Dallen being startled by this reaction, and made uneasy, as if now it was the Companion who didn’t understand and had no idea of how to react.

Meanwhile, Herald Caelen, who had no idea of what was going through Mags’ mind, took his silence as assent, or something positive at least, and seemed satisfied.

“You’ll see,” Herald Caelen said with confidence. “Just give it time. Now, come along, and I’ll show you where everything is.”

The Herald walked Mags through the buildings; one thing that Mags was very glad to see was a bathing room like the one in the Guard Post. Another was a huge room devoted entirely to eating—it was shared by every person working at this place, so there were people coming and going all the time. He saw Trainees of all three sorts: Bards, Healers, and a smattering of Heralds among the blue livery of what the Herald and his own—or rather Dallen’s—memories told him were servants of the Palace. There were everything from very fine looking outfits indeed, finer than anything that Master Cole ever wore, to very rough clothing that must belong to heavy laborers. And mixed with them were men also in rough clothing spattered with paint and plaster, dusted with fine white dust or yellow sawdust. He didn’t need any prompting to know that these were the men working on those two buildings out there.