According to Dallen, this had given rise to some aggrieved feelings among the Heralds, who were annoyed at their perceived overcrowding, though to Mags’ mind, they didn’t have a great deal to complain about. Still, there were bad feelings on the part of some toward the Bards, who were thought of as being greedy, and who—it was presumed—had also egged the Healers into demanding a Collegium of their own.

Dallen didn’t know the truth or falsehood of that last. All he knew was that some among the Heralds were definitely holding a grudge.

As for “Old” Bardic, it was definitely going to be taken down, as was “Old” Healers’. The King wanted the space for pleasure gardens for the courtiers and all of these new Trainees to use.

The place certainly looked old, worn, and tired, Mags thought as he followed his guide inside. A long corridor stretched the length of the building, with doors all along it. Wood floors were black with age, and the floorboards worn, gaping in some places, cracking in others. Walls of white plaster showed spiderweb cracks. The ceiling, also of aged wood, was blacker than the floor from the soot of countless candles and lamps. The building itself must have shifted slightly over the years, since nothing quite sat true. Doors wouldn’t close properly, windows wouldn’t open, and there were signs of extensive repairs.

Mags—the old Mags—would never have noticed these things. The old Mags would simply have been grateful that he was inside four walls, in a building with heat in it, and not out in the snow. The new Mags did, wondering if the building was actually becoming dangerous, and found himself in sympathy with the Bards.

“Here’s the class,” Mags’ guide said abruptly, stopping in front of a polished, blackened wooden door with the number “three” on it, cast of age-tarnished brass. “All the rest of ’em are on this corridor. Got your list?”

Dumbly, Mags pulled it out.

“Good, the numbers are next to the name, see?” He pointed to the relevant column. “You just go in the room with that number on it when time comes for your next class.”

The boy didn’t stay for Mags’ reply; instead, he turned and headed for another room, as, suddenly, doors at either end of the corridor burst open, and a flood of people in gray, rust, and dark green came pouring in through them. Mags hastily pulled the door open and ducked inside the designated room.

It was arranged with rows of benches and narrow tables, a larger table at the front, and a fire in a fireplace at the front. Front would be the most desirable seats; fairly certain of that, Mags took a seat at the rear, near the windows, figuring to be ignored.