It was a futile hope, of course. He was new, and everyone in that class already knew each other. He got plenty of curious looks as they filed in, and a knowing one from the adult who was presumably the instructor, a wizened little fellow in Herald Whites.

When the rest had all settled on their benches, the instructor cleared his throat and got instant attention. “Our new-comer is Trainee Mags,” the man said simply, in an aged voice that was nevertheless firm and strong. “You may all study him at leisure later. Turn your attention now, please, to the fourth chapter of our text.”

The others all pulled out books. The instructor asked some question of one of the Bardic boys dressed in rust. The Trainee stood up to make a long answer of it—Mags understood neither the question nor the answer, but while the youngster was talking, the instructor pulled a battered old book out from under his desk, walked back to Mags, and dropped it in front of him. When the Trainee was done, the instructor nodded. “Well put, Brion. Very well put. Mags, we are currently on Chapter Four. By the time we reach Chapter Five, I expect you to be caught up. Now, Tre, what can you tell me about—”

Taking this as a tacit order to begin reading, Mags opened the book and concentrated on the words in front of him. At least this history book did not assume he knew anything about the history of Valdemar. Possibly because it began before there actually was a Valdemar.

And it was nothing like as dry as some of the books he had looked at in the library of the Guard Post. He was able to ignore the curious glances, even though he certainly was not reading as fast as they could. At least he could read now.

He watched the others as the bell for dismissal rang, and saw that they had picked up their books and were taking them away with them. Assuming he should do the same, he tucked it awkwardly against his chest, and went looking for his next class.

If he had been under the impression that it would be easy to sit and learn things—as opposed to chipping sparklies out of rock—he was swiftly disabused of the notion. By the time the list in his pocket said he was to get something to eat, his head was spinning, and he felt as if he would rather be chipping sparklies out of rock. He also had a pile of five books to deal with, and realized he had better get a bag for them like the others seemed to be carrying.