He was very pleasantly surprised. There was a good bed, a desk and chair, a bookcase, and a wardrobe. It had its own little fireplace—no hoping to get warmth from the back of someone else’s chimney!—and a window that stood open to whatever breeze might come in. All of it, from the wooden floor to the furniture to the walls, was clean and polished and in good condition, though obviously much-used. When Skif set his clothing down on the bed, he was startled to realize that it was a real mattress, properly made and stuffed with wool and goose down, not the canvas-covered straw he’d taken as a matter of course.

He had never, not once, slept on a real mattress. He’d only seen such things in the homes of the wealthy that he’d robbed.

“Grab a uniform and I’ll take you to the bathing room,” Teren told him, before he could do more than marvel. “You need to get cleaned up and I’ll take you down to the kitchen for something to eat. Then I’ll take you to Dean Elcarth, and he can determine what classes you’ll need to take.”

It didn’t seem that Herald Teren had any intention of leaving Skif alone.

With a stifled sigh, Skif picked out smallclothes, a shirt, tunic, trews, and stockings, debated between the boots and the shoes and finally decided on the latter as probably being more comfortable, With an eye long used to assessing fabric, he decided that the trews and tunic must be a linen canvas, the shirt was of a finer linen, the boots of a heavier canvas with leather soles and wooden heels. Interesting that the temporary boots were of canvas rather than leather—they’d be quicker to make up, and a lot more forgiving to feet that weren’t used to boots. Or even shoes—some of the farmboys who came in to the markets went barefoot even in the city, right up until the snow fell.

Trailing behind the Herald, wondering if the man considered himself to be guide or guard, Skif left his room.

The bathing room was a shock. Copper boilers to heat the water, one with a fire under it already, pumps to fill them, pipes carrying cold and hot water to enormous tubs and commodious basins, boxes of soft, sage-scented soap and piles of towels everywhere—

Skif forgot Teren’s presence entirely. No matter how hot it was, he reveled in a bath like no one he knew had ever enjoyed. He soaked and soaked until the aches of that horrible ride with Cymry were considerably eased and he felt cleaner than he ever had in his whole life.

In fact, it was only after he’d dried off (using a towel softer than any blanket he’d ever owned) and was half dressed in the new clothing that Teren spoke, waking him to the Herald’s presence.