Bastion

his food and bolted it without tasting it. At this point, he was beginning to feel that almost anything would be better than spending his time in somewhat disorganized research and being interrogated until his head hurt.
    The Dean was right in his office, as usual, and Mags wondered for a moment if the man ever left. But Dean Caelen was clearly waiting and watching for him, for as soon as Mags came into view, the Dean waved him in, then closed the door.
    “Mags, I’m sure you are aware that your situation is making some people nervous about your continued presence here at the Collegium.” The Dean took a seat behind his desk and clasped his hands on the top of it, peering at Mags earnestly. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear: No one is at all concerned about your loyalty or stability, but they are concerned about what your presence might bring here.”
    “Can’t say that I blame ’em, sir,” Mags replied honestly. “I’m more’n a bit nervous m’self. I dunno how much of those memories they dumped into me are really for true. For that matter, I dunno what else they got into that could bring other trouble here. I mean, I’m sure they broke that contract with Karse, and I’m sure they ain’t gonna go and write up a new one, but—”
    The office was curiously quiet; with all the Trainees slowly fumbling their way toward breakfast there was none of the usual background noise penetrating the Dean’s sanctuary. The Dean held up his hand. “You can rest your mind easy on that score,” he said, with a slight, encouraging smile. “We do have agents inside Karse. The Karsites are not at all pleased with those fellows. In fact, there are orders out to kill them on sight, and we’ve good reason to believe that the Karsites have set their demons to hunt for them as well. So—no reconciliation likely there.”
    Mags nodded slowly. “That’s one less worry, then. But they’re still after me. And everything I know says they’ll come here to get me. And . . .” he let his voice trail off, because anything else he would say would just be obvious. That the assassin clan had already gotten onto the grounds of the Palace and Collegia not once, but multiple times. That maybe that strange stone embedded in the table in the lowest level of the Palace could tell where they were, but not very accurately, and there were not very many people who could talk to the stone in the first place. That—
    He could go on forever, really, with good reasons why people would, and should, be nervous about his presence. And he was only one fairly common Trainee, no matter how much Nikolas liked him or thought he had potential. It wasn’t as if Nikolas couldn’t train, say, Corwin to replace him. Or Barrett. It wasn’t as if he was the Heir. There was no good reason to muster resources to protect him. It had been bad enough when quite a number of resources had been gathered to rescue him. He just was not that important.
    “Mags, are you listening to me?” the Dean’s voice rose, breaking Mags out of his preoccupation.
    “Oh, no, sorry, Dean Caelen,” he said, shamefacedly.
    “I thought you looked as if you were miles away.” Rather than sounding annoyed, the Dean sounded sympathetic. “Mags, we’ve put our heads together, and we are going to try something to shake them off your trail. Oddly enough, it was a helpful suggestion from some of those who were not happy about Heralds going to a Collegium system in the first place. They pointed out that in other years, you’d have just gone off with a mentor, just like every other Trainee. You’d be hard to follow in the Field. And the mentor in this case would eventually send back word of your tragic death at the hands of bandits or something of the sort. Your pursuers would not know that the Death Bell always rings when a Herald dies, but your friends, of course, would, and would not be fooled.” Dean Caelen shrugged. “Then, once your training in the Field was complete, you’d return with a new name and identity, get your Whites, and be sent off to some other remote Circuit.”
    “But—” Mags faltered, unable to see how that applied to him. There were so very many things he still needed classes for!
    “But you’re thinking you still need classes,” the Dean responded. “Actually, we looked into that. We’re not sure that you do. Perhaps some other Trainee might—but you are not destined to be sent into the Field, Mags. You don’t really need to know