Bastion

Herald, he wouldn’t have to concoct much of a disguise at all if he could cook.
    “I was cooking before I learned to read.” Jakyr shrugged. “Ma was either cooking, having a baby, or both, and once you were old enough to be trusted in the kitchen, it was your job to feed yourself. Once you could feed yourself, you had a job, either cleaning or cooking, and I hated cleaning, so I learned to cook well, and that right soon. At least with so many of us, we weren’t worked past what was reasonable for a youngling.
    “I just let people think I am a terrible cook so no one argues with my choice of eating at inns.”
    Mags nodded. Though the highborn would have been astonished at such a statement, to him, it seemed normal for kiddies to begin work as soon as they could walk. The difference between a good home and a bad one, or a good master and a bad one, was whether they made sure you got your basic learning, good food, and plenty of rest. And, of course, if it was your own family, love, and plenty of it. He, obviously, had none of these things. “Must have been good to be working alongside your kin.”
    Jakyr snorted. “There were so many of us you almost couldn’t call us ‘kin’ at all. Half the time Ma and Pa called us kids by the wrong names. It wasn’t that they had so many because they needed that much help at the inn, either. They’d have done just fine with only half of us. It was religion. They belonged to some religious sect that said you had to have as many younglings for the Glory of God as you could manage.”
    Mags blinked at that. “Uh. Why?”
    Jakyr shrugged again. “I have no idea. They were so busy having the kiddies, they never bothered to teach us why. Seems a backward way to go about things, to me. Every sennite there they were, in the Temple, telling everybody how much they loved God and us. Oh, how they loved God, giving Him so many children! When I left? According to the brother I still talk to, they never noticed. He says they still haven’t noticed. And as for their God, whenever I see one of their Temples, I turn around and ride in the other direction.” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Anyway, since I know good cooking when I taste it, I make a habit of keeping track of good inns. The one we’re heading for right now is excellent for plain, farmer food, and they make a specialty of pocket pies.”
    :Pocket pies?: Dallen’s head came right up, and his ears perked.
    Jakyr noticed, and laughed. “You’ll get your fill, Dallen. They love to spoil Companions there.”
    :Tell him I approve of such attitudes.:
    “Dallen can’t wait,” Mags said.
    “My Jermayan is looking forward to it too.” Jakyr patted his Companion’s neck. “It’s a fabulous place to eat. Terrible rooms, though. Maybe because people rarely stay there. It’s situated just close enough to Haven that people coming out get there about luncheon time, and people coming in want to press on and get to Haven proper. I got stuck there in a blizzard once.” He shuddered. “Never again. Two tiny rooms, the mattress on the bed was practically flat, the pillows were like boards, and it was like sleeping in a shed, it was so cold. I ended up taking my pack and curling up in my cloak by the hearth.”
    They left the orchard and entered fields that had been recently reaped. The grain was standing in shocks, waiting to be collected. Off in the distance was the grain wagon, and people tossing the shocked grain up to the man on top of the growing mound. All the colors seemed to glow in the sunlight—the golden grain, the yellow and red of leaves on the trees, the green of the hedgerows between the fields.
    “We’ll be in inns until we break our trail, so enjoy it while you can. Now, when Heralds are actually ontheir Circuit, they don’t stay in the inns, unless there is no other choice. They stay in the Waystations or occasionally Guardposts. This is to prevent people from trying to bribe them with comforts and luxuries,” Jakyr went on. “On the way to and from a Circuit, though, you can stay in inns, Waystations, or Guardposts, it’s your choice. Most of us prefer the inns or the Guardposts. It always seems to happen that when you hit the worst weather and choose a Waystation, the one you get is the one that somehow got neglected on the last inspection. Innkeepers get a chit out of it, lets them out of some taxes, so they’re happy with the arrangement.”
    Mags scratched his head. “Seems like a good