Page 12 of Valdemar

“. . . It’s got merit, Kordas. That idea has merit,” said Lord Alden Marin, a gentleman with a spouse so enthusiastic about bringing babies into the world that he had some fifteen children now, and—at least according to Alberdina—it was only with great reluctance that his wife had been persuaded that fifteen was enough. This attitude baffled Kordas, because he could not imagine a woman wanting to endure the stress of pregnancy that many times, but it was also none of his business. Lord Marin, on the other hand, sometimes seemed at wit’s end with the shenanigans of his tribe.

The important business of the morning concluded, Kordas and Isla’s carefully crafted proposal for general schools had just been presented, and the Privy Council seemed, on the whole, positive about it.

The Council Chamber was a spacious room more than large enough for the four trestle tables turned into a square, and their relatively comfortable chairs. It had fireplaces at each end—sadly, the days of mage-heated rooms were gone—and hanging over the fireplace nearest the table was a map of the Barony inked out on a giant tanned boar hide. It sometimes seemed to Kordas as if he had spent half his life here.

“Jon is quite eager to begin,” Kordas said. “And, of course, there’s no concern about having him set up a school here in the wall for the children of servants and guards; we could do that without bringing it up to the Council. But his point about the general population bidding fair to be half illiterate is a good one, and I thought it should be addressed before the situation becomes a real problem, with mages and Healers forced to tutor Gifted children in the basics, perhaps for years, before they can begin their real education.” He paused. “Years,” he repeated. “Our mages and Healers are getting older by the day. That could mean years in which we have no effective Healers or mages.”

By the looks of alarm, he was satisfied that he had effectively lit a fire under them.

“I wonder who else is idling away their time that could serve as teachers,” wondered Lady Bastien aloud. “Alberdina and Delia swept up most of the literate commons that aren’t up to strenuous work for their copying, of course, but surely—ah!” She snapped her fingers. “The priests and clerics, of course! And they have places for those schools all over Haven in the form of their temples, which are half empty most of the time!”

“But my lady, their prayers and meditations—” objected old Lord Damberlin.

“Can be done when the teaching is done,” she retorted firmly. “As my own tutor was fond of saying, basic literacy and ciphering can be taught in two or three candlemarks a day. It’s the application of those skills, in learning history, literature, medicine, advanced mathematics, and so on that requires extra time.” She nodded, very pleased with herself. “Those advanced skills can be part of a Healer or mage’s education, of course, but secondary to what will be their profession. As for the non-Gifted, if a child wants to pursue learning beyond the basics, I would think that a person of faith and devotion would be happy to supply that want. And if they don’t, well, we can find someone who will, to the betterment of everyone in Valdemar. And thus, we demonstrate that teaching is a very honorable way to spend one’s time, as well!”

“Don’t expect a dissent from me, my lady.” The representative of the religious communities of Haven, Father Delephon, immediately agreed, although moments of agreement between him and the ultra-practical Lady Bastien were usually few and far between. “I may have to thump some heads, but it’s only been ten years since the duty of teaching the young literacy and ciphering was part of our duties to our flocks. At least in the Barony, it was.”

“Delephon, not every religious devotee is suited to teaching,” said Master Smith Longhammer, ruefully rubbing the back of his head. “I do remember Brother Haycock’s impatience with great clarity, and his swift and completely unnecessary application of a spoon to the back of me head on multiple occasions for no apparent reason!”

“That’s where the manor younglings come in,” the Seneschal said smoothly, eliminating the need for Kordas to say anything himself. “The highborn almost all have children beyond their heirs, who, at the moment, are engaged in—what, exactly? Hunting, all very well, but we get most of our meat from domestic animals now. Their parents consider them too lofty to do manual labor and too valuable for the Guard, and that leaves them doing make-work. We’ll surely have enough who are willing to spend time productively to make up for those who are ill-suited to the task. And there can be no better way to demonstrate devotion to one’s god and the growth of maturity and responsibility than to undertake to teach younger children.”

“Rewards, though,” Lady Bastien mused, thinking practically, as always. “There must be some sort of reward for a youth in this besides the sheer novelty of being put in charge of something. Titles? I should think a Court title would be an inducement. We can make one up. Master of Scholars has a nice ring to it. Some sort of ornamental bit of frippery to wear at ceremonies. Laurel is the symbol of wisdom, is it not? And there are plenty of laurels in these parts. A gilded laurel wreath in the hair is both showy and inexpensive, and makes a pretty display.”

Kordas just sat back in his chair, nodding from time to time, as his Privy Council took the half-formed idea, molded and shaped it, and by the time luncheon rolled around, had beaten it into a decree, transcribed it to paper, and sent it to the clerks for copying and distribution. Where the schools would be was sorted—as the lady had pointed out, there were plenty of temples, pretty much evenly distributed across the city, and even a few out among the farms. The wagons that brought produce into the city every morning could also bring children, and take them home again at noon, well in time for chores. The second batch of wagons that came in at noon doing the same could bring a different batch of children. Three hours of teaching each day was deemed sufficient for active youngsters who would have trouble sitting still for very long. There would, of course, be people who resented having an entire afternoon or morning of their children’s work “stolen,” but Kordas suspected they’d go along with it anyway, because not going along would make them look bad in the eyes of their neighbors.

And just when he thought everything had been hammered out, Squire Hawthorn, who represented the farmers farthest from Haven, suddenly woke up and objected, because the distance from his farms to Haven by slow produce cart was half a day. And that began the debating all over again.

“Didn’t the Valdemar villages used to have what they called ‘dame schools’?” the Seneschal finally interjected, looking weary of all of this. “The village would put up a building for someone aging—usually a childless elderly widow, or someone whose home was now overly crowded with grandchildren—and they would live in a room in the back while the children were taught in the front of it. As I recall, it was an equitable trade; an older single person no longer able to keep up with the repairs on their cottage, or living with a hoard of noisy children, got a solid small living space in return for teaching.”

“Some of us did,” the Squire admitted.

“Well, do that,” replied the Seneschal, who clearly wanted his luncheon. “If it’s too far for the children to come to Haven or a temple, get those friendship groups together, look for volunteers willing—and capable!—to teach the basics, and take a vote on who gets the job. Then, if there’s no temple large enough to hold classes, get the friendship group to build the school.”

“Aye,” Hawthorn said, slowly and reluctantly. “But who’s to pay for building?”

A glance to his exchequer and a brief nod from the same gave Kordas all the information he needed. “I will,” he said. “Out of the Privy purse. I’ll take care of the building supplies, you take care of the labor and the teacher.”

There was some more back and forth, because people always like to argue and find fault (especially his Council), and finally a compromise was reached. Instead of a single small and clearly insufficient room at the back of the school, the teacher would get one of the empty living barges meant for a small family, fitted up as a cottage, as so many of the farmers had already done for their laborers. “Fitted up as a cottage” meant walling it in and topping it with a thatched roof, so it stayed reasonably cool in summer and didn’t need a lot of wood in the little stove in winter. That meant the school could be left unheated when not occupied (another sore point; Hayworth said his farmers would rebel if they had to cut the wood to heat “an enormous empty room” all winter), while the teacher remained snug.

Sometimes I think my Council just likes to argue for the sake of arguing.

This was why he always put the meeting in the morning, and did not offer pages to bring in a meal. The more growling stomachs he heard, the more likely it was that people would wrap things up.

Finally he was able to bring the meeting to a close; he couldn’t help but notice that Hawthorn was quite eager to assist with this, even though he’d been the one to object. Probably because the food that was laid out in the Great Hall for luncheon was on a first-come, first-fed basis, and even now, even though it was the most basic “plowman’s lunch” fare of bread, cheese, pickles, and raw vegetables and fruits, there was never so much as a crumb left when the kitchen workers came to clear it away. It’s not fancy, but we could be starving right now, and we’re not.

He was looking forward to getting his own share, when a page intercepted him and told him that Isla expected him in their suite.

That could only mean one thing: a visitor who didn’t want to be paraded in front of the entire populace of the manor. There were any number of candidates, but the most likely was one of the Tayledras.

No telling what brings them. I hope it’s not to say a permanent farewell.That farewell was inevitable, as the Hawkbrothers migrated further and further away from Valdemar in their quest to cleanse what they were calling “the Pelagir Hills” from the ravages of the long-ago Mage Wars, but he was not looking forward to it. They were a valued and valuable ally, over and above their generosity in bringing the Valdemarans here and giving them their old Vale. And many of them were his close personal friends.

He hurried to the Baronial suite to find Isla and Jon playing host to Silvermoon, who was apparently enjoying his very simple meal. “Kordas!” the latter greeted him; today the Hawkbrother was wearing a wrapped top and wide trousers of gray ramie, and his snow-white hair was confined in what looked like hundreds of tiny braids, each ending in a silver bead. “I would be pleased enough to visit here for some of Sai’s famous bread, but I actually have other reasons.”

“Can those reasons wait until we finish eating?” he asked. “My Council was especially long-winded today.”

Silvermoon gestured at the small table between their seats, on which rested a tray of sliced bread, a particular mild, white cheese he very much liked, pickled beans, fresh flat-peas (a versatile Tayledras vegetable that virtually everyone loved), radishes, and baby carrots from the thinning of the gardens. Diplomatic protocols be damned, I’m starving! He filled a plate and set about emptying it inside of himself.

Silvermoon had brought along Jelavan, the hertasi who had made such a friend of Delia. Silvermoon was eating, Jelavan was not, but that was because Jelavan, like all hertasi, couldn’t eat raw vegetables or cheese, so he had probably filled himself up on bread before Kordas got there. Then again, he might not be hungry at all; hertasi generally ate only two meals a day, breakfast and supper.