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a week, but generally only to check in on things, and seldom stayed to work the counter. This wasn’t one of the nights when Mags had planned to do that, and since the King was having one of
his
nights with his family, there was nothing formal for Amily to attend. As a consequence, he was about to suggest a stroll down by the river, when Dean Caelen stopped them as they were all picking up their plates to take them to the serving hatch for cleaning.
    â€œSome of the Bardic Trainees put together an informal concert for tonight,” he said. “They’re having it at the Yew Garden.” The Yew Garden was one of several gardens inside the Palace walls; this one was particularly suited to informal concerts, being far enough from the Palace itself that those who were more interested in gossip than listening to music would probably not make the effort to attend, and would instead stroll the Rose Garden or one of the other flower gardens, chattering away about—whatever it was courtiers found to gossip about.
Each other, mostly. . . .
    â€œI think we should all go!” Pip said, happily. “Just what I need for the end of my first day back here!”
    Mags and Amily exchanged a quick look, but it was clear to each of them in that glance that they both wanted to go. Pip was right. No matter what kind of day
anyone
had had, short of one filled with tragedy, there could be no better ending to it than a night of music. If nothing else, being friends with Lena had taught them that.
    However, the wearing of white uniforms did come with a certain hazard—and by common consent, they all went back to their quarters to get something to sit on before re-gathering on the terrace to go down to the Yew Garden.
    Of the many benefits of actually
living
here, one was that Mags and Amily had plenty of storage, and could keep thingsaround that had only one purpose—like an old rag rug good only for picnicking and similar pursuits, and a couple of cushions covered in a patchwork of leather from worn-out tunics that would hold up under any amount of outdoor abuse. When they met up with the rest, it was clear that Pip had just grabbed his sleeping roll, something he might later regret when the time came to spread out his blankets on whatever bed he’d been given. Sharing his bed with ants, for instance, was probably not high on his list of “ways to get a good night’s sleep.”
    The Yew Garden was just that; a garden full of yew trees that were kept clipped into pleasing shapes. Some people went so far as to have their yews clipped into the shapes of animals; tradition held here, however, that the trees should merely be abstract and ornamental. At one end of the garden a curve of hedge as tall as a house gently framed a half-circle of paving. Tonight this paving held lanterns and lamps a-plenty, and six Bardic Trainees—and far more instruments than Mags cared to count. In order to be admitted into Bardic Collegium, would-be Trainees had to demonstrate two out of three things for qualification: Bardic Gift, compositional ability, and exceptional ability on at least one instrument, the voice counting as an instrument. It was Mags’ impression that most Trainees had all three; in order to become a full Bard, after all, they had to create and perform a musical work of sufficient quality to be deemed a “master” piece, so even those with the Gift had to learn what they lacked.
    Given the number of different instruments waiting to be played, it was pretty obvious that this set of six was a proficient bunch.
    White shapes began to ghost into the Yew Garden; the fence around Companion’s Field was never meant to keep the Companions
in,
it was more to keep other things
out.
Plenty of Companions enjoyed music, and it seemed they had gotten word of this little concert, too. Two of them ambled over to the spot where Amily and Mags had spread their rug and placedtheir cushions. Rolan