by Tim Stead
“Freshen the water,” he told him when Jackan came back again. “And fetch me six blanks from over there. It’s daggers we’re making today.”
It took a while to get the forge hot enough to begin, and after that it was hours of hammering and folding, Jackan doing just as he was told.
Just after midday they took a break and sat out in the street eating some cold meat, cheese and bread they’d brought with them. The boy looked tired, but he hadn’t flagged or complained all day.
“It’ll get easier,” Francis said.
“I expect so,” the boy said. “When I was learning to fence and ride it got easier after a few days.”
“You shouldn’t talk about such things,” Francis told him, lowering his voice. “You speak too well as it is. I told them you came from a well-to-do cousin fallen on hard times, but that’ll only carry you so far.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Jackan said. “I have to be more careful, but I feel safe here. It’s like the killing is a thousand miles away.”
“Two miles, if that,” Francis said.
“Have you any news?”
“Some. They say it’s bogged down. Falini’s position is good, and he can get supplies in by sea, but the roads are blocked. It can go a long time like this, but not for ever.”
“You said Falini was dead.”
“Aye, the father is, but now the son bears the name. He’s not ten years older than you, but he bears it well, considering.”
“I met him, you know?”
“Who?”
“Benno Falini, the son. They say he’s true to his father’s blood, so there’ll be no change. He was there.”
“Where?”
“When my father was killed. He was with the men who did it.”
“I didn’t know.”
Jackan turned to Francis, suddenly earnest. “I owe you a great deal. My life, probably twice, my safety here, the food and drink, the shelter – it’s more than I can repay – but I will ask you one more favour.”
“You may ask,” Francis said, his tone saying more – that there was no promise to give whatever was asked.
“Kill him,” Jackan said. “Kill Benno Falini for me.”
Francis hadn’t expected that. In all the time he’d known the prince he had seen no sign of bitterness, no shadow of rage or a lust for revenge. The boy’s entire family had been killed, his father and mother, brothers and sisters, and yet he had not shown the pain he must have felt until this moment. In its own way this was a revelation. He admired the boy for his strength.
“If he survives the war, I will do it,” he said.
He was surprised again – this time at his own words. He had killed, that was true, but he was no assassin.
Jackan smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
They went back to work, Francis hammering and Jackan running and fetching things and, Francis noticed, watching his work with the hammer with what seemed a keen interest. Perhaps the boy would have made a promising apprentice after all.
At the end of the day he sent Jackan to wash up and fetch food from a local market while he tidied up the forge. Master Franioso appeared at his elbow.
“How many days to finish the daggers?” he asked.
“A week, perhaps eight days,” he replied.
Franioso nodded. “That’ll do,” he said. “I took payment in advance, things being what they are.” He didn’t walk away, but stood there. Francis waited. The master smith was a man of few words, and sometimes there was a significant period of labour before they emerged into the world.
“The forge,” he said eventually. “If anything happens, you know, look after it. It’s yours.”
“I will,” Francis replied. The war obviously had the old man worried. “But you should put it on paper.” Franioso had no heirs, and he’d hinted at this before, but Francis knew that others would contest a verbal will. There were other journeymen here who would want a piece of the business.
“Paper,” the smith grunted. He had contempt for paper. He saw it as a trap, lived in a world where men looked each other in the eye and shook hands, and that was enough. Francis knew better. “You write it for me,” he said. “I’ll sign it.”
“Your wife?” Francis asked.
“She’s got the house. You’ll look after her if needs be.”
It was a kind of nobility, Francis supposed; different from the nobility of titles and property. It was the absolute faith in those one trusted. Franioso was trusting his wife’s wellbeing to Francis – totally and without reservation. That trust sparked a deep obligation in Francis, as though the very act of trusting made him worthy of it.
“I will,” he said. Two oaths in one day.
“And the boy,” Franioso said. “He’ll do.”
The smith walked away. If the times had been more settled, if he wasn’t who he was, Francis would have been a happy man. He’d just been gifted a comfortable life, he had a hard working apprentice that he liked. But it was all shadows and lies. His apprentice was the rightful king of Afael and the city, Franioso’s forge and all, would shortly be consumed by the chaos of war, and who knew what might emerge from the other side of that? He walked out into the street with a feeling of profound melancholy.
Jackan was waiting for him with a cloth sack full of food slung over one shoulder. He smiled.
“I got everything,” he said.
Francis smiled back at him, but almost at once noticed a figure on the far side of the road crouched down in the evening shadows, his face hidden. He felt for his knife and found it still there, but the man stood up, and Francis recognised him. It was Carillo from the Dock Ward committee.
The man shuffled furtively across the street. Carillo wasn’t very good at not being noticed. He looked guilty even when he was innocent.
“What is it?”
“Not here,” Carillo whispered. Here was as good as anywhere, Francis thought. They were on the side of an empty street with the forge all but shut up for the night and a few men and boys visible but well out of earshot. He humoured Carillo and followed him into a narrow alley. Jackan followed them both.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“That man you were with in Johan’s place. The one from up by the castle…”
“Calitanto. What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Francis felt a shiver down his spine. He’d picked up Jackan from Calitanto’s place last night.
“Dead? How?”
“Men came for him. Falini’s, I think. There were seven of them, perhaps eight, but he took up his sword and fought them. Killed one before they got him. Got his wife, too. They searched the house for an hour.”
Calitanto had been loyal to the last. He had known where they could find Prince Rubel, and known well enough that he’d tell them if they took him. He’d chosen to die quickly and take his secret with him. It was more than that, though. Calitanto had been a friend, an ally. Francis felt the loss.
“He was a brave and loyal soldier,” Jackan said.
“He was that,” Francis agreed. “And we’ll pay them back. Blood for blood.”
He glanced at Carillo, and for the first time he saw that the man was afraid of him, and that sent a shiver through him, too. It wasn’t a bad feeling.
44 Callista’s Test
“Now,” she said.
Mordo looked at her. “You want to be tested?”
“Yes. Now.”
Callista had sought out the Under-Steward because he was responsible for organising the tests. He was the keeper of the crown, the man in charge of protocol. It was how this was done.
“It may take a while to arrange,” Mordo said.
Callista shrugged. “As soon as you can, then.”
Mordo didn’t move. He stared at her. “You’ve spoken to Eran Pascha?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Well, my lady, perhaps we can do it now. If you wait here I’ll go up and speak with her.”
He left the room and C
allista wandered over to the window. The view here was uninspiring. All she could see was a wall. She sat down in Mordo’s chair. His desk was completely bare, uncluttered by any sign of humanity or even work. The wood was polished and unmarked as though it had never been used. She ran her hands across the smooth surface and found it free of dust and grit. Mordo was clearly a very organised man. There were boxes stacked neatly against the wall behind her, their edges precisely aligned. She did not look at them. Their contents were none of her business.
She heard steps in the corridor and stood up again. Mordo stopped in the doorway and inspected the room. Callista could see his eyes scanning the boxes, checking if anything was out of place.
“Half an hour,” he said. “Follow me.”
He set off down the corridor without another word, and she followed. Quite quickly they came to a door which he unlocked.
“Wait here,” he said, and vanished inside, closing the door behind him. He was only gone a moment and reappeared holding a flattish wooden box. He relocked the door and set off again. Callista trailed him upstairs, back past his office and across the roof garden. They passed through the great hall and on into a side chamber. This must be where the test was due to take place.
The chamber was not large. The floor was softened by a large rug with an abstract pattern, Telan by the look of it, and in the middle of the rug stood a sort of couch bed, draped with red velvet, a pillow at one end. There were about a dozen chairs scattered about the walls.
“Do you want anyone else to be here?”
“Eran Pascha…”
“She will be here of course, my lady,” Mordo smiled again. “Sithmaree is your guardian and has been informed. She will make her own decision. Is there anyone else?”
She thought of Rodric, but decided against it. He had already been through the trauma of his sister’s death, and she knew her own test would be an ordeal for him, no matter how sure she was of success.
“No,” she said.
Mordo nodded. He set his box down on the couch and waited, standing to one side. He looked relaxed, but Callista could not stand still. She had thought that it would be easy, thought that knowing things would turn out well would give her a calm spirit, but it wasn’t like that at all. If she succeeded, and she was certain that she would, then she would be a god mage, a creature of almost infinite power. She would be safe. Her life would be transformed. She did not even know what a god mage was, not really. She had seen Pascha a dozen times, and the only sign of power she had perceived was the flaming sword that had been in her hand the night that Shadow had spoken to her for a second time.
Sithmaree entered. She frowned at Callista.
“You’re certain?” she asked. Callista smiled and nodded, not quite trusting her voice. The Snake stepped closer and embraced her for a moment. “I will be here,” she said. “I will watch over you.”
Pascha was next. She walked in with Sheyani on her heels, both of them looking quite grave.
“Callista, you’re sure that you want to do this?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“If you want to change your mind you can do so at any time before the test begins. You understand?”
“Of course. But I won’t change my mind, Eran. I’ve thought it through. After I talked to Narak…”
“He talked to you?” Pascha was suddenly sharper. “What did he say?”
“He said that trouble was coming, warned me not to trust everyone.” She shrugged. Best not to mention his urging to take the test sooner rather than later. “I had already decided that I would take the test before we spoke,” she added.
That seemed to satisfy Pascha. She turned to Mordo. “The crown,” she said.
Mordo opened the box and held it out to her. Pascha reached within and brought out something that looked less like a crown than Callista would have imagined. It was a thin band with a single pale stone mounted at the front. She turned to Callista.
“The test begins when I put this on your head,” she said. “After that you must travel the road to the end.”
Callista nodded. Her mouth had gone dry.
Pascha glanced around the room. She stepped forwards and gently rested the crown on Callista’s head.
For a moment nothing happened.
Callista couldn’t see the stone. She could feel its small weight just above her brow, and she could feel warmth. The warmth came just before the light. It exploded from the stone, filling the room with shimmering brilliance. Pascha stared. Sithmaree cursed and shielded her eyes.
“Has it ever been like that?” the Snake asked. “It’s like looking at the sun.”
Sheyani moved first. She stepped forwards and took the crown from Callista’s head and handed it back to Mordo. The room was suddenly dark again, the gathered lamps feeble in the aftermath of that fierce light.
Seconds passed. Nobody spoke. It was Sithmaree who broke the silence.
“Well, she has the talent, then,” she said.
Callista was stunned. She had expected light, some light. She knew that she had what they called talent, but she hadn’t expected this.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“You have a great deal of talent,” Pascha said. “But talent alone is not enough. Now you must pass through the dream.”
She lay on the couch with her head upon the pillow and looked up. She was afraid, but not of dying. New things had always worried her – new people and places, changes in the way things were done. Callista liked to eat the same thing for breakfast every day, to wear clothes of the same conservative cut and colours. Her flight from Afael had been a thing born of desperation, and now she was settled again. This would tear everything up once more.
“I am ready,” she said.
Pascha stood by the side of the couch. She placed her fingers on Callista’s forehead, and they felt cool and light.
“It begins,” she said. “Close your eyes.” Pascha’s fingers grew warm, her touch so light that it seemed to vanish altogether. “It is morning. There is a road through a forest. You are waking up…”
*
She awoke.
She opened her eyes, sat up and looked around her. Nothing was familiar. She was lying on short grass, thick and lush, and the sun was shining through the trees. Close at hand there was a road, a gravel track that vanished into the trees in both directions.
There was a piece of paper in her hand. Words were written on the paper.
This is a test, the paper said. If you pass the test you will be granted power beyond your wildest dreams. To succeed you must follow the path and solve the problems that you encounter on your way. You have until the sun sets.
An adventure, she thought.
She stood up and walked to the road. She found that she was wearing practical travelling clothes – thick cotton trousers, a jacket, a knife at her belt. The road seemed easy and the day young, so without further thought she began to walk. It didn’t seem important to her that she didn’t know anything – who she was, where, or even why. She had a feeling of safety, of contentment. Everything was going to be fine.
The path wound easily through the woods in slow, lazy curves until she came to a cottage at the side of the road. It was a small cottage, whitewashed with a plank door flanked by two leaded windows, topped by a tiled roof from which a smoking chimney protruded. It sat back among the trees, but between the cottage and the road lay a garden of such order and neatness that it would not have been out of place on a royal terrace. Flowers of many colours sprang up from weedless beds of dark earth, crowded together in neat rows of blue, red and yellow. To one side she saw cabbages, the green heads of carrots, onions, and a mass of different herbs.
She thought the whole scene quite charming.
As she stood by the gate admiring the flowers the cottage door opened, and a small woman stepped out. She stood looking at the stranger on the road, hands on hips, a wooden pipe in her mouth. She was old, and a good head shorter than her visitor.
/> “Well?” she asked.
“I was just admiring your garden.”
“Are you going to help me or not?” the old woman asked.
The traveller looked at the garden, and the road. She was supposed to follow the road, but she had woken up some way off the road, and this might well qualify as a problem encountered.
“Why not?” she said. “How can I help?”
The old lady puffed her pipe and went back inside. She followed, finding that the lintel was so low that she had to duck beneath it.
Inside, the cottage was every bit as cosy as it had looked from without. The floor was warm wood, and the ceilings festooned with drying plants. A fire blazed at one end of the room – there was only one room.
“Those jars,” the old woman said, pointing at the top of a tall oak dresser. “Fetch them down for me.”
There were three jars on top of the dresser, large jars full of something that looked like preserved fruit. They looked very heavy.
“Do you have a ladder?”
“Young people,” the old woman scoffed. “Always wanting it easy.”
She eyed the jars. It would have been impossible for a small woman to have put them there without a ladder. Nevertheless, she had agreed to help so she pulled a chair over and used it to scramble onto the lower level of the dresser. When she stood she could reach the jars with ease. She took hold of the first and moved it a little. It was even heavier than she had expected. She slid it out towards the tipping point, moving so that it would be close to her body.
She almost dropped it, even so.
The jar felt slippery in her hands and for a moment she had to hug it to her body to stop it falling, but she saved it, got a better grip, and lowered it to the dresser shelf she stood on. As soon as she let go of it the old woman snatched it up as though it was as light as a loaf of bread and carried it off.
