An Unexpected Apprentice

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Tildi glanced down at the black marks. “No, I … I was attacked by a creature in the forest, a fire-demon.” She took a hasty drink as she realized everyone was looking at her.

  “Eh?” asked a bent woman with deeply tanned and wrinkled skin, peering at her with sudden interest. “A fire-demon? What kind of creature is that?”

  “Well, it was like a light shaped like a man,” Tildi said. “More of a fire than a light, I mean. But it was a bright shape.”

  “And that’s all?” the old woman insisted. “You can’t just say something like that and let it rest. How did you meet it, and how did it come to burn you? Tell us all! I want to hear it.”

  “We, too! Tell us the tale, smallfolk!” the fishermen chimed in. “Is that where you got the mark on your face?”

  “Síyah, a tale, a tale!” A fat man with golden skin and long black hair like the elf’s seized her around the waist and hoisted her up in the middle of the table. She windmilled her arms to keep from falling over. The man steadied her, and gave her a slap on the back. “There, now everyone can hear you.”

  “A tale, a tale!” the patrons chanted.

  “Er …” Tildi hesitated, looking around at the circle of eager faces. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself, but all these men were demanding she comply. She felt she must obey their wish. “Er, I was hiking in the forest. It’s at the eastern border of the Quarters. Where my people live.”

  “We know that,” the old woman said encouragingly. “Some of us have been in the Quarters.”

  “Have you?” Tildi asked awkwardly, trying to recall if a human woman had ever visited her village. “I … uh … stopped for a rest. I made a campfire,” she began. It would be wise not to mention making the fire spell, so she devised the existence of a flint and steel, and described having a little trouble getting her campfire started. At first she was sorry to disappoint them with such an ordinary narrative, of an outdoor picnic, but they were good listeners, and she could tell they anticipated something exciting. So she clawed back every detail from her memory, making it sound as lively as she could, throwing in every leaf and tree, every twist and turn. When she reached the part where the demon hand had reached through her chest toward the fire, the audience as one gasped and sat back. She showed them the burn on her face, and told how it had come about. With growing delight she realized that she had as good a story as any Gosto had ever told, and it was all hers. It had happened to her, and no one else! By the time she got to the point where she stamped the earth down over the ashes of her campfire and ran away, the audience roared its approval.

  The eldest fisherman slammed his mug on the table. “Well told, little one! What an adventure! Danyn, a drink for the smallfolk!”

  “Are you certain the heuren didn’t follow you?” the elf asked. The others turned to look at her.

  “Well, she killed it, didn’t she?” the old woman asked.

  The elf didn’t disagree, but her quiet question left Tildi feeling nervous again. She climbed down and wriggled her way into the place beside the stout man.

  “A refill, anyone?” Danyn asked with a smile.

  “One for me,” the wrinkled one said. “And another one for Teldo.”

  “Aye! Here’s to Teldo, the bravest smallfolk we’ve ever met!” shouted the tawny man at the bar.

  “You’re a brave one, for certain,” Danyn said, placing two more mugs of beer and a steaming bowl of stew down before her. “Well, I’d be proud to mend the shirt of a hero like you. Slip it off and hand it to me.”

  “No!” Tildi yelped, grabbing the hem with both hands, as if she were afraid that Danyn would strip it off her right there and then.

  Danyn’s eyebrows went up. “Why not?”

  Tildi felt her cheeks burn. “I mean … uh, I don’t have another. Not until I reach Overhill. I’ll make do. But thank you for your offer. Truly.” She raised one of the gigantic cups, but she kept one hand on the fabric of her tunic. “Your health!”

  The others laughed. Danyn winked at them. “Modest, too, as well as brave.” She dropped a kiss on top of Tildi’s head. “Tell us some more stories of your homeland. We have a few come and go, but only rarely. Mostly they go to the south and the seaport to trade.”

  “That’s true,” Tildi said, feeling a trifle more relaxed. “It’s just closer by. What would you like to know?”

  A lot, it seemed. The queries flew at her from all sides. The Groaning Table was a busy place, and it had filled up over the course of the evening to near bursting point. Word seemed to have spread that she was there, and everyone wanted to know all about smallfolk. In between bites of the excellent stew, Tildi did her best to answer everything, without giving too much away about her own life. Everyone had a question or two, about the food, the sport, the beer, women, music, and dancing.

  “We dance a lot,” Tildi admitted, pushing the bowl aside at last and returning to the beer. “During meetings and at festivals, at Year’s End and weddings, of course.”

  “How about singing?” asked the stout man. “Give us a lusty song to drink by. Go on, lad!”

  “Yes! Sing! Sing! Sing!” chanted the crowd.

  “I …” A lusty song? Tildi knew some that her brothers liked, but she had never sung them in public.

  “Go on, then!” He grasped her by the collar and stood her on the table.

  “No, I really shouldn’t.” She tried to climb off, but the stout man had a firm grip on her shirt. Was she destined to spend the entire evening on the table? “Please, let me sit down.”

  “Are you refusing, after we showed you such hospitality, runt?” demanded a truculent patron at the end of the board. He had arrived very late, and seemed to have started drinking before he got there.

  “No, indeed, I’m not that good a singer,” Tildi protested with a calm smile, hoping he would calm down. “You just wouldn’t enjoy hearing me.”

  “Smallfolk snob,” sneered the thinnest of the seamen, peering at her with red-veined eyes. He had hardly lifted his nose out of his mug all night, and was far past the stage when Tildi usually took the beer jug away from a potentially disruptive visitor. He sprang up, and a knife appeared in his hand. “Too good to offer cheer to us big folks, eh? Little unnatural runts.”

  Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, most of them at the fisherman, whose friends immediately leaned over and pushed his arms down. The innkeeper reached under the bar. Tildi assumed he had a stick or a riding crop there; many of the innkeepers in the Quarters had something to get the attention of angry drunks. The cheerful mood in the room turned suddenly menacing. Tildi was afraid. She dropped to her knees to crawl off the table.

  Someone pulled her by her arm across the table. Mugs overturned and spilled their contents onto the laps of patrons, who jumped up, swearing at the sudden flood. Tildi found herself face-to-face with a pimply blond man who was screaming unintelligibly at her. His breath smelled of stale beer and onions. Gasping at the stench, Tildi pushed at him, but he was much stronger than she was. Another pair of hands seized her legs and hauled her across the tabletop. The blond man let go, and Tildi curled into a little ball, covering her head with her arms as her body crashed into more dishes. She had been so grateful to get to the inn. She wished she had spent another night in the forest.

  Just as abruptly as it had begun, the feeling of fear drained away, to be replaced by a calmness. Tildi felt at peace. She uncurled and peeked out from between her hands. The patrons had stopped shouting, and were slapping one another on the back. That seemed unnatural to Tildi. She glanced around, and saw Wim Cake spreading a cloth over a lumpy object before he put it back underneath the bar. A rune shone through it, one she did not recognize.

  Danyn and the boy-of-all-work, who would have looked to Tildi to be ten years old if he hadn’t been almost two feet taller than she was, swept in with mop, bucket, cleaning cloths, and a huge pail of sawdust. In no time the tables were cleared, and Wim Cake was pulling another round for the table. Danyn handed h
er a rag, and she blotted her clothes with it.

  “Sorry, small one,” the stout man said. “Don’t know what I was thinking. My apologies. Danyn, give this little one a fresh drink on me.”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself,” Tildi said. “Truly. No more for me.”

  “But I insist!”

  “Well …” She hated to refuse a gift from a human man, for fear of offending him.

  “He doesn’t have to have any more beer if he doesn’t want it, Paldrew,” the publican said, thumping on the bar to get their attention. Tildi pulled herself erect and tried to look alert, but the beer and exhaustion were taking their toll on her. Mr. Cake appeared to be surrounded by a haze. “Well, young man, you’ve had plenty of adventure for one day, haven’t you? Perhaps you’d like to get some rest? We have no empty room your size, and I’m not going to put you in a room with us big folks. You’d get walked on when these drunken louts stumble up to bed. But we have my daughter’s bed from when she was little. The potboy will put it in the corner room for you. I’d hate to have someone roll over on you in the night, so you can have it to yourself.”

  “Many thanks,” Tildi said with relief. “It sounds perfect to me, but I’d also be longing for a bath. And a chance to wash my clothes.” She held out the sleeves of her sodden tunic.

  One of the publican’s red eyebrows rose on the creased forehead. “Aye? Well, the bathing room’s generally empty from half-past eleven until just before midnight, if you want a soak before you go to bed. If you’ve been on the road a few days that’d be a treat.”

  “Indeed it would,” Tildi said fervently.

  “Aye,” the barmaid said. “Then you’ll have one, if that is what you wish. I’ll make sure the boiler’s full. Half-past eleven, mind. That’s when the room will be empty. Am I not right, fellows?” Danyn asked pointedly. “No one is ever in there then.” Tildi glanced at her fellow patrons.

  “Aye,” they chorused.

  The drinkers could hardly look at her. They must simply not be comfortable around smallfolk, she thought. Or bathing. But she could hardly think of anything else but scrubbing the road dust and the sudden deluge of beer off her skin.

  “Well, then, it still lacks a half hour ’til then. How about having a song?” the man at the bar said, nodding at the big clock. “We’ll all sing, so no one can hear a false note, eh? Do you know ‘The Sailor and the Dolphin Lass,’ smallfolk?”

  Tildi did. It was a slightly ribald tune about a lonely fisherman who sees a smooth-skinned form floating in the water and decides it’s his own true love. After some determined and cleverly phrased wooing, the dolphin accepts him as a suitor. The Tillerton men produced from their dirty rucksacks a squeeze-box and a metal flute. The eldest started the beat off with a one-two-three tap on the table, and his companions began to play the lively air. The rest of the room joined in.

  Oh, I have been on rolling seas forever and a day,

  And I would seek a lusty lass to join me at my play,

  The kind of girl who’s not afraid to sit upon my knee,

  With whom a lonely sailor lad won’t miss the rocking sea!

  It was an immodest song, but Tildi didn’t want to be the only one sitting silent. Teldo would sing, she told herself firmly. She couldn’t manage the humans’ range, but joined in an octave above their voices. By the time they got to the verse about the wedding, with humans on one side and the dolphin’s family on the other, Tildi was laughing with her fellow patrons.

  “That’s a fine voice you’ve got there,” the fat man said. “High and pure, like a girl’s.”

  “I’m no girl!” Tildi protested, alarmed.

  “Ah, of course you’re not. That’s just how your kind sounds, ain’t it? Thin little pipes. No offense, young man.” He shared a grin with his fellows. “One day you’ll grow a beard, and your voice will change. No hurry, is there?”

  “Right,” Tildi said with mock seriousness. She slapped the table in emphasis. “My voice will change the very day I grow a beard. Count on it!”

  That suddenly struck her as inordinately funny. It’d be true that if she could grow a beard her voice would drop, and one was just as likely to happen as the other. She laughed heartily at her own witticism, and her new friends joined in. The first pot of beer was empty, so she began on one of the remaining two, oops, three!

  “Good beer, this,” she said, after a deep draught. “Herbs in it, give it a spicy flavor. Must ask the brewer what she uses.”

  “Aye, she’ll tell you with pleasure,” Wim Cake said. “My wife is always glad to talk about her work.”

  “Have another on me, smallfolk,” the old woman said. “You’re a nice little creature.”

  “Thank you,” Tildi said, beaming at her. She waved the mug, which slopped a little. She wiped up the spilled beer with her sleeve. “You are all very nice, too.” They cheered her. She toasted them all.

  She decided that big folk were rough but friendly. She never did get a chance to meet many in the Quarters, except during meetings. When her brothers took produce or handwork down to the port city to sell, they never took women with them, and when human peddlers came through, she and the other women stayed away from the hard bargaining. Gosto would bring her cloth, needles, and other goods to have a look, far from the summing eye of the visitor. She’d send beer and cakes out with a brother if the dealing went well. Often she had just a glimpse of the human travelers through the shutters. To be among so many made her feel as if she had gone back to her childhood again, when everyone towered over her. Still, they offered her drinks and larded their language with salty expressions, not the way they would treat a child in company. She hoped no one had noticed how much she was blushing at the rude jokes. On the other hand, she knew she was getting rather tipsy. She wondered how she could ask the genial Mr. Cake to give her a milder brew.

  “One more song!” the fishermen called.

  Tildi suddenly felt cold. Eyes were boring into her from some quarter. She glanced idly around at her new acquaintances. The elf was staring at her. Those deep-set, dark eyes were peering into her very soul. In spite of all the beer she had drunk Tildi was as sober as a cat now.

  “I … my voice is worn-out, good folks. Thank you for a fine evening. I think I’ll go up for my bath now.”

  She climbed down from the tabletop and went to retrieve her pack from the pile near the window. Danyn gave her a grin and waited before she was halfway up the stairs before calling out, “Give me a shout if you need me to wash your back now!”

  The men in the bar laughed heartily. Tildi breathed a sigh of relief. It meant that her disguise had fooled them all. She bolted the door on the bathing chamber. The boiler was, as promised, full. The bath was enormous and furnished with huge white linen towels and a round cake of soap that smelled equally of lanolin and lavender. Tildi slid into the steaming water and had a good long soak, thankful to get all the dust of travel out of her hair. It was much easier to deal with her locks cut short. No wonder men rarely grew their hair out. Since she had experienced the novelty, it was difficult to think of going back to long tresses that either had to be plaited or tangled, tore out when combed, and got in the way of every task she undertook, not to mention as a lure to every kitten ever to sit in her lap. She rinsed and wrung out her beer-soaked garments, then, wrapped in her cloak for a dressing gown, she found the lumber room, its door standing hospitably ajar, with a candle burning inside.

  A bed just the right size, spread with a light quilt, had been set up among the stacks of unused chairs and tables. Tildi spread her washing on the protruding legs. At the top of the house it was much warmer than below. Most likely everything would be dry by morning. She surveyed her accommodations. The single candlestick sat on an upturned pail beside the bed’s pillow. There was also a bowl and pitcher set before a small looking glass on a box near the wall. Almost as good as home, Tildi thought sleepily. The Groaning Table was as good at hosting guests as she would have been herself. Humans were kindly,
and not as stupid as smallfolk traders made them out to be.

  She sorted through her pack for a fresh chemise to use as a nightgown, and her soap and comb to have them ready for the morning. But they were not where she expected to find them. She blinked at the packet of Teldo’s papers and books, which were stuffed down among the personal items. Surely she hadn’t left them in that place, where they might get daubed with soap or insect repellent. She realized with a shock that her pack had been searched. Who could have done it? When was no problem: the bag had been out of her sight against the wall all evening long. But who? And why? Nothing was missing. Her bag of money contained exactly the number of coins she had had when she left home. What were they looking for?

  Perhaps the searcher was waiting until she was asleep to rob her. There was no lock on this side of the door. With some difficulty, Tildi hoisted a heavy, human-sized wooden chair and hung it on the iron latch to prevent it being lifted. It wasn’t much of a protection, since it could be shaken loose with a couple of sound kicks to the door, but it gave her a feeling of security.

  She lay down and watched the candle make shadows on the ceiling. As tired as she was, the questions nagged at her mind. The bed was comfortable, she was clean and nearly dry, but she couldn’t relax. She was safe, wasn’t she? Wim Cake and his employees would come running if she screamed for help, she was sure of it.

  Her practical nature demanded that if she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well do something useful, such as mend her clothing. She pulled off the maligned shirt and in the light of the single candle looked at the black rips in the shoulders, even more bedraggled from the constant rubbing of the pack over the last day and a half’s walking. What a ruin of good fabric! She could make the torn places look like pleats, but those would be uncomfortable under the rucksack’s straps. Better to fold them over and stitch them flat, no matter what it ended up looking like. She caught a glimpse of her pale reflection in the little glass and snatched the discarded shirt up to the breast of her camisole.