Kulgan walked to the door. Pug noticed Tomas’s dejected expression. “Kulgan?” Pug said. The magician turned, a faint smile on his lips.
“Yes, Pug?”
“Tomas, too?”
Tomas shook his head, for he was neither a member of the court nor the magician’s charge, but his eyes looked at Kulgan imploringly.
Kulgan smiled broadly. “I guess we’re better off keeping you together, so we need look for trouble in only one place. Tomas, too. I’ll arrange things with Fannon.”
Tomas shouted, and the two boys slapped each other on the back.
Pug said, “When do we leave?”
Kulgan laughed. “In five days’ time. Or sooner, if the Duke hears from the dwarves. Runners are being sent to the North Pass to see if it is clear. If not, we ride by the South Pass.”
Kulgan departed, leaving the two boys dancing arm in arm and whooping with excitement.
7
Understanding
Pug hurried across the courtyard.
Princess Carline had sent him a note asking him to meet her in her flower garden. It was the first word from the girl since she had stormed away from their last meeting, and Pug was anxious. He did not want to be on bad terms with Carline, regardless of any conflicts he might be feeling. After his brief discussion with Calin, two days earlier, he had sought out Father Tully and talked with him at length.
The old priest had been willing to take time out to speak with the boy, in spite of the demands the Duke was placing upon his staff. It had been a good talk for Pug, leaving him with a surer sense of himself. The final message from the old cleric had been: Stop worrying about what the Princess feels and thinks, and start discovering what Pug feels and thinks.
He had taken the cleric’s advice and was now sure of what he would say should Carline start referring to any sort of “understanding” between them. For the first time in weeks he felt something like a sense of direction—even if he was not sure what destination he would eventually reach, holding to such a course.
Reaching the Princess’s garden, he rounded a corner, then stopped, for instead of Carline, Squire Roland stood by the steps. With a slight smile, Roland nodded. “Good day, Pug.”
“Good day, Roland.” Pug looked around.
“Expecting someone?” said Roland, forcing a note of lightness that did little to hide a belligerent tone. He casually rested his left hand on the pommel of his sword. Apart from his sword, he was dressed as usual, in colorful breeches and tunic of green and gold, with tall riding boots.
“Well, actually, I was expecting to see the Princess,” Pug said, with a small note of defiance in his manner.
Roland feigned surprise. “Really? Lady Glynis mentioned something about a note, but I had come to understand things were strained between the two of you…”
While Pug had tried to sympathize with Roland’s situation over the last few days, his offhanded, superior attitude and his chronic antagonism conspired to irritate Pug. Letting his exasperation get the better of him, he snapped, “As one squire to another, Roland, let me put it this way: how things stand between Carline and myself is none of your business!”
Roland’s face took on an expression of open anger. He stepped forward, looking down at the shorter boy. “Be damned it’s none of my business! I don’t know what you’re playing at, Pug, but if you do anything to hurt her, I’ll—”
“Me hurt her!” Pug interrupted. He was shocked by the intensity of Roland’s anger and infuriated by the threat. “She’s the one playing us one against the other—”
Abruptly Pug felt the ground tilt under him, rising up to strike him from behind. Lights exploded before his eyes and a bell-like clanging sounded in his ears. It was a long moment before he realized Roland had just hit him. Pug shook his head and his eyes refocused. He saw the older, larger squire standing over him, both hands balled into fists. Through tightly clenched teeth, Roland spat his words. “If you ever say ill of her again, I’ll beat you senseless.”
Pug’s anger fired within him, rising each second. He got carefully to his feet, his eyes upon Roland, who stood ready to fight. Feeling the bitter taste of anger in his mouth, Pug said, “You’ve had two years and more to win her, Roland. Leave it alone.”
Roland’s face grew livid and he charged, bowling Pug off his feet. They went down in a tangle, Roland striking Pug harmlessly on the shoulders and arms. Rolling and grappling, neither could inflict much damage. Pug got his arm around Roland’s neck and hung on as the older squire thrashed in a frenzy. Suddenly Roland wedged a knee against Pug’s chest and shoved him away. Pug rolled and came to his feet. Roland was up an instant later, and they squared off. Roland’s expression had changed from rage to cold, calculating anger as he measured the distance between them. He advanced carefully, his left arm bent and extended, his right fist held ready before his face. Pug had no experience with this form of fighting, called fist-boxing, though he had seen it practiced for money in traveling shows. Roland had demonstrated on several occasions that he had more than a passing acquaintance with the sport.
Pug sought to take the advantage and swung a wild, roundhouse blow at Roland’s head. Roland dodged back as Pug swung completely around; then the squire jumped forward, his left hand snapping out, catching Pug on the cheek, rocking his head back with a stinging blow. Pug stumbled away, and Roland’s right hand missed Pug’s chin by a fraction.
Pug held up his hands to ward off another blow and shook his head, clearing it of the dancing lights that obscured his vision, barely managing to duck beneath Roland’s next blow. Under Roland’s guard, Pug lunged, catching the other boy in the stomach with his shoulder, knocking him down again. Pug fell on top of him and struggled to pin the larger boy’s arms to his side. Roland struck out, catching Pug’s temple with an elbow, and the dazed magician’s apprentice fell away, momentarily confused.
As he rose to his feet again, pain exploded in Pug’s face, and the world tilted once more. Disoriented, unable to defend himself, Pug felt Roland’s blows as distant events, somehow muted and not fully recognized by his reeling senses. A faint note of alarm sounded in part of Pug’s mind. Without warning, processes began to occur under the level of pain-dimmed consciousness. Basic, more animal instincts took hold, and in a disjointed, hardly understood awareness, a new force emerged. As in the encounter with the trolls, blinding letters of light and flame appeared in his mind’s eye, and he silently incanted.
Pug’s being became primitive. In his remaining consciousness he was a primal creature fighting for survival with murderous intent. All he could envision was choking the very life from his adversary.
Suddenly an alarm rang within Pug’s mind. A deep sense of wrongness, of evil, struck him. Months of training came to the fore, and it was as if he could hear Kulgan’s voice crying, “This is not how the power is to be used!” Ripping aside the mental shroud that covered him, Pug opened his eyes.
Through blurred vision and sparkling lights, Pug saw Roland kneeling a mere yard before him, eyes enlarged, vainly struggling with the invisible fingers around his neck. Pug felt no sense of contact with what he saw, and with returning clarity of mind knew at once what had occurred. Leaning forward, he seized Roland’s wrists. “Stop it, Roland! Stop it! It isn’t real. There are no hands but your own at your throat.” Roland, blind with panic, seemed unable to hear Pug’s shouts. Mustering what remaining strength he possessed, Pug yanked Roland’s hands away, then struck him a stinging slap to the face. Roland’s eyes teared and suddenly he breathed in, a gasping, ragged sound.
Still panting, Pug said, “It’s an illusion. You were choking yourself.”
Roland gasped and pushed himself back from Pug, fear evident on his face. He struggled weakly to pull his sword. Pug leaned forward and firmly gripped Roland’s wrist. Barely able to speak, he shook his head and said, “There’s no reason.”
Roland looked into Pug’s eyes, and the fear in his own began to subside. Something inside the older squir
e seemed to break, and there was only a fatigued, drained young man sitting on the ground. Breathing heavily, Roland sat back, tears forming in his eyes, and asked, “Why?”
Pug’s own fatigue made him lean back, supporting himself on his hands. He studied the handsome young face before him, twisted by doubt. “Because you’re held under a spell more compelling than any I could fashion.” He looked Roland in the eyes. “You truly love her, don’t you?”
The last vestige of Roland’s anger slowly evaporated and his eyes showed some slight fear remaining, but also Pug saw deep pain and anguish as a tear fell to his cheek. His shoulders slumped and he nodded, his breath ragged as he tried to speak. For a moment he was on the verge of crying, but he fought off his pain and regained his poise. Taking a deep breath, Roland wiped away the tears and took another deep breath. He looked directly at Pug, then guardedly asked, “And you?”
Pug sprawled on the ground, feeling some strength returning. “I…I’m not sure. She makes me doubt myself. I don’t know. Sometimes I think of no one else, and other times I wish I were as far from her as I could be.”
Roland indicated understanding, the last residue of fear draining away. “Where she’s concerned, I don’t have a whit of wit.”
Pug giggled. Roland looked at him, then also began to laugh. “I don’t know why,” said Pug, “but for some reason, I find what you said terribly funny.” Roland nodded and began to laugh too. Soon they were both sitting with tears running down their faces as the emotional vacuum left by the fleeing anger was replaced by giddiness.
Roland recovered slightly, holding back the laughter, when Pug looked at him and said, “A whit of wit!” which sent both of them off on another jag of laughter.
“Well!” a voice said sharply. They turned and found Carline, flanked by two ladies-in-waiting, surveying the scene before her. Instantly both boys became silent. Casting a disapproving look upon the pair as they sprawled upon the ground, she said, “Since you two seem so taken with each other, I’ll not intrude.”
Pug and Roland exchanged looks and suddenly erupted into uproarious laughter. Roland fell over backward, while Pug sat, legs stretched before him, laughing into his cupped hands. Carline flushed angrily and her eyes widened. With cold fury in her voice she said “Excuse me!” and turned, sweeping by her ladies. As she left, they could hear her loudly exclaim, “Boys!”
Pug and Roland sat for a minute until the near-hysterical fit passed; then Roland rose and extended his hand to Pug. Pug took it and Roland helped him to his feet. “Sorry, Pug. I had no right to be angry with you.” His voice softened. “I can’t sleep nights thinking of her. I wait for the few moments we’re together each day. But since you saved her, all I ever hear is your name.” Touching his sore neck, Roland said, “I got so angry, I thought I’d kill you. Damn near got myself killed instead.”
Pug looked at the corner where the Princess had disappeared, nodding agreement. “I’m sorry, too, Roland. I’m not very good at controlling magic yet, and when I lose my temper, it seems all sorts of terrible things can happen. Like with the trolls.” Pug wanted Roland to understand he was still Pug, even though he was now a magician’s apprentice. “I would never do something like that on purpose—especially to a friend.”
Roland studied Pug’s face a moment and grinned, half-wryly, half-apologetically. “I understand. I acted badly. You were right: she’s only setting us one against the other. I am the fool. It’s you she cares for.”
Pug seemed to wilt. “Believe me, Roland, I’m not so sure I’m to be envied.”
Roland’s grin widened. “She is a strong-willed girl, that’s clear.” Caught halfway between an open display of self-pity and mock-bravado, Roland selected mock-bravado.
Pug shook his head. “What’s to be done, Roland?”
Roland looked surprised, then laughed loudly. “Don’t look to me for advice, Pug. I dance to her tune more than any. But ‘there are as many changes in a young girl’s heart as in the fickle winds,’ as the old saying goes. I’ll not blame you for Carline’s actions.” He winked at Pug conspiratorially. “Still, you won’t mind if I keep an eye out for a change in the weather?”
Pug laughed in spite of his exhaustion. “I thought you seemed a little too gracious in your concessions.” A thoughtful look came over his face. “You know, it would be simpler—not better, but simpler—if she’d ignore me forever, Roland. I don’t know what to think about all this. I’ve got my apprenticeship to complete. Someday I’ll have estates to manage. Then there’s this business with the Tsurani. It’s all come so quickly, I don’t know what to do.”
Roland regarded Pug with some sympathy. He put his hand upon the younger boy’s shoulder. “I forget this business of being apprentice and noble is all rather new to you. Still, I can’t say I’ve given too much time to such weighty considerations myself, even though my lot was decided before I was born. This worrying about the future is a dry sort of work. I think it would be benefited by a mug of strong ale.”
Feeling his aches and bruises, Pug nodded agreement. “Would that we could. But Megar will be of a different mind, I’m afraid.”
Roland placed his finger alongside his nose. “We shan’t let the Mastercook smell us out, then. Come on, I know a place where the boards of the ale shed are loose. We can quaff a cup or two in private.”
Roland began to walk away, but Pug halted him by saying, “Roland, I am sorry we came to blows.”
Roland stopped, studied Pug a moment, and grinned. “And I.” He extended his hand. “A peace.”
Pug gripped it. “A peace.”
They turned the corner, leaving the Princess’s garden behind, then stopped. Before them was a scene of unalloyed misery. Tomas was walking the length of the court, from the soldiers’ commons to the side gate, in full armor—old chain mail over gambeson, full helm, and heavy metal greaves over knee boots. On one arm he bore a heater shield, and in the other hand he held a heavy spear, twelve feet long and iron-tipped, which bore down cruelly upon his right shoulder. It also gave him a comic appearance, as it caused him to lean a little to the right and wobble slightly as he struggled to keep it balanced while he marched.
The sergeant of the Duke’s Guard stood counting out cadence for him. Pug knew the sergeant, a tall, friendly man named Gardan. He was Keshian by ancestry, evident in his dark skin. His white teeth split his dark, nappy beard in a grin at the sight of Pug and Roland. He stood nearly as broad in the shoulders as Meecham, with the same loose-gaited movement of a hunter or fighter. Though his black hair was lightly dusted with grey, his face was young-looking and unlined, despite thirty years’ service. With a wink at Pug and Roland, he barked, “Halt!” and Tomas stopped in his tracks.
As Pug and Roland closed the distance between them, Gardan snapped, “Right turn!” Tomas obeyed. “Members of the court approaching. Present arms!” Tomas extended his right arm, and his spear dipped in salute. He let the tip drop slightly too low, and nearly broke from attention to pull it back.
Pug and Roland came up to stand next to Gardan, and the large soldier gave them a casual salute and a warm smile. “Good day, Squires.” He turned to Tomas for a moment. “Shoulder arms! March post…march!” Tomas set off, marching the “post” assigned to him, in this case the length of the yard before the soldiers’ commons.
With a laugh, Roland said, “What is this? Special drills?”
Gardan stood with one hand on his sword, the other pointed at Tomas. “Swordmaster Fannon felt it might prove beneficial to our young warrior if someone was here to see his drilling didn’t become sloppy from exhaustion or some other petty inconvenience.” Dropping his voice a bit, he added, “He’s a tough lad; he’ll be fine, if a little footsore.”
“Why the special drilling?” asked Roland. Pug shook his head as Gardan told them.
“Our young hero lost two swords. The first was understandable, for the matter of the ship was vital, and in the excitement of the moment such an oversight could be forgiven. But t
he second was found lying on the wet ground near the pell the afternoon the Elf Queen and her party left, and young Tomas was nowhere in sight.” Pug knew Tomas had forgotten all about returning to his drilling when Gardell had come with the hood for his fire pot.
Tomas reached the end of his appointed route, did an about-face, and began his return. Gardan regarded the two bruised and dirty boys and said, “What have you two young gentlemen been up to?”
Roland cleared his throat in a theatrical fashion and said, “Ah…I was giving Pug a fist-boxing lesson.”
Gardan reached out and took Pug’s chin in his hand, turning the boy’s face for inspection. Evaluating the damage, he said, “Roland, remind me never to ask you to instruct my men in swordplay—we couldn’t withstand the casualty rate.” Releasing his hold upon Pug’s face, he said, “You’ll have a beautiful eye in the morning, Squire.”
Changing the topic, Pug said, “How are your sons, Gardan?”
“Well enough, Pug. They learn their craft and dream of making themselves rich, save for the youngest, Faxon, who is still intent on becoming a soldier next Choosing. The rest are becoming expert cartwrights under my brother Jeheil’s tutelage.” He smiled sadly. “With only Faxon at home the house is very empty, though my wife seems glad for the peace.” Then he grinned, an infectious smile that rarely could be viewed and not answered. “Still, it won’t be too long before the elder boys marry, and then there’ll be grandchildren under foot and plenty of merry noise again, from time to time.”
As Tomas drew near, Pug asked, “May I speak with the condemned?”
Gardan laughed, stroking his short beard. “I guess I might look the other way for a moment, but be brief, Squire.” Pug left Gardan talking with Roland and fell into step beside Tomas as he passed on his way to the opposite end of the court. “How goes it?” Pug asked.
Out of the side of his mouth, Tomas said, “Oh, just fine. Two more hours of this and I’ll be ready for burial.”
Magician: Apprentice Page 15
