Magician: Apprentice

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Can’t you rest?”

  “On the half hour I get five minutes to stand at attention.” He reached the terminus of his post and did a reasonably sharp about-face, then resumed walking back toward Gardan and Roland. “After the fire-pot cover was finished, I came back to the pell and found the sword missing. I thought my heart would stop. I looked everywhere. I almost thrashed Rulf, thinking he had hidden it to spite me. When I returned to the commons, Fannon was sitting on my bunk, oiling down the blade. I thought the other soldiers would hurt themselves holding in the laughter when he said, ‘If you judge yourself skilled enough with the sword, perhaps you’d care to spend your time learning the proper way to walk post with a poll arm.’ All day walking punishment,” he added woefully. “I’ll die.”

  They passed Roland and Gardan, and Pug struggled to feel sympathy. Like the others, he found the situation comical. Hiding his amusement, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone and said, “I’d better get along. Should the Swordmaster come along, he might tack on an extra day’s marching.”

  Tomas groaned at the thought. “Gods preserve me. Get away, Pug.”

  Pug whispered, “When you’re done, join us in the ale shed if you’re able.” Pug left Tomas’s side and rejoined Gardan and Roland. To the sergeant he said, “Thank you, Gardan.”

  “You are welcome, Pug. Our young knight-in-the-making will be fine, though he feels set upon now. He also chafes at having an audience.”

  Roland nodded. “Well, I expect he’ll not be losing a sword again soon.”

  Gardan laughed. “Too true. Master Fannon could forgive the first, but not the second. He thought it wise to see Tomas didn’t make a habit of it. Your friend is the finest student the Swordmaster has known since Prince Arutha, but don’t tell Tomas that. Fannon’s always hardest on those with the most potential. Well, good day to you both, Squires. And, boys,”—they paused—“I won’t mention the ‘fist-boxing lesson.’ ”

  They thanked the sergeant for his discretion and walked toward the ale shed, with the measured cadence of Gardan’s voice filling the court.

  —

  PUG WAS WELL into his second mug of ale and Roland finishing his fourth when Tomas appeared through the loose boards. Dirty and sweating, he was rid of his armor and weapons. With a great display of fatigue, he said, “The world must be coming to an end; Fannon excused me from punishment early.”

  “Why?” asked Pug.

  Roland lazily reached over to a storage shelf, next to where he sat upon a sack of grain soon to be used for making ale, and got a cup from a stack. He tossed it to Tomas, who caught it, then filled it from the hogshead of ale that Roland rested his feet upon.

  Taking a deep drink, Tomas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Something’s afoot. Fannon swooped down, told me to put away my toys, and nearly dragged Gardan off, he was in such a hurry.”

  Pug said, “Maybe the Duke is getting ready to ride east?”

  Tomas said, “Maybe.” He studied his two friends, taking note of their freshly bruised countenances. “All right. What happened?”

  Pug regarded Roland, indicating he should explain the sad state of their appearance. Roland gave Tomas a lopsided grin and said, “We had a practice bout in preparation for the Duke’s fist-boxing tourney.”

  Pug nearly choked on his ale, then laughed. Tomas shook his head. “If you two don’t look a pair. Fighting over the Princess?”

  Pug and Roland exchanged glances; then as one they leaped at Tomas and bore him to the floor under their combined weight. Roland pinned Tomas to the floor, then, while Pug held him in place, took a half-filled cup of ale and held it high. With mock solemnity Roland said, “I hearby anoint thee, Tomas, First Seer of Crydee!” So saying, he poured the contents of the cup over the struggling boy’s face.

  Pug belched, then said, “As do I.” He poured what remained in his cup over his friend.

  Tomas spat ale, laughing as he said, “Right! I was right!” Struggling against the weight upon him, he said, “Now get off! Or need I remind you, Roland, of who gave you your last bloody nose?”

  Roland moved off very slowly, intoxicated dignity forcing him to move with glacial precision. “Quite right.” Turning toward Pug, who had also rolled off Tomas, he said, “Still, it must be made clear that at the time, the only reason Tomas managed to bloody my nose is that during our fight he had an unfair advantage.”

  Pug looked at Roland through bleary eyes and said, “What unfair advantage?”

  Roland put his finger to his lips indicating secrecy, then said, “He was winning.”

  Roland collapsed back upon the grain sack and Pug and Tomas dissolved into laughter. Pug found the remark so funny, he couldn’t stop, and hearing Tomas’s laughter only caused his own to redouble. At last he sat up, gasping, with his sides hurting.

  Catching his breath, Pug said, “I missed that set-to. I was doing something else, but I don’t remember what.”

  “You were down in the village learning to mend nets, if I remember rightly, when Roland first came here from Tulan.”

  With a crooked grin Roland said, “I got into an argument with someone or another—do you remember who?” Tomas shook his head no. “Anyway, I got into an argument, and Tomas came over and tried to break it up. I couldn’t believe this skinny boy—” Tomas began to voice an objection, but Roland cut him off, holding a finger upright and wiggling it. “Yes, you were. Very skinny. I couldn’t believe this skinny boy—skinny common boy—would presume to tell me—a newly appointed member of the Duke’s court and a gentleman, I must add—the way to behave. So I did the only thing a proper gentleman could do under the circumstances.”

  “What?” asked Pug.

  “I hit him in the mouth.” The three laughed again.

  Tomas shook his head at the recollection, while Roland said, “Then he proceeded to give me the worst beating I had since the last time my father caught me out at something.

  “That’s when I got serious about fist-boxing.”

  With an air of mock gravity, Tomas said, “Well, we were younger then.”

  Pug refilled the cups. Moving his jaw in discomfort, he said, “Well, right now I feel about a hundred years old.”

  Tomas studied them both a moment. “Seriously, what was the fight about?”

  With a mixture of humor and regret, Roland said, “Our liege lord’s daughter, a girl of ineffable charm…”

  “What’s ineffable?” Tomas asked.

  Roland looked at him with intoxicated disdain. “Indescribable, dolt!”

  Tomas shook his head. “I don’t think the Princess is an indescribable dolt—” He ducked as Roland’s cup sailed through the space occupied by his head an instant before. Pug fell over backward laughing again.

  Tomas grinned as Roland, in a display of great ceremony, fetched down another cup from the shelf. “As I was saying,” he began, filling the cup from the hogshead, “our lady, a girl of ineffable charms—if somewhat questionable judgment—has taken it into her head—for reasons only the gods may fully comprehend—to favor our young magician here with her attentions. Why—when she could spend time with me—I can’t imagine.” He paused to belch. “In any event, we were discussing the proper manner in which to accept such largess.”

  Tomas looked at Pug, a huge grin on his face. “You have my sympathy, Pug. You most certainly have your hands full.”

  Pug felt himself flush. Then with a wicked leer, he said, “Do I? And what about a certain young apprentice soldier, well-known hereabouts, who has been seen sneaking into the larder with a certain kitchen girl?” He leaned back and with a look of mock concern etched upon his face added, “I’d hate to think what would happen to him should Neala find out….”

  Tomas’s mouth fell open. “You wouldn’t…you couldn’t!”

  Roland lay back, holding his sides. “Never have I seen such a fair impersonation of a freshly landed fish!” He sat up, crossed his eyes, and opened and shut his mouth rapidly.
All three degenerated into helpless mirth again.

  Another round was poured, and Roland held up his cup. “Gentlemen, a toast!”

  Pug and Tomas held up their cups.

  Roland’s voice turned serious, and he said, “No matter what differences we have had in the past, you are two fellows I gladly count friends.” He held his cup higher and said, “To friendship!”

  The three drained their cups and refilled them. Roland said, “Your hand upon it.”

  The three boys joined hands, and Roland said, “No matter where we go, no matter how many years pass, never again shall we be without friends.”

  Pug was stuck by the sudden solemnity of the pledge and said, “Friends!”

  Tomas echoed Pug’s words, and the three shook hands in a gesture of affirmation.

  Again the cups were drained, and the afternoon sun quickly fled beyond the horizon as the three boys lost time in the rosy glow of camaraderie and ale.

  —

  PUG CAME AWAKE, groggy and disoriented. The faint glow from his nearly extinguished fire pot cast the room into halftones of rose and black. A faint but persistent knocking sounded on his door. He slowly stood, then nearly fell, still intoxicated from his drinking bout. He had stayed with Tomas and Roland in the storage room all evening and into the night, missing supper entirely. “Putting a considerable dent” in the castle’s ale supply, as Roland had described it. They hadn’t partaken of any great amount, but as their capacity was slight, it seemed a heroic undertaking.

  Pug drew on his trousers and wobbled over to the door. His eyelids felt gritty, and his mouth was cotton dry. Wondering who could be demanding entrance in the middle of the night, he threw aside the door.

  A blur of motion passed him, and he turned to find Carline standing in the room, a heavy cloak wrapped around her. “Close the door!” she hissed. “Someone might pass the base of the tower and see light upon the stairway.”

  Pug obeyed, still disoriented. The only thing that penetrated his numb mind was the thought that it was unlikely the faint light from the coals would cast much brightness down the stairwell. He shook his head, gathering his wits about him, and crossed to the fire pot. He lit a taper from the coals and lit his lantern. The room sprang into cheery brightness.

  Pug’s thinking began to pick up a little as Carline looked about the room, taking stock of the disorderly pile of books and scrolls next to the pallet. She peered into every corner of the room, then said, “Where is that dragon thing you keep about?”

  Pug’s eyes focused a little, and marshaling his balky tongue, he said, “Fantus? He’s off somewhere, doing whatever it is firedrakes do.”

  Removing her cloak, she said, “Good. He frightens me.” She sat on Pug’s unmade pallet and looked sternly at him. “I want to speak with you.” Pug’s eyes went wide, and he stared, for Carline was wearing only a light cotton sleeping gown. While covering her from neck to ankles, it was thin and clung to her figure with alarming tenacity. Pug suddenly realized he was dressed only in trousers and hurriedly grabbed up his tunic from where he had dropped it onto the floor and pulled it over his head. As he struggled with the shirt, the last shreds of alcoholic fog evaporated. “Gods!” he said, in a pained whisper. “Should your father learn of this, he’d have my head.”

  “Not if you’ve wits enough to keep your voice lowered,” she answered with a petulant look.

  Pug crossed to the stool near his pallet, freed of his drunken wobble by newly arrived terror. She studied his rumpled appearance and with a note of disapproval in her voice said, “You’ve been drinking.” When he didn’t deny it, she added, “When you and Roland didn’t appear at supper, I wondered where you’d gotten yourselves off to. It’s a good thing Father also skipped the meal with the court, otherwise he’d have sent someone to find you.”

  Pug’s discomfort was growing at an alarming rate as every tale of what horrible fate awaits lowborn lovers of noblewomen rushed back into his memory. That Carline was an uninvited guest and that nothing untoward had occurred were niceties he didn’t think the Duke would find particularly mitigating. Gulping down panic, Pug said, “Carline, you can’t stay here. You’ll get us both into more trouble than I can imagine.”

  Her expression became determined. “I’m not leaving until I tell you what I came to say.”

  Pug knew it was futile to argue. He had seen that look too many times in the past. With a resigned sigh, he said, “All right, then, what is it?”

  Carline’s eyes widened at his tone. “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be, I won’t tell you!”

  Pug suppressed a groan and sat back with his eyes closed. Slowly shaking his head, he said, “Very well. I’m sorry. Please, what do you want me to do?”

  She patted the pallet next to her. “Come, sit here.”

  He complied, trying to ignore the feeling that his fate—an abruptly short life—was being decided by this capricious girl. He landed rather than sat beside her. She giggled at the groan he made. “You got drunk! What’s it like?”

  “At this moment, not terribly entertaining. I feel like a used kitchen rag.”

  She tried to look sympathetic, but her blue eyes sparkled with mirth. With a theatrical pout, she said, “You boys get to do all the interesting things, like sword work and archery. Being a proper lady can be such a bore. Father would have a fit if I should ever drink more than a cup of watered wine with supper.”

  With rising desperation in his voice, Pug said, “Nothing compared to the fit he will have if you’re found here. Carline, why did you come here?”

  She ignored the question. “What were you and Roland doing this afternoon, fighting?” He nodded. “Over me?” she asked, a glimmer in her eyes.

  Pug sighed. “Yes, over you.” Her pleased look at the reply nettled him, and irritation crept into his voice. “Carline, you’ve used him rather badly.”

  “He’s a spineless idiot!” she snapped back. “If I asked him to jump off the wall, he’d do it.”

  “Carline,” Pug nearly whined, “why have—”

  His question was cut off as she leaned forward and covered his mouth with her own. The kiss was one-sided, for Pug was too stunned to respond. She quickly sat back, leaving him agape, and she said, “Well?”

  Lacking any original response, Pug said, “What?”

  Her eyes flashed. “The kiss, you simpleton.”

  “Oh!” said Pug, still in shock. “It was…nice.”

  She rose and looked down on him, her eyes widening with mixed anger and embarrassment. She crossed her arms and stood tapping her foot, making a sound like summer hail striking the window shutters. Her tone was low and harsh. “Nice! Is that all you have to say?”

  Pug watched her, a variety of conflicting emotions surging inside. At this moment panic was contesting with a nearly painful awareness of how lovely she looked in the dim lantern light, her features alive and animated, her dark hair loose around her face, and the thin shift pulled tight across her bosom by her crossed arms. His own confusion made his pose seem unintentionally casual, which further fueled her petulance. “You’re the first man—not counting Father and my brothers—I’ve ever kissed, and all you can say is ‘nice.’ ”

  Pug was unable to recover. Still awash with tumultuous emotions, he blurted, “Very nice.”

  She placed her hands upon her hips—which pulled her nightdress in disturbing new directions and stood looking down on him with an expression of open disbelief. In controlled tones she said, “I come here and throw myself at you. I risk getting myself banished to a convent for life!” Pug noticed she failed to mention his possible fate. “Every other boy—and not a slight number of the older nobles—in the West fall over themselves to get my attention. And all you do is treat me like some common kitchen drudge, a passing amusement for the young lord.”

  Pug’s wits returned, less of their own accord than from the realization that Carline was arguing her case a little more emphatically than was warranted. Suddenly struck with
the insight that there was a fair bit of dramatics mixed in with her genuine irritation, he said, “Carline, wait. Give me a moment.”

  “A moment! I’ve given you weeks. I thought…well, I thought we had an understanding.”

  Pug tried to look sympathetic, as his mind raced. “Sit down, please. Let me try to explain.”

  She hesitated, then returned to sit next to him. Somewhat clumsily he took her hands in his own. Instantly he was struck by the nearness of the girl, her warmth, the smell of her hair and skin. The feelings of desire he had felt on the bluffs returned with stunning impact, and he had to fight to keep his mind upon what he wished to say.

  Forcing his thoughts away from the hot surge he experienced, he said, “Carline, I do care for you. A great deal. Sometimes I even think I love you as much as Roland does, but most of the time I only get confused when you’re around. That’s the problem: there’s so much confusion inside of me. I don’t understand what it is I feel most of the time.”

  Her eyes narrowed, for this obviously wasn’t the answer she expected. Her tone was sharp as she said, “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve never known a boy so caught up in understanding things.”

  Pug managed to force a smile. “Magicians are trained to seek explanations. Understanding things is very important to us.” He saw a flicker of comprehension in her eyes at this and pressed on. “I have two offices now, both new to me. I may not become a magician, in spite of Kulgan’s attempts to make me one, for I have trouble with a lot of my work. I don’t really avoid you, you see, but with this trouble I have, I must spend as much time with my studies as I can.”

  Seeing his explanation was gaining little sympathy, he changed tactics. “In any event, I have little time to consider my other office. I may end up another noble of your father’s court, running my estates—small though they might be—caring for my tenants, answering calls to arms, and the rest. But I can’t even think of that until I resolve this other matter, my studies of magic. I must keep trying until I’m satisfied I made the wrong choice. Or until Kulgan dismisses me,” he added quietly.