by Bev Allen
“Because people need company,” Jon said. “Everyone likes to belong.”
“I know,” Lucien said. “I want something to belong to and I don’t want to end up ashamed of myself.”
Jon looked deep into his eyes, trying to decide if this was bullshit or genuine. Lucien meet his gaze and held it, which convinced Jon he was not being totally honest, but he was telling enough of the truth to make him a possibility.
Stacey Wainwright was squeaky clean and on paper the perfect choice, but for some reason she made his skin itch. He was fairly certain this far-from-satisfactory candidate would cause him a hell of a lot of problems, but he did not raise a rash.
Of course there was the problem of the parents to be overcome, and the fees, and the approval of The Guild.
The fees he could solve from his own pocket; it would make a dent in his bank balance, but what else had he to spend it on? The Guild could probably be blindsided by some fast talking, so only Ma and Pa Devlin remained.
“Okay, I’ve never taken an apprentice,” he said slowly. “But as a Master TLO, I’m expected and required to train at least one. I suspect if I don’t choose a candidate soon, someone will be wished on me.”
Lucien stopped breathing and trembled with anticipation.
“Don’t get over-excited just yet,” Jon warned him. “I have to speak to my Guild Master and see if he’d be prepared to accept you.”
Lucien’s eyes went huge. “Do you mean it?” he asked. “Really mean it?”
Jon nodded.
“But why? Why would you do this for me? And what about the fees?”
“I’m not sure why I’m doing it and I may come to regret it,” Jon replied. “But for some reason I don’t want to see you go to the devil. The fees don’t need to concern you.”
Lucien’s eyes glowed and his mouth fought for the right words. “I … I …”
“It’s okay,” Jon said with a smile. “I know, but you’ll only feel embarrassed trying to find the right way to say it and I’ll feel embarrassed listening to it. And we still have the problem of your parents’ consent.”
The wide grin spreading over Lucien’s face was replaced by a mulish expression. “I’m not asking them!”
“No, you’re not,” Jon agreed. “I am.”
“I’m not going to tell you how to find them,” Lucien said. “They’ll just ruin it.”
He gave an involuntary start as Jon’s hand came crashing down on the table.
“One of the first things an apprentice learns is obedience!”
Lucien’s chin came up and he gave Jon a speculative look, assessing how serious he was; there was just a suggestion of a challenging grin, which was the main cause of Jon’s reservations.
Their eyes met and held.
Lucien’s fell first, but there was no hint of surrender.
“Have it your way,” he said quietly, but a small smile still hovered.
“I suggest you keep in mind who’s in charge, my lad,” Jon said sternly. “This is not a game to be undertaken lightly. You’ll be an apprentice, there to learn and obey orders until such time as I decide you’ve gained enough knowledge to take your place as a member of the guild.”
“Yes, sir,” Lucien replied, but could not disguise either his excitement or his triumph.
Chapter 3
Jon left Lucien with instructions to retrieve his cash from wherever he had stashed it, and to use some of it to buy new clothes.
“I’ll get myself a decent knife as well,” he said, showing the small blade he carried in his pocket.
“No, you will not,” Jon stated.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve no idea if you know how to use one safely and until I do, you won’t be carrying anything bigger.”
“But ...”
“The door is that way. You’ve not signed any papers yet and are free to leave any time you like.”
“Oh, all right!” was the sulky reply, but he went off cheerfully enough.
Lucien might have been confident and cheerful, but Jon was more sanguine. He knew he was going to have a bit of a fight to get Lucien apprenticed. The Guild would not look favourably upon his record, especially when there was an eminently more suitable candidate available.
And he could not put his doubts about Lucien completely to one side. He wondered if he was doing this merely because he did not want to take on Stacey Wainwright.
Yet there was something about the boy, something underneath the swagger and the fast mouth and the unfortunate tendency to insubordination, faults Jon had every intention of correcting; there was a dauntless courage, humour in the face of adversity and a resourcefulness well beyond what might have been expected in one so young and untried.
Before he went to the Grand Master and made his request, he needed Lucien’s parents to agree. Much would depend on who they were and what they were like.
Armed with the address, Jon made his way across the Settlement, leaving the simple log cabins where he chose to make his home, and out into more established suburbs where there were paved streets and lighting and the houses had a more permanent look.
He went on and arrived where wealth had its outward face and being. He whistled softly as he stopped in front of a double fronted dwelling that spoke of comfort and money and probably servants.
It was possible Lucien’s people were the servants, hence the reluctance to find the large sum required, but he knew he was clutching at straws; there was nothing servile about Lucien.
The front door was opened by what he recognised to be an indentured maid and he was asked to wait while she found out if Mr and Mrs Devlin were ‘at home’.
Left alone in the hall, Jon looked about him and something on one wall caught his eye. It was a deer hide, beautifully tanned and stretched and painted with the image of a stalking lynx. The artist was highly skilled and understood his subject completely.
It was also a totem skin and by tribal custom not to be shared with outsiders.
As he looked further Jon saw other examples of tribal art, a carved jade, a ceremonial quiver inlaid with shell and several baskets of the most exquisite weaving.
They could be legitimate trades, albeit fantastically expensive ones, but the skin and the quiver put a crease between his eyebrows.
“Mr and Mrs Devlin will see you,” the maid announced.
The man who rose to greet him was Lucien all grown up, the same long lean body, the same hazel eyes and the same shock of fair hair, although here tamed and trimmed.
Fashionably but casually dressed, he exuded an air of calm authority and well-simulated interest. He held out an immaculately manicured hand to Jon.
“Marcus Devlin,” he said, and indicating a slender woman seated on a sofa behind him. “My wife Miranda.”
Jon shook the proffered hand, very aware of how he must appear in this drawing room setting.
“This is unexpected,” Devlin continued. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a real Tribal Liaison Officer before. What may I do for you, Master Harabin?”
Jon felt suddenly like he was in a poker game; there were a lot of chips on the table and he faced a player who not only knew the odds, but was a master of the bluff, and he had no idea why.
He decided to call the play.
“I’ve come about Lucien.”
He should have kept a weather eye on his host to see how this was taken, but his gaze had involuntarily gone from the pale wood of the floor, so pale it was almost white, to the tribal blanket casually flung across the sofa, and stopped at a delicately carved horn resting on the mantelpiece.
“Lucy!” the woman on the sofa asked in a sharp, anxious voice, distracting Jon from a further search of the room. “Is he all right?”
Despite his concerns about what he saw, Jon had to hide a smile at this; his potential apprentice would not want that sobriquet spread about.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s fine.”
She was the same picture of well-groomed sophisti
cation as her spouse and Jon wondered why they had come to this world, the antithesis of all they appeared to be.
Miranda Devlin gave her husband a quick glance, seemed about to say something, but stopped and returned to her pose of controlled elegance.
“Why has our son brought you to our door?” Devlin asked. “I presume he’s been indulging his odd passion for backwoods squalor somewhere he shouldn’t.”
There was nothing but polite enquiry in the question, but Jon found himself babbling slightly as he explained his mission. He had expected urgent enquires about Lucien’s welfare and to encounter immediate opposition to his plans; he had not expected to be listened to with faint amusement.
Plus, he was off balance. Half his mind was dealing with Lucien, but the other half was distracted by all he saw here.
The tree that had supplied the wood for the floor was not common and it must have taken a large number of them to produce enough wide, flawless planks to cover this room.
The blanket was from the loom of a master weaver and he was not happy about other small, choice items he spotted on shelves and occasional tables.
“How interesting,” Devlin said when the account ended. “May I offer you refreshment? Touch the bell, Miranda, and tell the girl to bring coffee.”
Any attempt by Jon to decline was brushed aside as if unheard.
“I see you’re admiring some of my treasures,” Marcus said, picking up the carved horn that had first caught Jon’s attention, and handing it to him.
It was of a quail with her brood of tiny chicks following her down the natural arc of a horn.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Jon agreed. “Where did you get it?”
Devlin laughed. “So speaks the Tribal Liaison Guild. Quite legitimately, I assure you. Everything in my collection has the correct paperwork.”
“I’m sure it does, sir,” Jon replied. And he was; this was not a man likely to make silly mistakes. “After all, it would be unfortunate if The Guild was forced to confiscate any of it.”
“Perish the thought,” Devlin said in mock horror. “I think I would be quite devastated if such a dreadful thing were to happen. I have my reputation to think of.”
Jon knew he was being baited, but had no idea why. To openly display this amount and quality of tribal art without the correct permissions would be reckless beyond belief.
Before he could speculate further Marcus Devlin had turned the conversation back to Lucien.
“Tell me, do you really consider my son to be a suitable candidate for the honoured ranks of The Guild?”
“Yes, sir,” Jon replied, and hoped he would have time to burnish that blotch off his immortal soul before his end came.
Devlin gave him an assessing look, perhaps sensing the hidden reluctance. If he saw it, he chose to ignore it.
“I’d never thought of it as a possible career for him,” he continued. “However, it seems I may have been wrong.”
“Marcus ...” Miranda began.
“Ah, the coffee! Will you pour, my love?”
Her hand shook slightly as she filled the cups and she kept darting scared looks at her husband, but he seemed oblivious to them.
She offered Jon a dish full of tiny cakes and as he accepted one their eyes met for a brief moment.
“Lucy always enjoyed playing in the woods,” she said, softly. “I sometimes think he’s only happy when he’s there.”
She looked from Jon to her husband. Whatever was between Lucien and his father obviously distressed her and her sympathies did not necessarily lay with her husband.
Marcus was watching her, eyes alight with amusement.
“It seems all the mud and debris trailed through the house may have had some use after all,” he said. “I might have to re-evaluate my opinion of your son and his … er … hobbies.”
He sat back in his chair and regarded Jon with a speculative look.
“Lucien as a TLO,” he mused. “Who would have thought it? How very amusing.”
He gave a chuckle and repeated ‘very amusing’ under his breath, but before Jon could question this or even give it added thought, Devlin was on his feet and walking over to a small side table.
“Did you say the indenture fee was five hundred and twenty?”
“Yes, but he’s made ...”
This was dismissed with a wave of the hand.
“He can keep it,” Marcus said and handed Jon a roll of notes.
“Cash,” he said. “I hope that’s all right.”
“Marcus …”
“Hush, my love. I’m investing in one of our more tangible assets.”
Jon glanced from one parent to the other and knew there was more, much more going on beneath the surface. More than he perhaps wanted to know.
“The consent?” he said
“Of course. How remiss of me.”
Devlin returned to the table and scrawled a brief note.
“It requires both of you to consent,” Jon told him, which was not strictly true, but he wanted to see Mrs Devlin’s reaction.
She took the sheet and the pen. “You will look after him, won’t you?”
It was said in a light bantering tone, suggesting the question was purely rhetorical, but the anxiety in her eyes told another story.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jon replied. “I’ll take very good care of him.”
“Do come back and tell us how he’s getting on next time you’re passing,” Marcus said, handling Jon the paper.
He picked up Jon’s half-finished coffee as well and put it on the tray, and Jon guessed he had been given his notice to quit.
As the front door shut behind him he wondered what the hell that had all been about.
There was no time to speculate; he had to go to Guild headquarters and see how much damage Cunliff and Machin had achieved with their reports on the board’s proceedings.
It turned out to be quite a bit and Jon had to face several tough interviews with increasingly senior Masters. He was made to feel very much the new boy in need of guidance, and it was only with some difficulty he kept a civil tongue between his teeth.
In the end, the whole thing was pushed to the very top. and he was told to return the next day for a final decision.
Chapter 4
It was late and he was tired when he finally made it home. Lucien was waiting for him, full of questions and dumbfounded by the news his father had not only consented, but did so without argument.
“And he’s paid your fees,” Jon added. “So hand over what you earned.”
“But it’s mine,” Lucien protested.
“And it will stay that way, nice and safe in the bank until you make journeyman or I sack you.”
Lucien, who had been pulling notes of varying condition from the pristine to the disgusting from a number of pockets and hiding places, looked up at this.
“Sack me?”
“Yes, if you prove to be a complete waste of my time,” Jon replied. “Now hand it over. You’ll get pocket money as and when you deserve it.”
Reluctantly the money was surrendered. Jon returned a single dollar.
“Don’t waste it. It’ll be a while before you see another.”
Lucien was silent until dinner, fingers tapping out his annoyance on the side of his chair. Jon made no attempt to stop the brooding, but was in no mood to endure the silent treatment all through dinner; he began to tell Lucien tales of the high forest, of hunting deer by moonlight and of salmon runs when the water seemed to boil with fish.
His grievances forgotten, Lucien listened spellbound, and Jon, not displeased with his rapture, allowed him a treat.
He pulled out a small pouch made from some sort of soft shiny leather.
“Fish skin,” he told Lucien. “A type of pike. Not good to eat, too many bones, but the skin tans and you can use the flesh as bait for tastier things.”
From the bag he poured nine pearls, the largest the size of a fat pea, the smallest no bigger than a len
til. Most were creamy white, but one blushed a very pale pink.
“Why are there only nine?” Lucien asked. “You’ve got fourteen tattooed on your hands.”
“I gave five of them away,” Jon replied.
Lucien picked up the pink one. “I thought all pearls were white.”
“They come in other colours,” Jon told him. “Pink pearls are the most desirable. The Tribes set a lot of store on the colour red and all its variations. It’s doesn’t occur often in nature.”
“What other colours?” Lucien asked, fingering the jewels.
“Black, grey and brown,” replied Jon. “Someone told me they’d seen a yellow one and I did once see one a much darker pink than this.” He turned a pearl to the light. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Lucien nodded. “And valuable.”
“Very valuable,” Jon agreed. “Not only to The People, but to off-world collectors as well. There are some who’d like to dredge the river from The First Cataract to the mountains and strip every clam from the waters.”
Lucien was shocked. “But if they did there wouldn’t be any more. Ever!”
“They don’t care,” Jon replied. “They aren’t interested in tomorrow. That’s what I mean about protecting The Tribes from The Settlers. There’re plenty of others who wouldn’t want the river raped, but who’d like the land and the timber and see the First Nation as a block to what they regard as their right to expand.”
Jon hoped his message went home; he swept his pearls back into their bag and promised one day to show Lucien where he could find his own.
Morning saw Lucien taut with anticipation. The grin never left his face and none of Jon’s attempts to dampen his spirits or to convince him all achieved so far might be in vain had effect; every caution was dismissed with a breezy wave of the hand.
“Piece of piss.”
As Jon could not convince him otherwise, he gave up. He was far from being as certain as his young prodigy. He thought he had answered every objection, but there was still the Grand Master himself to face and he was not a man you argued with. If he said no it would the end of it.
He tried to convince Lucien of some of this on the walk to Tribal Liaison Headquarters. By the time they got there, he was fairly sure he had failed, but did feel he managed to convey the need for impeccable manners.
