The Talented

by J. R. McGinnity

  “No,” Elder Rynn said, sounding unhappy, as though those results were a puzzle he had been unable to solve. “Though they were all trained as we had trained the others, not one person in the latter professions developed a talent.”

  Adrienne thought she understood some of the commonality that Elder Rynn was apparently missing. Those who had developed abilities were in a demanding profession where extensive training and practice were necessary. Healers and blacksmiths typically started as apprentices at a rather early age, and although she did not know much about weaving, she figured it was not a skill learned overnight.

  Didn’t mothers teach their young daughters to weave? That was an apprenticeship of sorts.

  She decided not to share her insight at the moment, though, and from the glint in the young scholar’s eyes, Adrienne thought he knew or suspected more than he had revealed to the rest of the commission about this particular limitation. “There haven’t been any satisfactory Talents?” she asked.

  None of the Talents she had heard about so far would be enough to end the war. The Talent for healing came the closest, but it was not the same as an offensive ability.

  “Not of a sort that meshes with the old stories,” Franklin said, folding his hands over his potbelly. “The stories talk about healing, of course, but we haven’t gotten any of the other sort. Not the kinds of abilities that we were expecting. And once an ability manifests in one area, that’s it. A healer might be able to mend a bone, stop bleeding, and get rid of an infection, but she can’t move anything with her mind, or find a book in the library without looking it up.”

  “And I can’t do more than wrap a bandage and hope for the best,” the young scholar added with an easy if self-deprecating humor.

  “This is all interesting to me,” Adrienne said honestly, “but I am confused as to why I am here. Why go all the way to Kyrog to find someone else to train?”

  “I would think even someone like you could figure it out,” Lady Chessing said. “If healers manifest talents for healing, shouldn’t you develop a way to kill?”

  Adrienne barely kept herself from wincing. She had killed many times, the last just a week ago, and she lost no sleep over the necessary death of an enemy, but she was not a killer. She was not malicious, nor did she go out of her way to harm others.

  But her realization that those on the commission saw her as little more than a killer was not enough to outweigh the excitement she felt. She was to be trained as one of the Talented. It was what she had been hoping for. Adrienne did not know what sort of Talent she might develop, but it would not be as cold as what Lady Chessing had implied. A Talent that could kill someone would be like skill with a sword—both could kill, but to say they were only for killing was too simple.

  “We tried training some of the city guards for this purpose,” Franklin said, “but none of them developed an ability.”

  Adrienne had noticed the city guards when they were entering Kessering and was not surprised to learn that no Talented had emerged from that stock. The one at the gate had barely given her, an armed soldier, a cursory look when she entered the city. Instead, the guard had seemed bored. They were no more trained and disciplined in their profession than innkeepers or merchants. If they had received much more training than how to strap on armor, she would be surprised. “But you’re hoping I do get a Talent.”

  “I admit that most of us were against the idea of using a soldier,” Franklin said, “but it seemed the only logical option left to us. King Burin wants something that can help with the war effort.”

  “We sent out two other parties in search of suitable soldiers,” Lady Chessing told Adrienne primly, looking down her pointed nose at the younger woman, “although I have little hope of any soldier manifesting an ability, no matter how many we attempt to train. I doubt any of you have the aptitude for it. Soldiers aren’t exactly known for their high levels of intelligence, after all.”

  Suddenly, Adrienne couldn’t take any more. She was tired. Tired of traveling, tired of everyone acting as though she was stupid, tired of the furtive, suspicious glances every commissioner was casting her way. Defending herself would make no difference, so she didn’t bother. “I would like a bath and a hot meal before any training begins,” she said, no longer caring if she sounded rude. “I would also like to be shown to the place where I am to sleep while in Kessering.”

  Some of the commissioners looked appalled, and others looked as though they had been expecting such behavior. Only the young scholar seemed unaffected by her abrupt change in behavior. “Of course,” he said. “I will show you around.”

  He stood and stepped around the table, heading out a side door, and Adrienne followed him into a small corridor. “My name is Ben Ruthford, Lieutenant,” he said, extending his hand.

  Some of Adrienne’s tension eased at the small show of respect, and she took the offered hand in her own. His skin was the same shade as hers, a rich tan, and felt soft against her callused palm. Unlike her own hand, it was devoid of any scars and felt fragile despite its greater size. “You may call me Adrienne,” she said. As good as “Lieutenant” felt, she thought having a friend here would be even better. Especially a friend on the commission, and one of the Talented as well.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You probably want some time to rest, given your recent journey, but I’m afraid we can’t grant you more than a day or two.” They made a couple of turns down twisting hallways and finally exited the large library via a small side door. “We’re putting you up in an inn just there,” he said, pointing one of those soft hands toward a moderately sized inn across the courtyard. Its sign proudly proclaimed it The Golden Trumpet. “That inn will be most convenient for you and your trainer.”

  “And who will my trainer be?” Adrienne asked, hoping it was not one of the pompous old commissioners who had not even spoken at the meeting. Franklin might not be such a bad teacher, except for his unfortunate choice in jackets.

  “Well, I was hoping to train you myself,” Ben said somewhat shyly. “I have had some success with training others in the past,” he hastened to add. “We should know within a couple of months whether the training is effective.”

  Adrienne thought that a couple of months was a long time to wait to see results, but then Jeral had probably thought the same when she had so carefully paced his training. She would have to trust Ben as Jeral had trusted her. Perhaps something like the friendship she had found with Jeral would develop between her and Ben. “That sounds good,” she said. “I should be ready to start in a couple of hours.”

  Ben looked surprised. “Are you sure you don’t want a day to acclimate? If you have really read the book, you are ahead of schedule. I don’t want you to burn out.” His face was earnest and almost painfully innocent, yet he was not one of the scholars who had cringed away from her.

  Was he too innocent to see the dangers that the other scholars did, or was he just more open than they were? Adrienne hoped for the later—innocence was too easily shattered and replaced by something harder and far less kind.

  “The trip here was not rigorous,” Adrienne assured him. “There is no reason not to begin this afternoon. Perhaps we can discuss the journal then.”

  “Of course,” Ben said with the smile all scholars seemed to get in regards to books, especially old ones. “I will meet you in your room in, say, three hours? Will that give you enough time to freshen up?”

  “Yes,” Adrienne assured him, thinking that three hours would easily accommodate a meal and a bath, and perhaps even a short walk around the city.

  ••••••

  The inn was larger than it had appeared from the outside. The common room was already half-filled with patrons, and the small fire cast light without contributing unduly to the heat that was always present in this part of Samaro. Adrienne was still examining her surroundings when the innkeeper approached her.

  A clean white apron stretched across the innkeeper’s round stomach as he appraised Adrienne fro
m head to toe. His eyes lingered on the sword hanging casually from her hip. “May I help you?” he asked in a voice completely void of the welcoming tone that was typical of innkeepers. Instead, it seemed to suggest that she find another place to stay.

  “I am Lieutenant Adrienne Rydaeg,” she said, holding her back straight and head high. “The commission has a room for me, I believe.”

  “The soldier,” he said flatly. Adrienne wondered if every citizen of Samaro had such an aversion to soldiers, and she had been spared the discrimination in other cities because she had always been part of a larger group. She didn’t think so.

  Although people in other places had occasionally been wary, Kessering seemed unique in its pronounced dislike of people in her profession. The men and women who kept inns and taverns were usually glad when soldiers were present, but this man was looking at her as though she was something particularly nasty stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  “Yes, I am a soldier. Do you have a room for me?” Her gaze dared him to contradict the commission and say no.

  The innkeeper gave a brusque nod. “In the back.”

  Adrienne had slept in far worse places than a small back room in an obviously prosperous inn, and being given an unnecessarily shabby room was almost amusing in its pettiness. “Has my horse been delivered here? And my belongings?”

  “Your things are in your room,” the innkeeper informed her, “and the horse is in the stables.” He wiped his hands on his pristine apron. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes,” Adrienne said, keeping her temper on a short leash. “I am going to see for myself that my horse is being properly cared for, and then I would like a bath—a hot one—and a meal. A real meal, mind, with meat and bread, not just a bowl of stew.”

  The innkeeper looked like he was going to choke, but whatever he wanted to say to her he managed to hold back, even going so far as to force a tight smile. Adrienne thought that the scholars must do business with the inn often for him to make even that small effort.

  “I will see to your bath, and the rest,” he said at length.

  Adrienne nodded before turning on her heel and heading to the stables. Although her nose told her that the stalls were well-maintained overall, her fears for Strider’s welfare were confirmed when she saw that, despite the fact that the stable was only half full, the stallion had been placed in a small corner stall with poor ventilation.

  “I would like to speak to whoever is charged with the horses’ care,” she proclaimed loudly, knowing that someone was likely within hearing range.

  Moments later a dark, dirty face peaked down at her from the hayloft. “Can I help you?” he asked. He spied her sword and his eyes widened, but a smile split his face, a far cry from the fearful look Adrienne was growing to expect. “Hey, are you a soldier?” He seemed excited by the prospect.

  “I am,” Adrienne said. “Can you come down here?”

  “Sure,” the boy said amiably. He crawled nimbly down the ladder to stand before Adrienne. He was thin despite the childish roundness of his cheeks, and Adrienne judged him to be in his early teens, the age where boys seemed to stretch and grow into strange, gangly creatures.

  “You care for the horses?” she asked.

  “For two years now,” he said with obvious pride. “How long have you been a soldier?”

  Adrienne smiled in amusement at the rapidly fired question. “Seventeen years. Why is that horse in the corner?” she asked, pointing to Strider.

  “Master Inbaum told me to put him there. Said he’s a vicious beast and to keep clear of him.” The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “Don’t seem vicious. But how come you don’t look old? Seventeen years is a long time.” he said, eyeing her critically.

  “I’m not old, and seventeen years isn’t so long,” she said, though it occurred to her that for a boy who hadn’t yet seen his seventeenth year, seventeen must be an eternity. “That’s my horse in the corner,” she said, “and I want him moved to a better stall.”

  The boy whistled. “He’s about the finest horse I ever saw. Guess I was right ‘bout him not being vicious, then?”

  Adrienne had seen Strider wreck a face with his hooves, but at present he was dozing on three legs as peaceful as any pleasure pony. “Not unless I want him to be.”

  The boy bobbed his head. “He needs a good brushing-down,” he said. “Master Inbaum told me not to bother, before, on account of he was dangerous and all.”

  Adrienne removed a silver penny from her purse and flipped it to the boy. “I’m asking you to take special care of him,” she said, looking into dark eyes that were surprisingly pretty for a boy’s, fringed as they were by long dark lashes. “If there are any problems, I want you to tell me straight away. Come to me yourself; don’t send a message, understand?” Adrienne wouldn’t put it past Master Inbaum to “forget” a message for her, or have one of his other employees do the same.

  “Got it,” the boy said, pocketing the coin.

  “I’m Lieutenant Rydaeg,” Adrienne said, offering the boy her hand. He took it with the same pleasure as he had taken the silver penny.

  “My name’s Thom,” he said with a wide, goofy smile. “Hey, maybe if I do a good job, you’ll let me ride your horse?”

  “Not a chance,” Adrienne told him easily.

  “Will you let me see your sword?”

  “Maybe.”

  He seemed happy enough with that, and went about relocating Strider to a more suitable stall. Satisfied with the transaction, Adrienne left the stable in a brighter mood than she had entered. A young boy was not much of an ally, but he was better than nothing.

  Since Adrienne did not trust any of the suspicious-looking girls in Inbaum’s employ to clean her swa’il without ruining it, she set to work cleaning it herself and removing what stains she could after bathing and putting on a reasonably dirt-free outfit. She stopped only to eat the meal that was delivered to her room. The pieces of chicken had been overcooked so that what parts of it were not fat were brutally dry, but the crusty bread was good and a nice change from trail fare. She ate the bread in lieu of chicken and was reasonably satisfied.

  When Ben came calling, Adrienne was glad to leave the confines of the cramped room and explore Kessering some more.

  “I hope your accommodations agree with you,” Ben said with no trace of guile.

  Adrienne thought about the small room and dry chicken, and the lukewarm bathwater delivered by a scowling maid. “I’m sure they’ll do,” she replied, not wanting Ben to feel badly. It was clear he did not know or suspect how Master Inbaum was treating her.

  “I don’t know quite where to start,” Ben admitted. “Typically I start by giving my students Asmov’s journal to read, but you have already read it.”

  “So his name was Asmov,” Adrienne said, a bit disappointed to learn Pele’s real name. The memory she had of the disagreeable Pele had fit the author so perfectly that it seemed wrong to think of the author as anyone else.

  “Yes. Asmov Petrovicz. I’m a bit concerned about how much of the book you understood. Usually I guide whomever I am training through the text, so that I know if they have any problems with it.”

  “It was a bit dense, but I believe I understand as much about developing abilities as I can from one journal not dedicated to the topic,” Adrienne said. “I understand more after today, of course.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I heard today helped me connect some of the dots,” Adrienne said. “Age, professions, it makes sense to me now. And why I am here, of course.”

  “Explain,” Ben asked, looking surprised. It was clear that most on the commission thought of soldiers as brutes, capable only of killing. To think that one could learn and reason as well as a scholar was probably unfathomable to most.

  “The age ‘limitation’ is no real surprise,” Adrienne said. “As I told the rest of the commission, many skills are best learned young. As for my being here, there has t
o be a good reason behind it. It’s no secret that no one in Kessering has a fondness for soldiers.”

  Ben kicked a pebble with his soft leather shoe. “You noticed that?”

  “It would have been hard not to,” Adrienne said.

  Ben turned to face her more directly. “It is hard for people who rely on intellect to entrust someone who operates and lives with such a violent lifestyle.”

  Adrienne had to laugh at such a ridiculous comment. “Perhaps that excuse works for scholars, but not for everyone else.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t the first city I’ve been to,” she told him. “Some people might be nervous around soldiers, but that’s not what’s happening here.”

  “There was an…incident,” Ben admitted. “A long time ago,” he rushed to add. “No one living now was alive then, but the memory survives in the stories we’re told.”

  “What stories?”

  “There was a garrison near here once. A private one, not one that reports to the king.”

  Adrienne knew that most of the garrisons and soldiering camps reported to the king in some way or another, but she didn’t contradict him. “Of course.”

  “Well, the garrison asked for money. A lot of it.”

  Adrienne thought back to the conversation she and Jeral had had with Lord Neecham not long before. “I’ve heard of such things.”

  “Well, finally the people of Kessering were tired of paying. They told the garrison that if they wouldn’t protect them without fee, they weren’t needed.”

  “So they left?”

  “Yes. And a week after they did, the city was attacked.”

  “That’s unfortunate, and it was wrong that the garrison was charging high prices for protection, but you can hardly place the blame for the attack on the soldiers that left.”

  “You can if some of the attackers were soldiers.”

  Adrienne shook her head. “What?”

  “Stories say that some of the attackers were recognized as soldiers that had been stationed at the garrison, and that they attacked to teach the city a lesson.” Ben cast her an apologetic look. “I don’t know how much of it is true, but it’s what we’re taught.”