The Artful Apprentice

by Christopher Nuttall

  Emily studied him for a long moment. Sir Mowbray certainly looked as if he might die at any moment. She could see the logic of appointing someone who had no way to gain anything from the post, someone who couldn’t even have the pleasure of appointing his sons to positions of power. And yet... it wouldn’t be as steady as he seemed to believe. The aristocrats wouldn’t accept him. And if he died, his successor would be in the same boat. It was unlikely Parliament could find another candidate who was on the verge of certain death.

  “Nothing will change,” Sir Mowbray said. “The Crown Prince will reach his majority with all the authority his father enjoyed.”

  Maybe, Emily thought. Things would change. Whatever Sir Mowbray did, things would change. He couldn’t keep a whole kingdom in stasis forever. There will be hundreds of little problems, some of which will lead to bigger problems.

  She let out a breath. She could see dozens of problems, starting with the simple fact Sir Mowbray wouldn’t have royal authority. He’d have to make decisions, none of which would be binding once the Crown Prince took power. And then... she forced herself to think. It might work. It might. But the cost of a mistake would be disastrous.

  “I’ll discuss the matter with Arbiter Rogan,” she said, finally. “That’s all I can promise.”

  “The duke will offer you much, in exchange for your support,” Sir Mowbray said. “So will the queen. But I’m asking you to put the kingdom first.”

  “I understand,” Emily said. She stood. “And I will take your words under consideration.”

  Sir Mowbray lumbered to his feet. “That’s all I ask, My Lady.”

  Emily nodded to him, then motioned for Simon to follow her out of the room. The guide was waiting outside, ready to lead them back to the door. Emily guessed no one wanted them wandering anywhere else, even in parliament. The soldiers outside were still training, their sergeant shouting in a distinctly Zangarian accent. Emily smiled, wondering who he’d fought for during the civil war. He certainly seemed to know his stuff.

  “He can’t just talk to you like that,” Simon said, once they were back on the streets. “I thought... I thought he’d promise you anything.”

  “Like what?” Emily glanced at him. “What can he offer me?”

  She allowed him to lead her down a street, her thoughts running in circles. Sir Mowbray had made a good case, but she was too experienced to believe his promised peace would last for long. He simply didn’t have the status to serve as Lord Protector. Too many aristocrats — and not just the leading nobles — would press against him, demanding everything from preference to outright surrender. They’d want to be named as his successor... she frowned, considering the options. It was starting to look as though the smartest thing to do would be to declare Willis an adult and make sure he had some good advisors.

  And that isn’t my problem, she thought, although she knew she had to report both conversations to Arbiter Rogan. What will the Duke have to say? Will he try to talk me into supporting him? Or will he simply insist on the importance of the iron fist in the iron glove?

  “Do me a favor,” she muttered, as they passed a pair of pubs. “Don’t tell anyone what you heard.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Simon said. He winked at her. “But I do take bribes, if you’re offering.”

  “One outdated bronze coin from... somewhere,” Emily said. It would have been worth something before the Allied Lands started standardizing coinage. Now, it wasn’t worth much unless it was sold to the mint and melted down for scrap. “That’s my best offer.”

  “I’ll take it,” Simon said. He made a grasping motion with his hand. “I’m too poor to have dignity.”

  Emily snorted, then frowned as she saw the dragon motif again. “Why is the castle — and the city — covered with dragons?”

  “It’s a long story,” Simon said. He struck a mock-contemplative pose. “How long do you have?”

  “Long enough,” Emily said, smiling. She’d yet to meet the sorcerer who didn’t like explaining things. “You can start when ready.”

  Simon started to say something, then stopped as the sound of shouting echoed down the street. A town crier was marching in the middle of the road, loudly extolling the virtues of the duke as regent. Emily blinked in surprise as the words rang through the air, the crier praising the duke’s sense of justice, charity and his willingness to let the city keep its ancient liberties. Another appeared at the far end of the road, shouting about the duke’s many failings as a leader of men. The first crier forced himself to shout louder...

  A line of rough-looking men boiled out of the nearest pub and charged the second crier, who turned and fled — too late. Others appeared, shouting slogans that clashed together into a wall of sound; they smashed into the first crowd, the fight rapidly spreading out of control. Emily saw a handful of men wielding banners, shouting and hollering as they ran down the street and into the battle. She heard the sound of glass shattering as the fight raged out of control, bottles and glasses being hurled in all directions. A man staggered out of the fight, blood streaming down his face, and collapsed on the ground. The crowd surged over him, trampling him, before she could react.

  “This way,” Simon snapped. He caught her arm and yanked her back. “The Watch is coming!”

  Emily nodded. There was nothing she could do about the fight, not without stunning or freezing the entire crowd. She turned and let him lead her up the street, passing a line of watchmen as they hurried towards the fight. They looked reluctant to get too close. They had nothing more dangerous than clubs. The mob would effortlessly crush them if they tried to break up the fight.

  She spotted two other fights as they made their way back to the castle. A shop with a pro-queen sign was under attack, the shopkeeper and his wife struggling helplessly as they were dragged onto the streets. Emily saw a screaming child inside the building and reacted before she could think better of it, yanking the attackers through the air and hurling them down the street with magic. The shopkeeper stared at her, then grabbed his wife and hurried back inside. She cast a protective charm after them, as she heard more rioters in the distance. The entire city seemed to have gone crazy.

  “The Dragonsbane! The Dragonsbane!”

  Emily gritted her teeth as the shouting grew louder. The queen’s supporters were howling too, but the duke’s seemed to be better organized. She forced herself to pick up her dress and run, knowing she’d have to fight if they were caught. A small army of soldiers — the Royal Guard — were already spilling out of the castle. She didn’t recognize the man leading them down the street. It looked as if the duke wasn’t going to put the riot down in person.

  Of course not, her thoughts mocked. The duke had every reason to stay back and let someone else do the dirty work. His supporters are winning.

  A pair of guardsmen stepped out to block their path. Emily saw panic in their eyes and braced herself, ready to stop them both if they lashed out. Panicky men with swords were dangerous. She understood their fear, better than she cared to admit. Mobs were dangerously irrational, driven by hatreds and resentments that had finally boiled to the surface. Men in uniforms that had dominated the streets, only days ago, were now at risk. The guardsmen would be wise to stay in packs...

  “Go back to the castle and stay there,” the guardsman ordered. He didn’t look at Emily, for which she was glad. She would prefer to remain unnoticed until she had a chance to think about the day. “Now.”

  Simon nodded, curtly. Emily followed him as he walked into the castle, breathing a sigh of relief they were through the gates. There were guards everywhere, wearing a dozen different uniforms and liveries. Officers ran everywhere, barking orders and countermanding other orders... it looked as though no one was in charge. Emily scowled, remembering how confusion over command had lost battles and wars. She hoped the rioters quieted down before someone ordered extreme measures...

  “I need a drink,” Simon said. She watched him wipe sweat off his brow. “Would you like t
o join me in my chambers?”

  Emily had to smile. “Why not? You can tell me about the dragons.”

  “Of course,” Simon said. “But let me get us both something to drink first.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  EMILY TOOK THE MUG SHE WAS offered, tested the liquid to make sure it was safe to drink and then took a seat on the sofa. Simon’s inner chamber was cozy, rather than elegant. The chairs and sofa looked old, but there was no denying they were comfortable. Simon hesitated, just for a second, then took a seat facing her. He held his mug in both hands.

  “You have to understand,” he said without preamble, “that we’re dealing with legends. We don’t know how much truth there is in any of them.”

  “I understand,” Emily said. She’d read the legends of Lord Whitehall. She’d also been there when he’d founded Whitehall School. Stories grew in the telling, even when their tellers weren’t slanting them for political advantage. “You should hear some of the stories about me.”

  Simon blushed. “I have.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “The entire legend, or at least the version the Dragonschild dynasty wanted to preserve, is normally rendered in song and poetry. They have an entire series of tales, from complex poems to drinking songs, but I’ll have to render it in prose. I can’t sing for toffee.”

  “Duly noted,” Emily said.

  “And the Northerners take exception to Southerners singing their songs,” Simon added. “It’s practically always guaranteed to lead to a fight. Or worse.”

  Emily made a face. “How do they manage to get along?”

  “Poorly.” Simon winked at her, then took a moment to organize his thoughts. “The basic gist of the story is that a lowly herdsman, who lived somewhere in the Dragoran Mountains, somehow befriended a dragon. There are versions of the story that insist he actually married a dragon and had children, leading to all sorts of ribald tales about precisely how this miracle was achieved.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Emily said.

  “Too many of the king’s enemies spent too long thinking about it,” Simon said, dryly. “There is a streak of odd magic running through the lineage, which suggests there’s something to the story even if we don’t know what. Anyway... the herdsman and his friend — or his wife — set out to unite the North, then invade and occupy the South. He declared himself king and established a lineage, which has ruled the kingdom to this day.”

  He paused. “It’s worth noting that, even during the days of empire, Dragora enjoyed a surprising amount of independence. The emperors never tried to bring the kingdom solidly into their fold. It’s odd, don’t you think?”

  “It wouldn’t be easy to march an army through the mountains at the best of times,” Emily pointed out. “As long as there wasn’t any trouble coming out of the kingdom, it might as well have been left alone.”

  “Perhaps.” Simon grinned. “A few years later, a very bad dragon appeared out of nowhere and lay waste to the king’s city. His brother — or son, depending on which story you believe — challenged the dragon to single combat and killed him. He took the Dragonsbane title in the aftermath, which has been passed down from prince to prince in an unbroken line until now. The duke isn’t keen on surrendering the title to Prince Robert.”

  Emily leaned forward. “Because it comes with land and money?”

  “It doesn’t,” Simon said. “It’s more of a prestige thing than anything else. The duke is second in the kingdom and will remain so until Willis takes the throne. If the title is passed on... technically, Prince Robert will be ahead of him.”

  “Technically,” Emily echoed. “Prince Robert is four!”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “But he won’t stay four.”

  Emily nodded, tersely. The child would grow up and demand his rights and the duke... would either have to surrender or keep them by force. It boded ill for the young prince. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the duke was planning to have Eve and Robert retroactively delegitimized and then killed. It wasn’t as if he were trying to unseat the true heir. He might just get away with it.

  Simon smiled. “The truth is lost in the mists of time. No one has seen a dragon outside the mountains for years, not here. No one really knows what happened to the king’s dragon. The story claims she will return if the kingdom is in danger, when the true blood calls... but there might be nothing to it. There are hundreds of myths, of lost kings and powerful magics, that insist something will return. So far, none of them have come true.”

  “I see,” Emily said. She’d seen a dragon. She’d ridden on a dragon. But that had been a very long way away. “The entire story could have been made up to explain the South’s defeat.”

  “It’s possible,” Simon admitted. “Losing to barbarians would have been dreadfully embarrassing. Losing to a dragon would be a little more acceptable.”

  Emily nodded, slowly. The truth might be nothing more complex than a warlord putting together an army, under a dragon banner, and leading it to storm the city. The South might have gotten very unlucky — or it might have been betrayed — and the army might have gotten over the walls before the defenders could react. Or... she doubted anyone would figure out the truth. It was simply too long ago.

  “And the kingdom hasn’t quite recovered,” she mused. “Why do you still talk about the North and South?”

  Simon shrugged. “I imagine the kings found it useful to stroke the fires of hatred from time to time,” he said. “They certainly wouldn’t want to unite both sets of subjects against them.”

  “I imagine not,” Emily agreed.

  “It’s an uneasy balancing act,” Simon added. “And it needs a strong man to hold it steady.”

  And now the king is dead, Emily mused. A child on the throne couldn’t be expected to keep everyone in line. Willis would be seen as a puppet, even if he wasn’t. And now the real choice is determining who’ll get the power, knowing the wrong choice might be disastrous.

  She frowned, remembering Master Lucknow’s comment. The king had been doing something foolish... Master Lucknow had certainly called him a fool. She tried to calculate if the king had already been dead when she’d met Lucknow for the first time. What had he been trying to do? Enhance his magic? Fool with necromancy? Or... what? Had he been looking for a way to neutralize his brother?

  “Simon,” she said slowly, “was the king fiddling with anything that might have killed him?”

  Simon’s face twisted as he warred with his oaths. “I don’t believe so,” he said. “But I don’t know for sure.”

  And then someone tried to kill me, Emily thought. I might have believed there was no murder, that the king had killed himself, if someone hadn’t tried to kill me.

  “What was he doing?” She tried to recall everything she’d seen in the king’s private chambers, but nothing came to mind. “And why was he doing it?”

  “I... I cannot answer that question,” Simon said. Sweat beaded on his brow. “His Majesty’s oaths were quite comprehensive.”

  Emily nodded, shortly. The king had clearly been up to something, but what? Her imagination provided a list of possibilities, from simple experimentation to something more sinister. The king certainly had good reason to practice his magic. His kingdom was permanently on a knife edge. And his brother might, one day, lose control completely and try to bisect him. Emily had studied blademasters. They could be very hard to kill. There was a good reason they were rare.

  She finished her drink and put the mug on the table. “I’m going to have to search the king’s chambers again,” she said. If she could figure out what the king had been doing, she could — perhaps — figure out who’d killed him. “Did anyone ask you to open them?”

  “No.” Simon stood. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’d better do it on my own,” Emily said. She was starting to like Simon, but searching the rooms would be easier if he wasn’t getting in her way. “I’ll see you later?”

  Simon nodded, loo
king down. Emily frowned, inwardly, as she brushed down her dress and headed for the door. Simon knew something, she was sure, but what? If his oaths refused to let him talk... she scowled. A Soul Master might be able to undo the oath, or simply read Simon’s memories, but there was a better than even chance that trying would result in Simon’s death. The king wouldn’t have settled for destroying Simon’s magic. He would have wanted oaths that would shut Simon’s mouth permanently.

  She kept her face under tight control as she walked up the stairs. The castle felt... on edge. The guards watched her uneasily, as if they expected her to start hurling fireballs. There seemed to be fewer of them than before. She guessed the remainder had been ordered onto the streets. The wards buzzed against her mind, daring her to do something stupid. She had no intention of doing anything of the sort.

  The king’s private chambers had remained sealed. Emily breathed a sigh of relief, then inspected the wards carefully. Void had taught her how to set up a tripwire, a ward that would reveal any tampering even if the ward had been taken down and then rebuilt by a skilled wardcrafter. No one, he’d assured her, would even realize the tripwire had been there unless they’d watched the wards being put together. She allowed herself a brief smile as she noted the tripwire was still there, then brushed the wards aside and stepped into the chambers. They were as dark and cold as the grave.

  The king could have provided his own light, she thought, as she cast a lightspell. A globe of light bobbed into the air, hovering above the king’s workbench. He didn’t need lanterns to light his way.

  She stood in the doorway and allowed her eyes to wander around the room. The workbench was surprisingly crude, practical rather than elegant, for a king’s private chambers. She thought, suddenly, of Professor Thande and frowned. His worktables were no better. She had a nasty feeling the king had been experimenting with dangerous potions. There was no point in spending money on tables that might be blown to splinters at any moment. She glanced into the corner, knowing what she’d see before she laid eyes on it. The table was stronger, providing cover if something really went wrong. She guessed the king had brought it forward when he’d been messing about with alchemy. It was too far from the workbench to serve as real cover.