by Ted Neill
Then nothing. All faded to black. Vondales caught him as he fainted. Momentarily blinded, he was extraordinarily aware of the sounds from the crowd around him.
“Amateur.”
“Fool.”
“Is he all right?”
Vondales lowered him gently to the ground where curious onlookers, including the boisterous weather worker, stared down at him. Their faces slowly became distinct again as Sade’s vision returned.
“Maybe next time,” the bald mage said, decidedly less boisterous than before.
They wandered the market after that in silence, Sade passing on any more opportunities, Vondales following in a sympathetic silence. Late in the afternoon, with shadows long and food sellers out for the dinner hour, many weather workers departed—all those of higher status were long gone. Those that were left gossiped and traded stories among themselves, displaying little interest in the apprentices that had been left unpicked.
“What about him?” Vondales said, pointing to a figure in an aquamarine cloak with yellow trim and a matching vest beneath. The clothes were once fine but they had seen many days since then. The edges of the man’s cloak were repaired with mismatched thread and the stockings on his feet did not match. His face was soft, without sharp features or a strong jaw; even his eyes were an indistinct gray. His age was hard to determine; he had just the beginnings of some baldness, and he was still lean but his skin was weathered and the hair he did have had begun to go gray. While they watched, he pulled a flask from his breast pocket and took a quick drink. He became aware of the two of them and gestured towards Sade. “You are the aspiring apprentice who fainted trying to conjure a flame.”
Sade’s mouth twitched. He sensed their last hopes for finding a master evaporating. “Yes, I am.”
The mage stood up. Sade detected the slightest sway in his gait. His cheeks were flushed but his eyes were clear and hard like pebbles. “It was a trick by him. Such a spell is beyond most weather workers. It was cruel on his part to challenge you and foolish of you to try.”
Sade was in no mood to be lectured and turned to go. The man spoke up. “But you made it smolder, young man, which was actually no small feat.”
Sade stopped and turned back to face the man, smoothing out his tunic. “Are you in need of an apprentice?”
The weather worker answered the question with a question. “Who was your previous master?”
Sade decided the truth was best in this case. “I have had none. I am self-taught.”
“As I thought,” the man said. “You are green and raw but you possess a quality which the others here today do not.”
“What is that, sir?”
“Potential.”
His name was Jerrold LeGuise. He lived in a two-story cottage that backed onto the harbor. Sade and Vondales were given space in the attic. There wasn’t room to stand up straight but it was warm, they each had mattresses stuffed with hay, and best of all, they had privacy. They had not had their own room since they had left Illicaine.
Jerrold had a wife named Gillian and three daughters, ages seven, five, and two, whom he loved with joyous passion. His returns home were greeted with squeals, embraces, and kisses. And although Gillian and the girls were at first shy around Sade and Vondales, Gillian was soon doting on them like sons and the girls fighting to take turns climbing on Vondales or to have Sade tell them a story before bedtime.
Sade was often the one to tell bedtime stories because by that late hour after dinner Jerrold was passed out from his own drinking. His flask was ever present at his side; it was the first thing he reached for in the morning and the last after he kissed Gillian good-night. Gillian tolerated the drinking. Jerrold did not beat her and he kept the larder full. He was a good husband by many measures; however, Sade soon began to suspect Gillian’s kindness towards them was also out of desperation—having an apprentice gave Jerrold respectability and stability that his drinking had robbed from them. And although Jerrold and Sade were often away on voyages, she was glad to have Vondales around the house to do chores and simply to guard the house in Jerrold’s absence.
He was absent often. Days added to weeks and weeks added to months at sea on vessels. Sade learned prodigious amounts. There was no question that Jerrold was supremely talented and intelligent. It was these traits that kept him employed, for half the time he was drunk and could not conjure a breeze, still a wave, or part a rain cloud to save a life, much less his own.
But these became opportunities for Sade to practice his own craft. He was often called upon to do works of sea-spells that were much beyond him, and in this way he learned, and captains and sailors came to depend on them as a team. More of their weeks were booked than not. More money led to more drink, but Gillian was also responsible and made sure not all the income was wasted. There was enough to send the girls to school, replace Jerrold’s threadbare cloak, and even buy clothing for Vondales and Sade, for growing as they were, their clothes would often become too small.
Yet some nights in the attic, listening to the soft sounds of his brother sleeping comfortably, Sade would lie awake, wondering when or how all this would end. And what they would do once they were on their own again—for as much as they were treated so, they were not family. And having once lived on the margins, Sade could not shake the habits of distrust formed there.
Anxiety kept him from sleep so regularly that at night he took to practicing the one spell that still vexed him: conjuring flame. He had excelled due to his own talent and determination with other enchantments, but this spell stubbornly still eluded him. It was a spell for a more powerful mage who could work enchantments with all the elements, not just wind and water. He had made some progress: he could make a wick smolder every time he tried, he could even blacken a board, burning a small hole in it—the rafter above his bed was pockmarked with such holes—but to give life to flame, to create a tongue of fire and cast a shadow was still beyond him. Vondales did not care. He was proud of his brother, but Sade was all too aware of this short coming, knowing that he would never advance beyond weather worker to sorcerer if he could not master this simple spell.
Jerrold said he had the potential to be a sorcerer, and even surpass most weather workers, but late at night Sade doubted this and wondered if it was just drunken drivel on the part of his master. He had seen lesser apprentices light candles with just a flick of their wrist or a snap of their fingers. The only burning Sade felt was his own jealousy.
“It is because you fear the flame,” Jerrold had said once in one of his more sober intervals while they enjoyed a sunset from the stern of a galley shipping whale oil.
“I don’t fear fire, my lord,” Sade said.
“You fear what you can’t control. I’ve seen you now work the weather, sluice water from the deck, weave intricate spells with the wind, and even enchant the sails and charm a compass. But the flame eludes you because it has life of its own. You fear what it might do once it is conjured.”
“Shouldn’t I? Fire is dangerous.”
“It is. Don’t worry, you will call the fire forth one day when you do not fear it.”
Sade shifted on his haunches and said nothing, for he felt the cold heavy truth in his teacher’s words. But if there was more wisdom to share, it would not be right then, for the flask came out shortly after and Jerrold tilted his head back to drink.
Then came the day when Sade thought it would all come to an end, just as he had anticipated. A knock at the door early in the morning roused the entire house. Vondales scrambled to the window then shot back to Sade’s bedside, shaking him to full alertness. “King’s men.”
Sade stumbled across the floor boards to peer out and see for himself. A team of a half dozen men on horseback, each in the cerulean blue of the royal law keepers, waited outside. Two of them were dismounted and waiting at the front door. Sade backed away from the window, dressed, and together they climbed down the ladder and tiptoed to the top of the stairs where they listened as Jerrold opened the door
.
They were looking for Sade and Vondales.
“Did you know sir that your apprentice and his brother might be thieves and murderers? Their description matches that of two brothers wanted for murder in the fighting pits of Mornaport.”
Sade’s blood ran cold. Vondales climbed back up to the attic and retrieved the short sword and dagger from beneath his mattress. He unlatched the window on the far side of the room and pushed, opening the way out onto the roof of their neighbor’s house.
“Wait,” Sade whispered. “We won’t get far without them noticing us.” He leaned farther down the stairs to listen.
“But they are not here. They left two days ago for Heareen,” Jerrold said.
“Do you know what they wanted to do there?”
“My apprentice wanted to make a name for himself and his craft. But if they are the liars and cheats you say they are, I see no reason to believe their story. They could be anywhere. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Sade and his brother waited in silence as the king’s men rode away. After a few terse whispers between husband and wife, Jerrold’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. Vondales made to hand Sade a knife but he pushed it away.
“Don’t be a fool, we’ll not slaughter this family, too. He just lied to protect us.” If he was honest, Sade was overcome with emotions. Fear mixed with hope, and perhaps for the first time since their mother had died, he felt love. Love for this man who had taken them in and when their past came back to haunt them, had defended them. Jerrold appeared at the bottom of the stairs, Gillian behind him, her eyes red. Sade’s master took a sip from his flask. His hands were shaking as he replaced it in his pocket.
“You heard?” Jerrold asked.
Sade nodded, not out of gall, but truly he was overwhelmed. He felt as vulnerable as he did that first day at the apprentice market. Would this man and this family, as imperfect as they were, still accept them? Now everything rested on the edge of a knife.
“Tell me, is it true?” Jerrold asked.
Sade had spent months at sea with this man who showed him the secrets of their craft. His brother had become a friend and protector to his daughters and he had just shown them more loyalty than their own flesh and blood had. Sade knew he owed him at least a shred of the truth.
“It’s true,” Sade said. “A slave owner attacked my brother and in defending himself, Vondales killed him.”
Gillian began to weep. Her face blanched. Jerrold steadied himself on the railing of the stairwell. “That is the truth of it?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sade lied, for there had been other murders and yet he could never explain those. A web of darkness rose in his chest and threatened to cut off his air. A gulf had suddenly formed between him and his master. Sade held himself still, listening for Jerrold’s next words. Finally he spoke.
“You are our family as much as our friends. We will protect you.”
A weight lifted from Sade’s shoulders. He could breathe again. He noticed Vondales’ hand move away from the pommel of his sword. Gillian was still sobbing. Jerrold took another sip from his flask and began to walk away. “So be it.”
That day Vondales was extra solicitous around the house, offering to help Gillian with everything from churning butter to fetching water from the well. But something was changed in her. She was a simple woman and an honest one, and already the lies to the King’s men, the thought of a murderer in her house, chased the smile from her face and deepened the worry lines on her forehead and around her eyes. She had aged years in just a day. She barely spoke to Vondales, and she jumped whenever she turned and caught sight of him in the same room. As for the girls, she sent them to their grandmother’s house to play for the day.
A chill had also crept into the rapport between teacher and student. Jerrold made every effort to be casual and jovial with Sade, as if nothing was wrong, but he took more sips from his flask than usual and spent the morning looking over his shoulder. When king’s men appeared at the edge of the market crowd, instead of looking for more work, Jerrold suggested they take bread and beer in a tavern together. Teacher and student sat in a dark corner among old sailors, fat drunks, and whores. Jerrold emptied his flask into his mug and drank it as quickly as water.
Sade sipped his.
“Don’t worry,” Jerrold said, more to himself than Sade. “I’ll figure something out.”
In retrospect, Sade knew he should have seen the betrayal coming, but hope had made him soft and trust had made him weak. So that night he had gone to sleep as if all that Jerrold had said was true and as if they truly were family as much as friends. He woke just as the men were storming into the attic. They were too quick and too fierce for Sade and Vondales to react. They were not king’s men. They did not announce themselves, “In the name of the king,” or bother with other formalities. Rather they worked in silence, wrapping Sade and his brother tightly in their blankets and gagging them with all the speed and deftness of men well practiced in kidnapping.
Sade and Vondales fought as best they could as the men carried them down the steps out into the cold night. Gillian was weeping and Jerrold pleading, “Please don’t hurt them.” Sade’s mind raced trying to determine who their abductors were. Had Jerrold made a deal with the Guild? Were these people from Illicaine, finally caught up with them for the murder of their uncle? As they were carried downhill towards the docks, Sade guessed rightly just who Jerrold had contacted.
Slavers.
Jerrold ran alongside them through the streets, his voice hoarse and his speech slurred. “I’m sorry Sade, I’m sorry, so so sorry. But I can’t risk harboring you.” He mumbled more apologies and excuses as they neared the docks. He wouldn’t hand them over to king’s men; that would mean certain death. But murder was murder and he could not have Sade and Vondales in his house, could not abide it, could not ask it of his wife, could not put his children in peril. “I couldn’t bear to see you in the gallows,” he prattled on. “But you said yourself you murdered a man. You don’t deserve freedom. So I’ve made a moral compromise you see.”
Jerrold took another swig from his flask. “You shall do your time and therefore justice will be served, but your lives will be spared.” Jerrold went on to say that his decision was generous—at least he tried to convince himself of it. Bound and gagged as he was, Sade could not respond, but if he could have, words would not have been sufficient. He wanted to smash in his teacher’s skull.
Their abductors set them down roughly over the thwarts of a rowboat. Sade listened as oars shot out over the sides and splashed into the water. He rolled to his side and took some comfort in feeling his brother up against him.
At least we are still together.
As the ship cast off from the shore, he heard Jerrold choke out some last words of farewell to them. “Perhaps a few years of hard labor will be good for you. It can build character. Safe journey.”
Chapter 19
The Jester and the Lady
Meeshock shuffled down the corridor into a room that glowed with firelight. The smell of boiling vegetables, herbs, chopped meat, and grains wafted through the air. The kitchen where Meeshock was preparing dinner appeared untouched by the curses that had so affected the rest of the castle. It looked lived in—dirty dishes sat in a basin waiting to be cleaned, rags hung over the fireplace drying, and a stew bubbled in a cauldron suspended over the fire. The stems of freshly cut tubers fanned out across the tabletop, and among them was a half empty cup of tea beside a kettle.
Meeshock mumbled to himself something about finding a spoon as he searched around the floor of the table with trembling hands webbed with dry, cracked skin. He spat when he talked, and his eyes were narrow. His foot kicked the missing spoon. He picked it up and without washing it, stirred the pot of stew then returned to the table to chop vegetables.
Gabriella was still too stunned to do anything. She leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. For a while, she simply stared at her own feet, but in her mind
she kept seeing Ghede, wrapped in swaths of light and then abruptly erased, like a chalk drawing doused with water. Now her other friends were still trapped with that hideous girl.
What will she do to Omanuju and Adamantus?
Meeshock was still chopping. Between chops, he took liberal sips of his tea. It was mixed with cream and left a brownish white mustache on his lip. He would wipe the mustache away, leaving bits of vegetables in its place. He had not shaved for many days and clearly had not bathed either. The hair that slipped out from beneath his jester’s cap looked moist with grease. As the chopping progressed, his down strokes became fiercer. Soon, instead of chops he was hammering the knife down onto the cutting board, his eyes wild, spit and inarticulate curses shooting forth from his mouth.
Gabriella sidled away from him, her hands jammed into her armpits, the hair raising on the back of her neck. She searched the room for exits. Deep lines ran down either side of Meeshock’s mouth and nose, and dark rings shaded the pasty skin below his eyes. She noticed that all the bells that hung on his costume were silent—each had been smashed into flat discs. Although his costume was stained and so threadbare that she could see Meeshock’s pale and pimply skin beneath, the mirrors that dangled on his chest and back were polished and immaculate. These were mirrors that belonged at a lady’s vanity. They were set in gilded frames with purple lilies inlaid with colored glass.
