Magician (3 page)

Suddenly the milky white within the
ball vanished, and Pug could see an image of the kitchen before his
eyes. Fat Alfan the cook was making pastries, licking the sweet
crumbs from his fingers. This brought the wrath of Megar, the head
cook, down upon his head, for Megar considered it a disgusting habit.
Pug laughed at the scene, one he had witnessed before many times, and
it vanished. Suddenly he felt tired.

Kulgan wrapped the orb in the cloth and
put it away. “You did well, boy,” he said thoughtfully.
He stood watching the boy for a moment, as if considering something,
then sat down. “I would not have suspected you of being able to
fashion such a clear image in one try, but you seem to be more than
you first appear to be.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind, Pug.” He
paused for a moment, then said, “I was using that toy for the
first time, judging how far I could send my sight, when I spied you
making for the road. From your limp and bruised condition, I judged
that you would never reach the town, so I sent Meecham to fetch you.”

Pug looked embarrassed by the unusual
attention, color rising to his cheeks. He said, with a
thirteen-year-old’s high estimation of his own ability, “You
needn’t have done that, sir. I would have reached the town in
due time.”

Kulgan smiled. “Perhaps, but then
again, perhaps not. The storm is unseasonably severe and perilous for
traveling.”

Pug listened to the soft tattoo of rain
on the roof of the cottage. The storm seemed to have slackened, and
Pug doubted the magician’s words. As if reading the boy’s
thought, Kulgan said, “Doubt me not, Pug This glade is
protected by more than the great boles. Should you pass beyond the
circle of oaks that marks the edge of my holding, you would feel the
storm’s fury. Meecham, how do you gauge this wind?”

Meecham put down the bread dough he was
kneading and thought for a moment. “Near as bad as the storm
that beached six ships three years back.” He paused for a
moment, as if reconsidering the estimate, then nodded his
endorsement. “Yes, nearly as bad, though it won’t blow so
long.”

Pug thought back three years to the
storm that had blown a Quegan trading fleet bound for Crydee onto the
rocks of Sailor’s Grief. At its height, the guards on the
castle walls were forced to stay in the towers, lest they be blown
down. If this storm was that severe, then Kulgan’s magic was
impressive, for outside the cottage it sounded no worse than a spring
rain.

Kulgan sat back on the bench, occupied
with trying to light his extinguished pipe. As he produced a large
cloud of sweet white smoke, Pug’s attention wandered to a case
of books standing behind the magician. His lips moved silently as he
tried to discern what was written on the bindings, but could not.

Kulgan lifted an eyebrow and said, “So
you can read, aye?”

Pug started, alarmed that he might have
offended the magician by intruding on his domain. Kulgan, sensing his
embarrassment, said, “It is all right, boy. It is no crime to
know letters.”

Pug felt his discomfort diminish. “I
can read a little, sir. Megar the cook has shown me how to read the
tallies on the stores laid away for the kitchen in the cellars. I
know some numbers, as well.”

“Numbers, too,” the
magician exclaimed good-naturedly. “Well, you are something of
a rare bird.” He reached behind himself and pulled out one
volume, bound in red-brown leather, from the shelf. He opened it,
squinting at one page, then another, and at last found a page that
seemed to meet his requirements. He turned the open book around and
lay it upon the table before Pug. Kulgan pointed to a page
illuminated by a magnificent design of snakes, flowers, and twining
vines in a colorful design around a large letter in the upper left
corner. “Read this, boy.”

Pug had never seen anything remotely
like it. His lessons had been on plain parchment with letters
fashioned in Megar’s blunt script, using a charcoal stick. He
sat, fascinated by the details of the work, then realized the
magician was staring at him. Regaining his wits, he began to read.

“And then there came a sum . . .
summons from . . .” He looked at the word, stumbling over the
complex combinations that were new to him. “. . . Zacara.”
He paused, looking at Kulgan to see if he was correct. The magician
nodded for him to continue. “For the north was to be forgot . .
. forgotten, lest the heart of the empire Ian . . . languish and all
be lost. And though of Bosania from birth, those soldiers still were
loyal to Great Kesh in their service. So for her great need, they
took up their arms and put on their armor and quit Bosania, taking
ship to the south, to save all from destruction.”

Kulgan said, “That’s
enough,” and gently closed the cover of the book. “You
are well gifted with letters for a keep boy.”

“This book, sir, what is it?”
asked Pug, as Kulgan took it from him. “I have never seen
anything like it.”

Kulgan looked at Pug for a moment, with
a gaze that made him uncomfortable again, then smiled, breaking the
tension. As he put the book back, he said, “It is a history of
this land, boy. It was given as a gift by the abbot of an Ishapian
monastery. It is a translation of a Keshian text, over a hundred
years old.”

Pug nodded and said, “It all
sounded very strange. What does it tell of?”

Kulgan once more looked at Pug as if
trying to see something inside of the boy, then said, “A long
time ago, Pug, all these lands, from the Endless Sea across the Grey
Tower Mountains to the Bitter Sea, were part of the Empire of Great
Kesh. Far to the east existed a small kingdom, on one small island
called Rillanon. It grew to engulf its neighboring island kingdoms,
and it became the Kingdom of the Isles. Later it expanded again to
the mainland, and while it is still the Kingdom of Isles, most of us
simply call it ‘the Kingdom.’ We, who live in Crydee, are
part of the Kingdom, though we live as far from the capital city of
Rillanon as one can and still be within its boundaries.

“Once, many long years ago, the
Empire of Great Kesh abandoned these lands, for it was engaged in a
long and bloody conflict with its neighbors to the south, the Keshian
Confederacy.”

Pug was caught up in the grandeur of
lost empires, but hungry enough to notice Meecham was putting several
small loaves of dark bread in hearth oven. He turned his attention
back to the magician. “Who were the Keshian Con— . . . ?”

“The Keshian Confederacy,”
Kulgan finished for the boy. “It is a group of small nations
who had existed as tributaries to Great Kesh for centuries. A dozen
years before that book was written, they united against their
oppressor. Each alone was insufficient to contest with Great Kesh,
but united they proved its match. Too close a match, for the war
dragged on year after year. The Empire was forced to strip its
northern provinces of their legions and send them south, leaving the
north open to the advances of the new, younger Kingdom.

“It was Duke Borric’s
grandfather, youngest son of the King, who brought the army westward,
extending the Western Realm. Since then all of what was once the old
imperial province of Bosania, except for the Free Cities of Natal,
has been called the Duchy of Crydee.”

Pug thought for a moment, then said, “I
think I would like to travel to this Great Kesh someday.”

Meecham snorted, something close to a
laugh. “And what would you be traveling as, a freebooter?”

Pug felt his face flush. Freebooters
were landless men, mercenaries who fought for pay, and who were
regarded as being only one cut above outlaws.

Kulgan said, “Perhaps you might
someday, Pug. The way is long and full of peril, but it is not
unheard of for a brave and hearty soul to survive the journey.
Stranger things have been known to happen.”

The talk at the table turned to more
common topics, for the magician had been at the southern keep at
Carse for over a month and wanted the gossip of Crydee. When the
bread was done baking, Meecham served it hot, carved the pork loin,
and brought out plates of cheese and greens. Pug had never eaten so
well in his life. Even when he had worked in the kitchen, his
position as keep boy earned him only meager fare. Twice during
dinner, Pug found the magician regarding him intently.

When the meal was over, Meecham cleared
the table, then began washing the dishes with clean sand and fresh
water, while Kulgan and Pug sat talking. A single scrap of meat
remained on the table, which Kulgan tossed over to Fantus, who lay
before the fire. The drake opened one eye to regard the morsel. He
pondered the choice between his comfortable resting place and the
juicy scrap for a moment, then moved the necessary six inches to gulp
down the prize and closed his eye again.

Kulgan lit his pipe, and once he was
satisfied with its production of smoke, he said, “What are your
plans when you reach manhood, boy?”

Pug was fighting off sleep, but
Kulgan’s question brought him alert again. The time of
Choosing, when the boys of the town and keep were taken into
apprenticeship, was close, and Pug became excited as he said, “This
Midsummer’s Day I hope to take the Duke’s service under
Swordmaster Fannon.”

Kulgan regarded his slight guest. “I
would have thought you still a year or two away from apprenticeship,
Pug.”

Meecham gave out a sound somewhere
between a laugh and a grunt. “Bit small to be lugging around
sword and shield, aren’t you, boy?”

Pug flushed. He was the smallest boy of
his age in the castle. “Megar the cook said I may be late
coming to my growth,” he said with a faint note of defiance.
“No one knows who my parents were, so they have no notion of
what to expect.”

“Orphan, is it?” asked
Meecham, raising one eyebrow, his most expressive gesture yet.

Pug nodded. “I was left with the
Priests of Dala, in the mountain abbey, by a woman who claimed she
found me in the road. They brought me to the keep, for they had no
way to care for me.”

“Yes,” injected Kulgan, “I
remember when those who worship the Shield of the Weak first brought
you to the castle. You were no more than a baby fresh from the teat.
It is only through the Duke’s kindness that you are a freeman
today. He felt it a lesser evil to free a bondsman’s son than
to bond a freeman’s. Without proof, it was his right to have
you declared bondsman.”

Meecham said in a noncommittal tone, “A
good man, the Duke.”

Pug had heard the story of his origin a
hundred times before from Magya in the kitchen of the castle. He felt
completely wrung out and could barely keep his eyes open. Kulgan
noticed and signaled Meecham. The tall franklin took some blankets
from a shelf and prepared a sleeping pallet. By the time he finished,
Pug had fallen asleep with his head on the table. The large man’s
hands lifted him gently from the stool and placed him on the
blankets, then covered him.

Fantus opened his eyes and regarded the
sleeping boy. With a wolfish yawn, he scrambled over next to Pug and
snuggled in close. Pug shifted his weight in his sleep and draped one
arm over the drake’s neck. The firedrake gave an approving
rumble, deep in his throat, and closed his eyes again.

T
he
forest was quiet.

The slight afternoon breeze stirred the
tall oaks and cut the day’s heat, while rustling the leaves
only slightly. Birds who would raise a raucous chorus at sunrise and
sundown were mostly quiet at this time of morning. The faint tang of
sea salt mixed with the sweet smell of flowers and pungency of
decaying leaves.

Pug and Tomas walked slowly along the
path, with the aimless weaving steps of boys who have no particular
place to go and ample time to get there. Pug shied a small rock at an
imagined target, then turned to look at his companion. “You
don’t think your mother was mad, do you?” he asked.

Tomas smiled. “No, she
understands how things are. She’s seen other boys the day of
Choosing. And truthfully, we were more of hindrance than a help in
the kitchen today.”

Pug nodded. He had spilled a precious
pot of honey as he carried it to Alfan, the pastry cook. Then he had
dumped an entire tray of fresh bread loaves as he took them from the
oven. “I made something of a fool of myself today, Tomas.”

Tomas laughed. He was a tall boy, with
sandy hair and bright blue eyes. With his quick smile, he was well
liked in the keep, in spite of a boyish tendency to find trouble. He
was Pug’s closest friend, more brother than friend, and for
that reason Pug earned some measure of acceptance from the other
boys, for they all regarded Tomas as their unofficial leader.

Tomas said, “You were no more the
fool than I. At least you didn’t forget to hang the beef sides
high.” Pug grinned. “Anyway, the Duke’s hounds are
happy.” He snickered, then laughed. “She is angry, isn’t
she?”

Tomas laughed along with his friend.
“She’s mad. Still, the dogs only ate a little before she
shooed them off. Besides, she’s mostly mad at Father. She
claims the Choosing’s only an excuse for all the Craftmasters
to sit around smoking pipes, drinking ale, and swapping tales all
day. She says they already know who will choose which boy.”

Pug said, “From what the other
women say, she’s not alone in that opinion.” Then he
grinned at Tomas. “Probably not wrong, either.”

Tomas lost his smile. “She truly
doesn’t like it when he’s not in the kitchen to oversee
things. I think she knows this, which is why she tossed us out of the
keep for the morning, so she wouldn’t take out her temper on
us. Or at least you,” he added with a questioning smile. “I
swear you’re her favorite.”

Pug’s grin returned and he
laughed again. “Well, I do cause less trouble.”

With a playful punch to the arm, Tomas
said, “You mean you get caught less often.”