The Magician's Apprentice (13 page)

A knock at the door attracted her attention.

“Come in,” she called.

The servant, Malia, strode in, and glanced from the steaming bowl to the empty dishes from Tessia’s morning meal stacked on the desk. She moved towards the latter, taking the tray she was nearly always carrying out from under her arm. “Good morning, Tessia.”

Tessia rose and stretched. “Good morning, Malia.”

“Practising again?”

“Yes. Give the bowl a moment to cool down before you take it.”

“I will.” Malia chuckled ruefully. “Believe me, I won’t be ignoring your warning a second time. What are your plans for today?”

“Stables first.” Tessia picked up the small bag of bandages and salves her father had left for her to use when tending Hanara.

“Then lessons.”

Tessia headed to the door, then paused to look back at Malia. She had expected the servant to ask how Hanara was, but the woman said nothing.

“Malia, do you know how well Hanara is fitting in? What do the stable servants think of him? What about the villagers?”

Malia straightened from tidying the bedcovers and looked thoughtful. “Well, people generally find him a bit strange, but that’s expected, right? It would be weird if he behaved like a Kyralian.”

Tessia smiled. “Yes, it would be. And the stable servants?”

“They say he works hard enough – more than what he’s supposed to what with the mending he still has to do. They say he’s tough. Almost admiringly.” Malia hesitated. “But he keeps to himself and doesn’t always answer questions.” She shrugged, indicating that was all she had to convey.

“Thank you.” Tessia smiled and continued on her way. Thinking about what Malia had said, she decided things were going as well as anyone could expect for the former slave. He probably wasn’t used to friendly chatter, and it would take time for him to learn how to befriend people.

Leaving the house, Tessia crossed to the stables and slipped through the open door. Then she stopped, surprised by the scene before her.

Two of the stable servants were peeing into a bucket.

Before she could look away, the young men glanced up. Expressions of horror crossed their faces, and streams of urine veered from their intended paths – one across the trousers of the other – as they hastily covered themselves.

“Having a good look?” Birren jeered, recovering from his embarrassment enough to try to joke about it.

“Yeah.” Ullan followed. “Looked to me like she was checking us out. Impressed, were you, Tess? Want a closer look?”

She suppressed a laugh. The banter was typical of young men their age, and what she’d have expected in this situation – before she’d become an apprentice. She didn’t have the heart to increase their discomfort by reminding them she wasn’t Tessia the healer’s daughter any more. “I was wondering if it’s true that all boys get bigger when they get older. Didn’t look like you’d grown much since that time my father and I treated you two for… what was it again? Warts?”

They winced.

“We can make them get bigger,” Birren told her, grinning.

“You’d be scared.”

She snorted derisively. “I’ve seen much scarier things helping my father. Where’s Hanara?”

Ullan began a cheeky reply, but Birren stopped him with a low hiss, then nodded towards the end of the building. Hanara was sitting at a table, cleaning and polishing a saddle. She walked towards him. Harnesses and tools were lying nearby, waiting to be mended or cleaned. He looked up as she approached, and his frown faded a little.

Though the man’s face was typically Sachakan, broad and brown-skinned, it was quite different from his master’s. It was finer and more angled, youthful but scarred. She was glad of this, because while it was impossible not to think of Takado whenever she thought of Hanara, at least looking at the former slave did not stir unpleasant memories of his master’s face leering at her.

“I’m here to change your bandages,” she told him.

He nodded. “You’ve not seen anything scary,” he told her, standing up and taking off his tunic. “Nothing truly scary.”

Realising he had overheard the youths, she sighed and began removing the bandages around his chest and shoulder. “Probably not, but don’t be too quick to judge. I’ve seen more of the insides of people than most Kyralians have. Some nasty injuries and a few fatal ones that I doubt I’ll ever forget.”

“The dead are not scary. They cannot do anything to you.”

“But they smell almost as bad as those two back there.”

He smiled faintly, then grew serious again. “You should not let them speak to you like that. You are a magician now.”

“Apprentice,” she corrected. “You’re probably right. But then, I should have knocked or called out, not just walked in on them.”

“You should not have to knock.”

She gave him a level look. “This is Kyralia. Even magicians are expected to have good manners.”

He met her eyes for the briefest moment, then quickly looked down.

The wounds he’d suffered, even the cut her father had made to reach his broken ribs, had sealed into red, raised scars. She probed where the breaks in his bones had been, asking if he felt pain. He shook his head each time, and didn’t look as if he was trying to hide any reaction.

“You look completely healed to me,” she told him. “I don’t think you need any more bandages. Be careful not to pick up anything heavy, or strain bones that were broken.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing how fast you heal. I’m not sure you even needed our help.”

“I would have healed badly – crooked. Your father stopped that happening.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Tessia smiled, her heart lifting. “I’ll pass your thanks on to my father.”

“You, too,” he said, pointing to the discarded bandages.

“You’re . . .” He frowned, and gestured vaguely towards the stable door. “Not like…”

Was he talking about the stable boys, or had his gesture been meant to encompass more? The village, perhaps. She felt a stab of concern.

“Are the villagers treating you well?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am a stranger.”

“Yes, but that is no excuse for… bad behaviour. Hanara.” She waited until he looked up and met her gaze. “If someone does anything mean to you – anything, ah, un-Kyralian – you tell me. It’s important. Just as you must live like a Kyralian now, by our laws and ideals,
they
must not start behaving like…like Sachakans. Do you understand? You mustn’t put up with it because you did before.”

He gazed back at her.

“You do understand me, don’t you?”

He nodded.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she gathered the old bandages into a bundle. “I must go. I have lessons to learn.”

He nodded again and suddenly seemed glum.

“I’ll come here to talk to you now and then, if you like,” she offered.

Though his expression did not change, a warmth entered his gaze. As she left the stable, she imagined she could feel his eyes on her back.

I hope I’m not giving him romantic notions
, she thought.
I can imagine Mother’s horror. She’ll barely forgive me for not trying to get Lord Dakon to fall in love with me, but if I end up with a Sachakan former slave writing me poetry she’ll disown me.

She considered the likelihood of Hanara’s writing poetry for her as she re-entered the house and headed back to her room to drop off the bandages and her bag. He probably couldn’t even write. But if he could, would she welcome it?

He’s quite attractive, in an exotic way
, she decided.
Now that the swelling has gone. But… no. I don’t think I know him well enough yet to even decide I like him. There’s too much about him that is secretive.
Then she chuckled.
I guess those novels in my room have it all wrong. Secretive men with mysterious pasts aren’t irresistibly attractive at all.

Reaching the stairs, she heard her name called and turned to see Malia hurrying towards her.

“Your father’s here, Apprentice Tessia,” the servant said. “Says he needs your help this morning – something urgent in the village.” Her brow furrowed. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there. And could you tell Lord Dakon?”

“Of course.”

Hurrying upstairs, Tessia quickly deposited her burden in her room then backed out again. She checked her stride as she nearly collided with Jayan at the top of the stairs. The young man paused and looked at her, the annoyance in his expression changing to the smooth politeness he had adopted around her of late.

“You look eager for your lessons this morning,” he said.

“I’ll have to miss them today,” she said, wishing he’d move aside and let her past. “Father’s here and it’s urgent.”

“Ah, skipping classes again, are we?” He smiled and shook his head with mock disapproval – or was it really mocking? Was that a hint of true disdain she detected in his tone? She felt anger rising.

“At least I’m doing something useful with what I know,” she snapped, meeting his gaze and silently daring him to object.

His eyes widened in surprise. Stepping back, he let her pass, and watched her hurry down the stairs. She heard him mutter something, catching the word “idiot”.

So he thinks I’m an idiot
, she mused.
Arrogant fool. I bet he doesn’t know more than a handful of the people in the village, let alone care about whether they live or die, are sick or in pain. So long as they do the work of the ley he’s not interested. He’s no better than a Sachakan.

She resolved to put him out of her mind.

No matter how many times Dakon urged her father otherwise, Veran always came to the servants’ door and today was no exception. She found him pacing in the corridor outside the kitchen. When he saw her he frowned and she realised she was still scowling at her encounter with Jayan.

“Are you missing a particularly important lesson today?” he asked, picking up his bag.

She shook her head and smiled. “No. Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with Dakon or magic or lessons. Just a petty annoyance. Where’s Aran?” She had grown used to the presence of her father’s new assistant, a quiet boy with a missing lower leg who had grown up on one of the more distant farms. The boy’s deformity prevented him from joining in with more robust tasks in the field, despite being remarkably agile on the wooden leg his father had made for him, but he had a quick mind and, she grudgingly admitted to herself, was proving a good choice for assistant.

“Visiting his grandmother,” her father replied. “She’s broken her arm and he’s helping her out.”

“Ah. So who are we treating today?”

He led her out of the Residence before he answered.

“Yaden, Jornen’s son. Pains in the belly early this morning. Worse now. I suspect an inflamed appendix.”

Tessia nodded. A dangerous condition. Her father might have to attempt surgery to remove the organ and the chances of infection were high. The boy could easily die.

Reaching the main road, they strode down to one of the last houses in the village, belonging to Jornen the metal worker. The man’s workshop was a small distance from the rear of his home, down by one of the streams that flowed into the river. On most days the smoke from his forge blew away from the houses, but occasionally what was known locally as “the smoke wind” gusted distinctly metallic-smelling clouds over the village.

Tessia’s father stepped up to the door and knocked. The sound of running feet echoed inside the house, then the door opened and two small children stared up at them; a girl and a boy. The girl ran back into the house, crying: “They’re here! They’re here!” while the boy took Veran’s hand and led him upstairs to where Jornen and his wife, Possa, were waiting. A baby in the woman’s arms quietly snuffled its displeasure.

“He’s in here,” the metal worker said, gesturing to a bedroom.

It was a tiny room filled with a metal-framed three-tier bunk bed. Yaden, a boy of about twelve, was curled up on the bottom mattress, moaning loudly.

Tessia watched her father inspect Yaden, prodding his abdomen gently, timing the rhythm of his heart and breathing and asking questions. The two children who had greeted them at the door appeared, with two older boys in tow. One of the newcomers was leading the other by a rope around his neck.

“What’s this?” Possa said, her voice strained. “What are you doing with that rope?”

“We’re playing master and slave,” one of the boys said.

Tessia and the mother exchanged a look of dismay.

“Take it off,” Possa ordered. “We’re not Sachakans. We don’t enslave people. It’s wrong.”

To Tessia’s amusement, both boys looked disappointed as they removed the rope.

“What about the slave Lord Dakon has?” the one who’d worn the rope asked.

“He’s not a slave any more,” Tessia told him gently. “He’s free now.”

“But he still acts weird,” the other boy said.

“That’s because he’s not used to being free. And he doesn’t know our ways yet. But he’ll learn them. He’s actually nice, when you get to know him.”

The children looked thoughtful. Hearing a sniff, Tessia turned to see a doubtful look on Possa’s face. The woman quickly looked away. Veran made a low noise of concern. He straightened, knocking his head on the middle bunk.

“There’s not enough room for me to work here. Can we move him somewhere with more space?”

“The kitchen?” the metal worker suggested, looking at his wife. She shook her head.

“Too dirty. The cellar’s got more room.”

Her husband entered the bedroom, lifted his son and carried him down the stairs, the small crowd of family following. Tessia and Veran trailed behind them down to the lower floor and along the corridor towards the back of the house.

Glancing through an open door, Tessia glimpsed a kitchen table overflowing with utensils, vessels and baskets filled with the familiar shapes of edible fungi. She nodded to herself, approving of Possa’s reluctance to take Yaden to a place covered in dirt and manure. Perhaps her father’s and grandfather’s efforts to instil a respect for hygiene in the villagers hadn’t been as futile as they had often suspected.

More likely she doesn’t want to disturb her work when there’s an alternative place to take her son.