The Wheelwright's Apprentice (3 page)

4

They rode through an inspiring entranceway a quarter of an hour later. The inside was a complete contrast to the outside. There were trees, the interior walls were colorfully painted and there were flowers. You could see that a great deal of effort had been made to make things as cheerful as possible. The Sergeant noticed Wilson’s amazement, and said, “Looks a whole lot better from this angle, doesn’t it? The outside is to discourage raiders and anyone else. The inside is to make everyone in here feel as happy as they can. We have everything here to withstand a pretty long siege, not that it would ever happen!” He laughed his gruff laugh again, and then said, “Here are the stables. Don’t worry. You won’t have to unsaddle your horse, brush him down and feed him here. There are grooms to do that, and anyway I wouldn’t trust you to do it right, seeing as how this was your first day on a horse!”

Wilson stopped his horse beside the Sergeant’s, and slid off, holding the reins, copying him. Two grooms came to take the horses from them, and the Sergeant told Wilson, “Follow me. We are going to check in with the duty officer.”

Wilson followed the Sergeant who moved briskly around corners and up stairs until they came to an office. There was a Constable behind the desk, who stood up and said, “Well good evening. If it isn’t Sergeant Cathcart. What brings you here?” Wilson abruptly realized that he had better start remembering and learning names. He had known all the dead people from Dane’s Hamlet since he could remember, but with all the people he was now seeing, he saw the value in learning names. He filed away “Cathcart” and vowed to himself to do better in this respect.

“We need to speak to the duty officer. Please let him know that I am here.”

The Constable got up and knocked on a door behind him, then poked his head through and sat back down. “He’ll be a few minutes, but tell me, who is this young man with you?” Cathcart shrugged and replied, “He’s a witness to a massacre in Dane’s Hamlet. That was the closest settlement to South Pass.”

The Constable blanched. “Raiders, I take it, and through South Pass not Middle Pass. The Argles are getting bold!” This was the first time Wilson had heard a name put to those rough and fearsome men who had killed all but a few young and pretty girls from his village.

The Constable addressed Wilson and asked, “Were you the only survivor?”

Wilson nodded his head slowly and replied, “I think they took a few young girls with them, but otherwise yes.”

The Constable gave Cathcart a knowing nod. Moments later, the door opened and a voice said, “Send in Sergeant Cathcart.”

The officer of the day, a Lieutenant Bain, was swift and to the point. He simply held out his hand. Cathcart gave him the letter from the Constable in Joman’s Crossing and Bain read it in silence to the end. He leant back in his chair and gave a sigh, “I expect the Count will want to retaliate.”

Cathcart nodded and said, “Surprised if he didn’t.”

The Lieutenant turned to Wilson, who was lurking behind Cathcart, and said, “The Count will want to talk to you at breakfast tomorrow. If you can get up in time, it’s at 7. Meanwhile, I will get you someone to show you where to eat, bathe and sleep.” He gave a shout, “Gorgy!”

Moments later, a boy about the same age as Wilson came in the door and said, “Yes sir.”

The Lieutenant told him, “Take this boy, Wilson, to the refectory, then the bathhouse and then show him the guest bedroom at the end of the north corridor.” They exchanged meaningful glances. “Stay with him. I don’t want him to get lost.”

Gorgy pulled Wilson’s sleeve, and said, “Let’s go, you must be hungry!”

An hour and a half later, Wilson was shown to his room. It was a small room, but it was much more luxurious than anything else he had ever slept in. There was a bed! A table and a chair! A chest for his clothes and a pitcher of water, and wonder of wonders, a chamber pot. Its use was something Gorgy had to explain to him.

“Here I am at last, in a comfortable bed, well fed and maybe tomorrow I will meet my real father.” With those happy thoughts Wilson fell fast asleep.

After a long and untroubled night, Wilson woke up. He took a few moments to luxuriate in the comfort of a bed with clean linen, no bugs and a smooth mattress. He didn’t really want to move at all until he remembered Lieutenant Bain’s comment that he would see the Count at breakfast - if he could make it by 7! Regretfully, he eased his eyes open slowly. It was pitch black. Wilson knew that there was a window in the room, and quite a large one at that. He had even looked out of it and seen a couple of trees. There should be some light even if it was just starlight, but there wasn’t. Wilson eased himself upright. That was a huge mistake. Bolts of pain shot through his thighs and a dull ache pervaded his rear end. He collapsed back, an action not wholly without pain either. He thought, “It wore off, and I must have continued to abuse my body. The Sergeant must have been laughing his head off.” He slowly moved his legs, and the excruciating pain told him that he had better do something about the pain or he would be lying in bed all day in the dark, unable to move. He brought his Will to bear, thought about the pain and how he needed it to be gone. Mercifully, and wonderfully, it went. He cracked a smile and thought, “Progress! Now I can tackle the darkness!”

He now thought, “I know I went to sleep immediately. Perhaps there is some sort of curtain that a servant drew after I collapsed.” Wilson put his feet to the floor and slowly edged his way around the room looking for the window. There wasn’t one. There wasn’t a door either, nor the chest, table or chair. The room seemed a lot smaller too. At least the bed was havthe bedstill there, so Wilson sat back down on it and took a couple of deep breaths. Nothing was going to happen unless he made it happen. “This has to be some sort of a test. Can I make it to breakfast on time? Or do I just starve to death in the dark?” He lay down again and started thinking. “First things first. How about some light?” So Wilson opened his eyes and thought, “Give me some light!” He tried to recall when he was much younger and afraid of the dark, and a candle appeared, sitting happily on top of a table that moments ago had not been there. Wilson was much encouraged and now turned his thoughts to getting out of the room and down to breakfast. “There has to be a way out.” He thought. “It has to be something easy. After all, they don’t want a hole blasted in the wall, although it might be very easy for them to fix it.” After a while he gathered his thoughts and concentrated them on, “I wish I knew how to get out of this!” And then suddenly he did! He went over to a patch on the wall and touched three bricks in order. Instantly, he was back in the room he had gone to sleep in, just a few hours earlier.

Wilson opened the door and found a page outside. He asked the page, “Can I please get some clean clothes, and then can you escort me to breakfast?” He guessed that was why the page was outside the door in the first place.

Minutes later, he was dressed in clothes better than any he had worn before, and looked almost as if he belonged. In reality, it was just the feel of clothes that were actually clean that gave him the confidence to stand upright while he walked along. He followed the page to a room with a single long table set for many. There was already a scattering of people, all men, eating. He was taken to a chair next to one end and told to wait. Sitting there waiting, he had the time to look at the other people there and guess what they did. Most were probably soldiers. Officers, he corrected himself, but one or two seemed to be a lot softer, so he tagged them as clerks or administrators. There was no one seated near him so he didn’t get involved in any conversations, nor could he pick any up. He waited. After what seemed like quite a long time, he heard a noise as many men came into the room together and sat down all around him. There was one man to whom they all deferred who came to the end of the table next to where Wilson was waiting. Wilson involuntarily stood up such was the charisma and authority that emanated from him.

“You must be Wilson. Glad to see you made breakfast in time!” He observed as he sat down. Now servers came and asked the new arrivals, starting with the man in authority whom he presumed was the Count, what they wanted. The Count appeared to be a much younger man than Wilson had imagined. He was tall, looked very strongly built and had a blond beard which did little to disguise the fact that he looked no older than thirty. The Count turned quietly to Wilson, and said, “Just tell them what you want, and they will bring it.”

There was a short busy period as the servers buzzed around bringing food and drinks. When everyone was served, the Count raised his voice to those nearby and motioned Wilson to stand, “This boy is the only survivor of a raid on Dane’s Hamlet. I have already read a detailed report on the incident, and some of you have seen it as well. This is a chance to ask him any questions.” Wilson hardly had a chance to eat anything as he was bombarded with questions of all sorts relating to the incident. Eventually Wilson resorted to making them wait while he chewed his food before answering. If he had had the time to look, he would have seen the Count suppressing a smile. After the questions and food petered out, the Count stood up and said, “This boy will be my new apprentice.” Turning to Wilson, he said, “Come with me.”

Wilson followed the Count, and shortly thereafter he found himself sitting alone with only a desk between him and the Count. “I expect you have a lot of questions!” Wilson nodded mutely as the Count continued, “Do you have any idea what being my apprentice means?”

Wilson stood and said, “I was apprenticed to a wheelwright back in my village. He worked me hard and I tried to learn what he knew. I suppose this will be something like that.”

The Count tilted his head back and smiled. “Just like that only worse. Yours will be an apprenticeship that will last a lot longer than if you were to be a wheelwright. I will work you harder than you can possibly imagine and I will most likely end up killing you!”

At this statement, Wilson let out a little gasp and asked, “You will work me to death?”

“No. I will simply kill you if you do not turn out the way I want.” The Count smiled what Wilson thought was a slightly evil smile, and then continued, “Now is your chance to back out. I can have your talent removed and settle you with another wheelwright.” Wilson closed his eyes briefly, then looked back at the Count, caught his eye and said, “I came here to have a place with my father. I have no idea who he is or even if he is still alive. I don’t want to throw away my ‘talent’ before I know much about it, so even if you do kill me it will be a lot more interesting than making and repairing wheels.”

The Count let out a breath, and said, “Good, because I wouldn’t have let you do that anyway. Your talent is too valuable to waste. I am leaving today on a raid to retaliate for the one on your village and I may be gone a few days. You will be left with a tutor who will teach your letters and your numbers. The only thing you can use your talent for while I am away is to help you understand what you are being taught.” The Count caught and held Wilson’s gaze.

“Come with me over here,” The Count said as he stood up and walked through to the next room. “You need a new name. Wilson is just too obvious. It should be something simple.” The Count put his hand on Wilson’s shoulder, and said, “You are now “Art”. Do you think you can remember that?”

Wilson/Art looked back at the Count, and said, “I was told that my father might give me a new name when I first met him.”

The Count grabbed Art and pushed him in front of a mirror, and then stood beside him. “Look!” Barring the beard they looked very alike. “You probably never saw a mirror before did you? Any other questions, Art?” Art numbly shook his head. “Oh, Art, one last thing; if I ever think you are using your talent to take advantage of any girl, I will turn you into one. You see, I like daughters! Understood?”

5

Art sat down numbly for a moment. The Count called for a page, but not very loudly. Instantly, a young man came in, and the Count said to him, “Dano, this is Art. He is now my apprentice and a member of my household. Take him to Quorn and ask him to arrange a bed, some more clothes and lessons with Master Simvil, starting as soon as he can arrange it.” The Count turned to Art and told him, “I will see you when I get back.”

Things were by now moving at a rate that was beginning to overwhelm Art. It was a challenge trying to come to terms with all the changes in his life. He was assigned a bed in a room with three other bou sys. Since one turned out to be Gorgy, Art assumed that the others would be of a similar age. He had been issued clothes which he stored in the room, and now looked forward to some free time as he did not have to start lessons until the next day.

He went wandering around, being careful not to get into anyone’s way. He saw the stables, watched some soldiers leave with the Count, and generally tried to familiarize himself with his new but temporary home. Then just as he thought he should lie down while he had the chance, he heard a shout behind him of, “You, boy, come here.”

Conditioned as he was from being apprenticed to a wheelwright, he automatically turned around and started running towards the voice, which proved to belong to a big man with a black beard, “Here I need your help.” The man thrust a large sack into his hands, and said, “Follow me.” They went down to the kitchen, back up and down again five or six times until they were finished. It was hard work. The man turned to Art and said, “I don’t know you, but you look familiar.”

“I am Art,” he replied hastily biting off the urge to say Wilson. “I am new here.”

The man stretched his face out into a wide grin, “That’s how I caught you then!” he said, “See that little crest on your shoulder, the fox!” Art looked around, pulling his jerkin so he could see it better. There was a little fox. “That makes you part of the Count’s household, and its location tells everyone you are an apprentice. You are fair game for anyone who needs help with anything. Apprentices have a habit of being scarce most of the time! I am Jack, or big Jack sometimes. Now, run away before anyone else catches you!”

Going back to his shared room, Art found Gorgy and two other boys. The new boys gave him a slow appraisal and said, “You look like the Count, but without the beard.”

Gorgy put in, “I wonder why?”

Art countered, “It doesn’t matter if I look like him, I still had to carry six sacks of vegetables from the courtyard to the kitchen pantry just now for Big Jack. I am the same as you, an apprentice, and I know a lot less than you or I wouldn’t have been caught! I am Art, and I would be from Dane’s Hamlet if there was anything left of it. Everyone in my village except me and a few pretty girls were killed three days ago.”

One of the new boys looked at the other and said, “That’s why the Count went raiding today then!”

The boys smiled at Art, and said, “He is Evan.”

“And he is Orman.”

“Good to know you,” they chorused.

Gorgy said, “Forgive them, they’re twins.” He followed with, “I’d better show you around then.”

“You had better show him some good hiding places too!” Evan added.

The next morning, Art was woken by Evan giving him a shake. He remembered his experience of the day before, and gingerly experimented by moving a leg. Agony it wasn’t. Uncomfortable and distracting, definitely. He thought of ‘curing’ himself, but after trying to muster the Will to do it for a few moments, he realized that it really wasn’t that bad, so he gave up trying. Climbing down from his bunk made him think for a moment that he had been an idiot, but that movement, and the process of washing and dressing himself eased things up enough that he had a smile on his face when Orman showed him to the apprentices breakfast room. That smile had vanished by the time he had climbeuste had cd all the stairs to Master Simvil’s room.

Master Simvil seemed to be a kindly, older man and his behaviour suggested him to be not a little bit eccentric. Art sat down rather uncomfortably at the lone desk in the dusty office, and spent a few moments arranging his legs and backside. He had decided not to wish the pain away as he thought it might be just as easy to warm up his muscles, and hope the pain would go away on its own. It hadn’t yet, but it was tolerable. Master Simvil bumbled around. He appeared to be totally scatterbrained. He asked himself questions and then answered them himself. Eventually when he had managed to tell himself where the books he needed for the day were kept, he sort of settled down.

“Why is this old man nervous?” Art asked himself. Because of course Art was.

Master Simvil placed two books in front of Art, opened one, and asked, “Can you read anything off this page?”

His reply, “No, not a thing,” was from Master Simvil’s point of view a very discouraging response.

“Oh dear, we’ll have to start from the very beginning then!” Master Simvil murmured to himself. Art then started learning the absolute basics of reading and writing. He found it hard going, to the obvious distress of Master Simvil. On the third morning Master Simvil said, “You are not making the progress that the Count expects. He told you specifically you could use your talent to help you learn, yet it seems you haven’t. He said I could tell you that if you couldn’t reach a level that satisfies me in a week, that he would paralyze you until you did.”

“What does ‘paralyze’ mean?” Art asked with some trepidation.

“It means that your legs won’t work.”

Art sat silently digesting this snippet, and after a short period of reflection asked Master Simvil, “I don’t know what to wish for, what do you suggest?”

“I am not an expert on this but I have taught several children like you. Wishing for your memory to retain what I tell you might work. Wishing to know it won’t.”

Art pondered a moment and then observed, “I wished to know how to get out of that funny bedroom, and that worked.”

Master Simvil commiserated, “Sorry, that was different. The room was primed to show the answer to any strong use of the Will. Try wishing to remember, and we’ll see how it goes.”

Art sat back in his chair and wondered, “How do I do this?” So Art thought about not being able to move his legs. This was sufficiently frightening to give him a bit of motivation so, thinking of the consequences, he fervently wished to be able to remember his lesson, and while he thought of it, he also wished to keep his attention from wandering. After a minute he sat back up and told Master Simvil, “I tried something, but I don’t know if it’ll work until we start, so we’d better start.”

They started another session of simply learning the alphabet and putting together simple words. Things seemed to be going a lot better, and by lunchtime Art was reading simple sentences. Master Simvil was pleased, so he said, “Now I want to see you write something.” Art was given a stylus and a slate and asked to copy the letters. The result was ghastly. Art had never written anything before, and his letters were crawling all over the place like drunken spiders.

“You need to give yourself a bit of help here, I think,” observed Master Simvil. Master Simvil got out another o tout anobook and said, “Here are the letters, and here is what they should look like when they are written. See if you can copy them exactly. Wish to be able to do so first, and remember you’ll be paralyzed if you don’t!”

Art concentrated on the thought of being paralyzed and said a few moments later, “Let me try again now.” He tried, but it was all still indecipherable. Master Simvil walked over to a drawer, pulled out a foot long knife and said, “If you don’t get it together, I am going to start cutting your fingers off your left hand one by one!” He then lurched across the room and made a stab for Art’s left hand. Art got up and started retreating down the corridor while Master Simvil followed him waving the knife and shouting.”If you can get it on this try, I won’t cut anything off!”

As Art reached the top of the stairs, he willed himself mightily to be able to copy the letters and then said, “Let me try again.”

Master Simvil gave an evil smile and said, “Good luck!” He stood over Art running his finger up and down the blade hopefully. Fortunately for Art, this time it seemed that he had managed to spell himself adequately. Master Simvil ended up sitting happily while suggestively fondling the knife. By the time they heard a distant bell announcing supper, Art had progressed quite acceptably and was writing whole sentences. Master Simvil put the knife away.

Later that evening, Art returned to his shared room. The twins followed him in, and asked him about his day. He immediately recounted what had been, for him, the most memorable event of the day. “Master Simvil chased me out of the room and down the corridor waving a huge knife. It was very frightening.” Both the twins fell about laughing saying, “That knife is blunt, he couldn’t cut paper with it!” Art deflated and started laughing with them.

Next day, Art arrived early, looking forward to learning with Master Simvil. He was actually waiting when Master Simvil arrived. “My, you are keen! Let’s see what you remember from yesterday.” Art sat down in his place and picked up his stylus hopefully, while Master Simvil told him what to write. It was immediately apparent that he had forgotten everything from the day before. Master Simvil went crazy. He shouted, “You lazy bastard, what sort of a useless spell did you put on yourself yesterday?” He strode to the drawer, and took out a different knife saying, “This is a sharp one, look!” Simvil brought the knife down on a nearby chair, and it cut straight through the chairback. Art quailed as Simvil followed up with, “You have one minute to remember everything from yesterday, or this’ll cut off more than a finger!” Simvil edged towards Art who by now had retreated fearfully towards the door, but found it had been locked. Simvil suddenly raised his knife and plunged it towards Art. Immediately one of the books from Simvil’s desk appeared on Art’s chest to take the brunt of the blow while Art was knocked back against the door.

Master Simvil shrugged and said with a smile, “Well that was an improvement, wasn’t it? Get the knife out of the book, and we’ll see if your memory was scared back.”

Art, who was shaking, carefully worked the knife out, put the book back on the desk, and stumbled over to the drawer to put away the knife. His memory turned out to be back, and things went well from then on. Master Simvil called it a day a little earlier than usual, and said, “Art, you did pretty well today, but I need you to do a couple of quick chores for me.”

Art replied, “Of course, I’m an apprentice and that’s what I’m supposed to do.”

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Art brought a worried smile to his face and said, “Any suggestions?”

Simvil held the book up and said, “This is an old book, it knows how it should look, you just need to nudge the parts together again.” Five unsuccessful minutes later Simvil suddenly grabbed a cane from behind the desk and slashed it down one inch from Art’s fingers, shouting, “Do it now!” Master Simvil then reached for the book and said, “Oh, nice job! Now do the
same with my chair.”