The Wheelwright's Apprentice (5 page)

7

Later that evening, Art walked back from supper with Evan and Orman, “I hear you started martial training today. What did you learn?” Evan asked.

Before Art could reply, Orman butted in with, “Did you wield a sword, bow, knife or something else?”

Art shrugged and said, “I wish! Today was hellish and boring. All I did were exercises. I ran more laps on the practice field than I could count. I did exercises that I have no name for that made my stomach hurt. I lifted weights until my arms turned numb and I never came near any weapon of any sort. I think it will be the same tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that too.”

“Don’t worry about that day, that’s the day we go back to the Count’s main residence in the City. His City is called Red City.”

Art frowned, “What sort of a name is that for a City? Does it mean anything?”

The twins chorused the reply, “We have no idea what it means.”

“And we have no idea how the City got its name,” added Evan.

“It’s been Red City for over five hundred years so I don’t really expect it matters what it means!” put in Orman.

They arrived at their room to find Gorgy lounging on his bunk. As soon as he saw Art, he asked, “What magic did you learn today?”

Art smiled sweetly and said, “I learned how to destroy things. I also blew a huge hole in the wall of Master Beech’s workroom. I am going to sleep now.” So saying he took off his clothes, put on his nightshirt and got into his bunk. He turned back to the others and said, “Wish me a good night. I am going to need it.”

A few minutes later when Art was snoring softly, Evan whispered, “What’s up with him?”

Gorgy answered, “I am surprised he can function at all. His whole life was ripped apart less than a fortnight ago. He is confused, frightened, exhausted and bewildered, and you know what the worst is?” The twins shake their heads, “He has no friend he can talk to. In fact he may even be wondeme ring if he will ever have any friends, any real friends who want his company for him and not for what he can do for them. Right now he is very lonely.”

Orman piped up, “How can you know that?”

Gorgy was silent for a moment and then slowly replied, “I’ll let you guess. I think I’ll turn in too.”

Three days later, Art woke to a rough shake on the shoulder, and a loud, “Get up now, you lazy apprentices. If you don’t get to the kitchen now, you won’t get breakfast.” He looked out of the window. It was pitch black outside. Time for them to help prepare for the long journey back to the Count’s seat of Red City. After packing their few belongings, they had to help pack the carts with the baggage belonging to the Count and his other retainers. They were rushed from one task to another, being worked mercilessly by first one frazzled Master after another, all making sure that nothing they needed was left behind. Grabbing a quick half loaf each and a flagon of milk for breakfast the boys were lucky to find the five minutes they needed to eat. Several hours later when the sun was well up, everyone was ready. The boys stowed their stuff in a covered wagon and were looking forward to making up the lost sleep that they had missed earlier.

Art had made himself comfortable in the wagon that held his and the other apprentice’s possessions, and was beginning to drift off when there was a loud bang on the side of the wagon, followed by a rasping shout. “Apprentice Art, are you here?” Art jumped up, poked out his head and saw a man leading a horse. “Are you Art?” he asked.

“Yes?” was Art’s rather querulous reply.

“Then you are riding. This horse is called Maple, and she is easy to ride. Just don’t pull on too hard on her bit.” Art climbed down and asked, “Where am I supposed to ride?”

The laughing reply was, “Anywhere with the riders that you like, except not within a furlong of the Count unless you’re invited. Take good care of Maple, and don’t forget her bit!”

Minutes later, Art found himself alone in the middle of the hurly-burly of activity, not knowing exactly what he should do. He tried to remember what little he knew about horses. He was so confused that he didn’t think he could Will his memories out, so he carefully thought his way through. “Don’t let go of the reins!” was the first thing he remembered. Slowly he started talking to Maple, rubbing her neck and nose. Then he checked her saddle and girth. He mounted carefully, and then slowly walked her over to a small group of riders who were moving out, and followed them. The saddle was way more comfortable than the one he sat on coming here from Horseford. He may not have been able to nap like the others, but it was a wonderful day at the moment. This was the first chance he’d had to be alone and think for a few days, and he happily ambled along behind the rest admiring the views and contemplating events. There was a lot to think through, so he just let his thoughts drift in the expectation that the most pressing issues would present themselves first.

Hours passed. Before he knew it, the others had stopped to give the horses a rest, a drink and oats, and for them to have lunch. He dismounted and walked Maple to a stream where other horses were drinking, and watched while one of the soldiers unpacked a nosebag already filled, and gave it to his horse. The soldier pulled a packet from a saddlebag and started eating. Art examined his saddlebags and found food for both Maple and himself, so when Maple had finished drinking, he sat down close to her and they both ate in a companiable silence. Throughout thein roughou long ride no one had approached him and he’d had a lot of time to think. He was lonely, but he felt he would make friends eventually, so he saw that as a temporary problem. His big problem was the Will. What was happening? What was his future? More importantly, what had the Count in mind for him? This reverie was ended when he noticed everybody saddling up to go on. After a few minutes, he re-established his position as a solitary rider.

This didn’t last long, as an officer in a smart uniform rode back to him, and said, “Are you apprentice Art?” After Art nodded, the officer continued, “Ride with me. The Count wants to speak to you.”

The twin emotions of relief and worry flowed through Art’s mind as he started to trot with the officer. “Perhaps I will learn a bit more, or maybe he has heard how I blew out the wall by mistake.” After that he stopped thinking. He would find out soon enough.

They trotted past all manner of riders, soldiers in groups, hangers on and the no doubt vitally important administrators as well as those anonymous people who had the Will. Eventually they came up to the Count who was riding in the fore.

“Art! There you are, come up and ride beside me,” the Count shouted. When Art had drawn his horse up beside the Count’s, he noticed that the others fell back so as to give the Count a measure of privacy. “You must have a lot of questions,” he began.

Art looked over at the Count and replied, “Honestly I have more than I can think of, but first how should I address you?” The Count returned his gaze and said, “I made you my apprentice, which means I am your master, so use ‘Master’.”

“Thank you, Master. Now what can I do for you?”

“I want to use your talents to make this little kingdom a better place to live. Exactly how is another question, but we need to learn a bit more about you first.”

“So Master, can you tell me about the raid?” The Count turned somber and answered, “You need to know. It’s part of your education.” He edged his horse closer. “First you need know a bit about our neighbouring Kingdom of Arglaria. You should by now have realized that I am the strongest Will wielder in this country. Arglaria also has a strong Will wielder. She is called Aravia, or more commonly, High Priestess Aravia. She has been around just a few years fewer than I have so I know her very well. Although I am just Count here, and we have a King, I control this country completely. The Kings tend to be the first targets if a foreign Will wielder comes here trying to take over. Being a step or two away from the throne is a better long term strategy for me. The Kings here have pretty good administrative skills that I have had bred into them over the centuries. They do a great job, but the real power is mine. In Arglaria, it is Aravia’s. Every seven years or so she sends a raiding party over the border, commonly in fifth month. That’s why I visit the fort in fifth month. She wants to see if I am still alive and whether I can still retaliate. I always do, or she will send a bigger raiding party.” He coughed and took another angle. “Aravia likes to have her goddess worshipped by men. Men who pay a big sum for the privelige. If they are really good looking, Aravia will let them worship her goddess through her. Lately, she has started acting a bit irrationally. That is one of the drawbacks of a very long life; in the end, sanity starts to crumble. With Aravia, I needed to make an emphatic statement, so I went to the nearest temple and destroyed it completely, along with all the priestesses and anyone who got in our way. That is what she understands. Hopefully, it will be longer than seven yearsnow seven before the next raid.”

Art thought, “He must have killed hundreds as well, without remorse. Is that what powerful people must do?” Then out loud, changing the subject quickly, he asked, “Can you really turn me into a girl?” The Count looked over at him and drew his horse even closer. “I can, but you would be imperfect. You would look like a girl, but you would be unable to have babies, and you would still think like a man. What’s more, you would be able to change yourself back eventually, unless you found you liked it!”

Art blushed furiously. “No chance of that!” was the reply that came with more vigor than he intended.

Art was quiet for a while, and eventually it was the Count who broke the silence, “Anything else you want to know?”

“The only thing that is urgent is I would like to know what you have in mind for me next?”

The Count sighed, “There is so much for you to learn and do. Even I do not know where we should start with you. You have done very well so far, so I think you’ll do well. I think a stint in the temple learning healing would be good, but there are so many other things you need to learn. Mostly you have to discover things about yourself, and that is something most people try not to learn. I believe you are fifteen. You are only fifteen once. Enjoy what little is left of your childhood. I wasn’t too keen to grow up and you shouldn’t be!”

Two days later they came to the Count’s capital of Red City. Art had seen a bit more acceptance, and had been talking with quite a few others since his talk with the Count. He noticed coming into the City that the Count seemed quite popular and even stopped to talk with some people as they rode past. He observed the City. It was clean. It was tidy. It didn’t smell. Everything was arranged neatly, but he saw nothing red to name the City. Their goal was a palace that looked nothing like the fort. It was really just a huge, well appointed house with no fortifications at all. Art thought, “No one has ever tried to attack the Count here.”

There had been only one other big building that they had passed, and he had been told that that was the Temple. “The Temple to whom?” he had asked.

“The Temple of Healing,” had been the simple reply. The Temple had been big, but it wasn’t exactly impressive. Art recalled his talk with the Count and remembered, “High Priestess Aravia.” He thought she would probably want something awe inspiringly impressive, but here in Red City, the Temple was simply utilitarian.

The next day, Art reported to that self same temple with a letter in his hand, addressed to the head healer-priest. An acolyte led him to a vestibule to wait, which he did. It gave him the time to settle himself, and get used to the idea that healing was his next skill to learn. In the end, the head healer-priest was a young and friendly man, who looked vaguely familiar. “Sit down brother,” was the first thing he said. He then paused and went on, “Welcome to the Temple, I hear you have a letter for me.” Art got up and stretched across the big old desk between them, and handed it over. He read the letter quickly and then, smiling, stood up and proffered his hand. “Art, I am Grammon, and we are brothers. Half brothers that is. I guess you saw the resemblance!”

“I suppose I should ask how many brothers and sisters I have, and nephews and nieces too.”

Grammon stretched and said, “Lots, at least by normal reckoning, but as far as I know, you’re the youngest. You’ll meee oYou’lt them all eventually, but we need to talk about you today. You’re going to be an apprentice healer, but first you have to learn anatomy, that means you will start in the morgue tomorrow.”

Art swallowed, then went pale and asked, “Isn’t that where we store dead people?”

Grammon’s immediate rejoinder of, “Well if we let you cut up the live ones they would probably complain!” didn’t make Art feel any better.

“I have to cut up bodies?” Art asked nervously.

“Well of course you do! You have to know how the body is supposed to look inside as well as outside, if you are to heal it properly.” Grammon could see Art looking rather ill, so he said, “You’ll get used to it, I did. Actually you can get used to pretty much anything. After all the time I have been around I should know.”

“Do I really want to get used to some things?” Art asked himself. “And are there worse things than cutting up bodies that I might have to get used to?”

Grammon rang a little bell on the desk, and a young man dressed in a basic shirt and pants outfit came in. “This is Raym. He will get you suitable clothing and show you where everything is. Raym, this is Art. He needs the grand tour and clothing suitable for a morgue apprentice. Introduce him to Garmgo too.” Art then had a whirlwind tour ending up in the mortuary. Garmgo was a short slim man of indeterminate age, but lots of energy.