The Wheelwright's Apprentice (9 page)

13

They continued along the track, and before long they came to a fair sized town. “Just follow me,” the Count told the others, “We are going to a very nice inn, where they are expecting us.”

A few more minutes riding brought them to a very grand building, with a tunnel running through it. The Count motioned them through, and they came to a very clean, well appointed courtyard, one side of which was flanked by a smart stable block.

The group was immediately greeted by an extremely obsequious fellow, who said very happily, “My Lord Farnham, how nice it is to see you again! Welcome back to the The Merchant’s Rendezvous.”

Grooms were all over them in an instant. Art was helped off his horse almost before he knew it, and was told, “Your master’s baggage will be delivered to your suite.”

Art was by now so inured to sudden changes that he simply fell in behind the Count and followed as the obsequious fellow directed them to their rooms.

The accommodations that they were assigned were not palatial, but they were a whole lot better than anything Art had ever seen. In no time, all their baggage had been brought up, and they were all making themselves comfortable.

Once Art had put up their possessions as bes ^p> lo tht he could, the Count told him to sit and listen. “I am actually a merchant in this guise,” he told him. “I do a lot of business between these two countries, so I visit here once a year, just to check up on things personally. I have never met the man who runs Hanpo, but I know who he is. Our two countries exchange ambassadors. He is much younger than me, and virtually a novice, so he won’t have any designs in our direction for a long time.”

Art thought for a bit and asked, “Do we have an ambassador to Arglaria too?”

“We have ambassadors to all our neighbouring countries except Arglaria and one other. Ambassadors have to have the Will as they have to be able to communicate with us directly. No one has been willing to go there since the last ambassador was killed. That was fifteen years ago. I think that was around the time the High Priestess started to become a little deranged. She sent his head back. He was one of your brothers.” The Count leant back for a moment as he relived the memory, and then went on, “But today we are here as merchants, so we are going to visit my office.” He then sprang up, and waved Art to follow him.

Art and the Count, with Beech and Arch flanking them, left the hostelry and walked through the town towards the office. On the way, Art noticed that some of the men were carrying something in a leather carry case at their hip. Art had never seen anything like it before, so he asked the Count, “Master, what is the thing I see men carrying at their hips?”

The Count stopped walking, and turned to Art, “This is not the time for an explanation. It is an important difference between the two countries, and I will tell you all about it in private this evening.” They walked in silence for the rest of the way while Art carefully looked around him for other differences. The office turned out to be a huge featureless building with only a sign that read “Southern Spices” on it. They went through a small door into an amazing looking reception area. There were plants, some quite big, scattered around. The carpeting was lush, and there were comfortable chairs.

A tall middle-aged man walked up to them, and greeted them, “My Lord Farnham, so nice to see you again.” He gave a little bow and continued, “We have tea ready in the reception room.” He waved his arm in the direction of a door, and they were all guided through. The room was dominated by a table with snacks upon it. As they sat down around it, another door opened, and a servant brought in two big teapots which he set down at either end of the table.

“I see you are still as efficient as ever, Jorn.” the Count remarked. He then did a round of introductions finishing with, “and this is my son Art. He needs to learn about the family business. I may send him to you for a bit in the future.”

Art sensed a familiar feeling wash over him. It was happening again. His future was being discussed in front of him while he had no say whatsoever. He wished he could do something to influence events, but as the Count had such a strong personality and was so overwhelmingly powerful, Art knew he would have to pick his time and words carefully.

While Art had been drifting with these thoughts, the Count was still speaking, “Of course, he has a lot of other things to learn first, but he is a quick study and can be very helpful.”

Art decided now was the time to say something so he stood up and bowed to Jorn and said, “Whenever I am sent to you, I will do my very best, both for you and my father.” He sat back down abruptly thinking, “
I hope I didn’t overdo it.”
He turned to c>He you a his father and smiled, projecting the hope,
“Was that okay?”
The Count did not react.

A short while later, the Count left with Jorn, and an apprentice came to show Art around. The place was huge, and there were bales of goods neatly packed and arranged all the way to the ceiling. There were ladders on wheels attached to the shelving. He was shown how a pulley and donkey system raised and lowered the goods on pallets. He saw the receiving and loading bay, with all sorts of carts and trolleys. The whole thing was obviously very well organized and ran smoothly. He saw a man come in with an order paper, and not more than three minutes later, it was delivered complete to the loading dock. Art remembered the store back in Dane’s Hamlet. It took the shopkeeper there twice the time to serve a customer who wanted something off the higher shelves. Art was impressed!

That evening, after they had all had a very good meal in a private room, the Count remarked to Art, “You probably have some questions.”

Art thought that was an understatement, but replied only, “You said that you would tell me about those things that I saw some men carrying today?”

The Count sighed and said, “The guns. They were guns, and before you ask what a gun is I should tell you that they are banned in Galland as well as in many of our neighbours. I don’t like guns. Guns shoot a bullet, commonly lead, that can reach a speed of over a mile in a second. They are a very nasty weapon. As a healer you can understand that something moving at that sort of speed can make a real mess of a living body. I also dislike them because they are very noisy.”

Art took a sip from his water glass, and noted, “But you have something else against them too, to ban them?”

“That is something else you will have to work out yourself.” The Count gave a satisfied smile and went on, “When you have the Will, you have to find things out for yourself. No one is going to help someone who is already very powerful get even stronger. Not even a parent!”

Art then asked, “Your business here is much more efficient than anything I have seen before. Where did these ideas come from?”

The Count smiled enigmatically and replied, “Travel broadens the
mind.”

That night, Art tossed and turned in his surprisingly comfortable bed. He should have been able to sleep as it was probably the most comfortable bed he had ever been in, but sleep wouldn’t come. Why the ban? Eventually it came. Guns were particularly dangerous to those with the Will. They could be killed by a head shot from quite a distance. Even Art with his apprentice healing skills could easily heal a wound almost anywhere else, but not with his brains scrambled. Rules and laws were obviously made simply for those with the Will. Having made this discovery he made himself comfortable again, but still sleep eluded him. Why then were they not banned here as well? After a period of time a thought came: did the man in charge here have a foolproof defense against bullets? That moved him to the question: what was it and how did he do it? Eventually Art fell into a troubled sleep where bullets impacted bodies and blood flowed.

The next morning, the Count tumbled Art awake at an early hour. He faced breakfast blearily and had to concentrate to hear what the Count was saying. “Did you sleep well, Art?” was the first thing he noticed.

There was never any point in lying to the Count as he was undoubtedly a very experienced truthreader, so Art just said, “No, I was c her worrying about guns.”

“So what were your conclusions?” the Count asked as he cut up a large sausage.

“I figured out that whoever is in charge around here must think he has a foolproof defense against bullets!”

The Count grunted and replied, “Nothing is foolproof, especially if you are a fool.”

Art took that to mean that the Count thought that the “foolproof defense” was probably not as good as it might be. Art tried to think of what defenses there could be. You couldn’t wish a bullet to miss you as it would have hit before you knew it was coming. What obviously constituted a good defense was something that would kick in while the bullet was still on its way. That would have to be a spell that was set and was always working, rather like the ones that made him remember his lessons. So he could wish for a bullet to miss him. He could also wish for it to return to the sender. Perhaps he might wish for it to melt and then boil away into the air as it was coming. What would work? As he sat there eating his breakfast, Art decided that if he could set his Will so that a bullet coming for him turned around and went back, then he might not have to worry about more bullets. He resolved to try to set it when he had the time. He also wondered what he could use as the motivation to set it.

After breakfast, they all went out again to visit the Count’s office. It was a very nice day, and the streets were full of people. About halfway to their destination, they saw a small crowd and heard raised voices. The voices got louder and more heated, and just as they were passing, Art heard a loud BANG. Art realized that the sound must have come from a gun. He immediately wished that any bullets that came in his direction were returned to the gunman. He hoped that the scare of the sound had been enough to trigger the necessary impetus for it to work. Suddenly there were several more loud bangs. The crowd scattered, and Art, who was by now kneeling on the ground, could see two men lying motionless where the crowd had been. There were also two other men who were wounded. One was limping away and the other was bleeding from his shoulder. He looked around for the Count, but he was alone. Where had they gone? They had been right beside him only seconds before. Art suppressed his anxieties and thought, “They must have run on, so I should follow.”

When he reached the office, he discovered that he was wrong. The Count wasn’t there. He told Jorn what had happened. Jorn was quite relaxed, and said to Art, “Well, you know how things work. As an apprentice you can help us until My Lord Farnham turns up. I am sure it will be soon. A familiar feeling of resignation engulfed Art. Nonetheless the words, “What can I do for you, Master Jorn?” flowed obediently from his mouth.

Very soon thereafter he was at a desk with a ledger copying receipts into it. It was a tedious job that he could have done much faster with the Will, but since the Count told him not to use the Will except where it couldn’t be seen or noticed, he did it the hard way.

Jorn came over to check on him after a while, and after taking a glance at his work, said, “Good job! Your writing is so neat and tidy, it’s almost perfect. I hope My Lord stays away for a while longer.”

Art had a moment of clarity. His writing was too perfect. His Will-enhanced ability to write was actually a dead giveaway to anyone in the know that he had the Will. He just hoped that no one who saw the ledger was sufficiently enlightened to make the connection. He resolved to work something out to make his writing sloppier in the future.

At lunch time, he was called over to a table with Jorn and several other workers. The food was very good, but to Art the conversation was more meaningful.

“Art,” began one of the others, “I heard you saw the shootings while you were coming here?”

“Yes,” he replied, “Well, it was more that I heard them. I don’t think you can see bullets as they move too fast!” This earned a dry laugh from Jorn. “There was a crowd, and there were raised voices. Then I heard a loud bang. I ducked down and when I looked again, I could see better as several people were running away. There were several more shots, and then I could see two men lying on the ground and two others who were wounded. I didn’t hang around after that but came straight here. I had thought Master Farnham had gone on ahead by then.”

He took a big gulp from his water glass, and sat back as another man took over. “Now this is what I heard, and I got it from my sister who works selling flowers in the marketplace. She says it’s all they’re gossiping about. Two men were killed, both shot dead. One of them had three bullets in him, and the other only one. Now here’s the rub. Only one of them had a gun, and he was the one killed by that single bullet.” Here he popped a mouthful of potato in his mouth and drew out the moment. “That one bullet caught him right in the middle of his forehead, and witnesses said that he never pointed his gun on himself.”

Art went cold. There had been stray bullets flying around, witness the two bystanders who had been hit. Had on
e of the stray bullets been coming in his direction? Had his spell worked? Had he in fact killed someone inadvertently? These questions troubled him. As important was another question: would someone guess that a Will adept was involved? He ate the rest of his meal mechanically while churning those thoughts over and over.

14

Later on that day, when it was almost evening, and while Art was still copying receipts, Beech found him. “Art!” he exclaimed, “There you are! I have been looking all over for you. I never guessed that you would be working.”

Art put down his quill, rubbed his wrist and replied, dryly, “You forgot I was an apprentice?”

“No,” Beech said, “I just couldn’t believe you would make yourself available by coming here. We all thought you would take the day off!”

Art stood up, and started putting up the ledger and receipts. “I thought you all had run off here when the gun went off, so I naturally came looking for you, and the rest was six hours of copying.”

Beech gave a small chuckle and told Art, “This is what happened. Whenever the Count hears unexpected gunfire, he automatically transports himself to the nearest safe arrival point. That was the clearing we arrived at when we came here. As his bodyguards, we have to go with him. That all took place in a split second from when we heard the gunfire.”

Art breathed out noisily, “No one thought to let me know.” He did not add “as usual” although the thought was screaming in his mind. He finished, “I am glad that you are all safe at least.”

As they walked slowly back to the hostelry, Art told Beech what had happened after they had vanished. When he finished, Beech said, “I admired the shot to the middle of the forehead. That was stylish!”

“How can you call someone’s death stylish?” Art riposted angrily. He lowered his voice and continued, “That was the first man I killed!”

Beech looked down at him seriously and said, “I expect you will kill many more.”

This was not what Art wanted to hear, so they walked on in silence for a couple of minutes until Art spoke again, “I was worried that someone might guess that the Will was involved. I don’t want to make any problems for My Lord Farnham.”

A minute or so later, they passed the scene of the shooting. Art automatically turned and looked at where the corpses had fallen, and when he did, a fat middle aged woman wearing a well worn dress and a much used scarf, excitedly exclaimed, “I think that boy was here this morning, I’m sure I saw him walking past.” When Art looked up, he saw that she was talking to someone dressed a bit like the Constables back home.

The man turned to Art, and said loudly and authoritatively, “Hey boy, yes you there, come here now.” Both Art and Beech walked over, and the man went on, “Well boy, did you see the shootings this morning?”

Art nodded his head and replied, “Yes sir, I did.”

“In that case, I would like you to come with me. There is someone who would like to ask you some questions.”

Beech took control of the situation, and told Art, “It’s alright. Go with the Guardian, and I will tell your father where you are.” Turning to the Guardian, he said, “I am going to tell the boy’s father where he is, so that he can come for him. Where are you taking him?” The reply was an address that was meaningless to Art, but was obviously known to Beech. Turning back to Art, he said, “This man is a Guardian. That is the same as a Constable. Go with him and help them as best you can.”

The Guardian walked Art to a squat square building about five minutes away, whose facade was very plain and utilitarian. Inside, the Guardian showed him into an even plainer room, with only a desk and two spartan chairs glowering forlornly at each other from either side. After a couple of minutes, a woman wearing a similar outfit to the Guardian came in, smiled and said, “I am Junee, and I have to ask you a few questions. They are routine ones, for our records.”

Art nodded his head and replied, “I will help you as much as I can.” The questions were routine; name, age, occupation, parents, their occupation, where he lived and so on.

When he gave “Lord Farnham” as his father, the woman’s attitude changed, and she became nicer and smiled more. After those few questions, she left saying, “Please wait here. Someone else will be by in a few minutes; would you like something to drink while you are waiting?” Clearly the Count in his guise as Farnham was well known and respected.

Art thanked her and asked for tea, which was delivered very quickly. He mentally thanked his father for the courtesy he was now being extended, as he desparately needed it to calm himself down.

Back at The Merchant’s Rendezvous, Beech was telling the Count, “...and I told him to go with the Guardian. Do you think that will be alright? I didn’t want to say or do anything out of the ordinary as it would have drawn more attention.”

“No, you did the right thing. Art is a smart kid and I am sure he will be able to get past any questions easily, even if he is brought before a truthreader.”

“You think highly o khinpast anyf him, don’t you?” Beech asked.

The Count thought for a bit before he spoke and then said, “I like him. He is smart, has adapted remarkably well and has learned a lot. That little trick he managed by returning the bullet into the man who shot it at him was pretty fast thinking, so I am sure he’s worked out a lot of things already. I am going to have to watch him very closely. He could be very dangerous when he gets older.” The Count interlaced his hands and tipped his head upwards slightly. “We will go and get him in an hour or so. We don’t want anyone to think we’re anxious, do we?”

The Guardian who had first met Art came into the room a few minutes later. This time he was asked to recount what he had seen and heard that morning. Art told the story exactly as he had seen it, stretching the truth twice. The first time was to say that his father and his bodyguards had left the scene as fast as they could, which was of course true. He simply omitted anything about their mode of travel. The other was that when he told the Guardian how scared he had been when he had heard the first gunshot. That time he left out that he may have used that sudden fear to set a spell. He still didn’t know whether it really had been his spell or something else, and he didn’t want anyone to fire bullets at him to find out.

The Guardian took his time writing everything down, and when he had finished, he asked Art, “Please bear with us a few minutes longer. My boss might want a quick word before you go.”

The Guardian guided him into a similar room where a very good looking young man was waiting. He handed over the report, and said, “Everything he said meshes with what we have heard from the other eyewitnesses. He was scared silly hearing a gunshot for the first time, and as soon as he got himself together, he ran off. That’s exactly what any kid his age would have done in those circumstances.”

The young man gave a sigh, and noted, “You are probably right; however, as he says he is Farnham’s son, he is obviously a foreigner, so I had better ask him a couple of questions.”

Art looked up as the young man and the Guardian came into the room. The Guardian told him, “This is my boss. He is called Denefer. He just wants to ask you a couple of things and then you will be free to go.” The Guardian left the room, leaving them alone.

Art’s mind was in a whirl. Since Denefer looked young but was in authority over a much older, competent man, he probably had the Will, and had simply made himself younger. The odd fact that he had been introduced without any title only made Art more certain. If he had the Will, Denefer was almost certainly a truthreader. Art had been told not to let anyone know that he or any of the others had the Will. He was in a quandary. He was sufficiently agitated and frightened that he was confident that he could set a spell on himself to appear to be telling the truth. The problem he saw almost immediately was that an experienced truthreader would almost certainly be able to detect something so simple. He resolved to tell the truth and only worry if he was backed into a verbal corner. All this flashed across his brain as he appraised Denefer who was, of course, appraising him as well.

“You are called Art, aren’t you?” Denefer began, smiling disarmingly. Art thought that was simply a sighting question so as to better truthread him. He gave a small nod of agreement, so Denefer straightaway continued, “Your father is the spice trader Farnham?”

Art saw that this was a safe question, so with a guileless smile agreed, “Yes, he is my father.”

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Denefer read that as true, probed slightly further and asked, “What do you do for your father, and what are you doing in Hanpo?”

Here were two slightly more ambiguous questions so Art carefully answered, “He has made me his apprentice, and when you are an apprentice, you can be called upon to do almost anything. As for being here in Hanpo, my father is considering sending me here to learn more about the family business, and this trip is a bit in the way of familiarization.” Again not the whole truth, but what had been said was all very true. Again these answers were read as true.

Denefer stood up and looked down at Art. Intimidating with a somewhat more penetrating look, he played his best card, “I am sorry I am asking so many questions, but we are puzzled by the fact that one man, the man with the only visible gun, was shot dead with a perfect headshot slap in the middle of his forehead. Did you know that?”

Art did a manful job of keeping his face still, and replied, “I heard about it while I was having lunch at the spice business. One of the guys there has a sister who works in the marketplace. I guess she loves gossip.” Denefer saw that this was all true as well. He glanced at Art as if asking him to continue so Art did. “I thought everything was strange. Today was the first time I had heard a gun fired. It was a very scary experience; after all, I did not even know they existed until yesterday!”

Denefer breathed out a long sigh. Everything the boy had told him was totally truthful. He had not helped at all so he told Art, “Thanks very much. You are free to go, I am sorry to have kept you.”

Art was led out to the entrance lobby where the Count was waiting. When he saw his father, he said, “I am sorry for troubling you, Master.”

The Count smiled and gave Art a hug, something he had never done before. He then turned to Denefer, and greeted him familiarly, “Master Denefer, thank you for looking after my son.”

Denefer replied, “He did the best he could to help. He is a fine boy.” The Count and Art turned to leave, but just as they got to the door, Denefer made a final throw. “One last thing Art, what do you know of the Will?”

Art kept his composure and, facing Denefer, he chuckled and replied, “A lot less than most people, I think!” He then walked straight out of the door with his father. Denefer had tried his best but had nothing on Art as that had been the truth too!

A couple of minutes later, when they were well away, and there was no one near them, the Count remarked, “Denefer had to have read your statement about knowing less than most about the Will as the truth, or you would never have walked away so easily. When you know more, you are going to be very interesting to know. Of course you could have bamboozled him somehow, but if that were the case I would have to keep a very close watch on you indeed.

Art thought about that for several paces and then said, “I simply told the truth. I thought he would be experienced enough either to be able to detect or see through anything I could do with the Will.” When his father did not reply, he continued, “I think the clincher was when I told him I had never even heard of guns before yesterday. Knowing that was true relaxed him a lot. All in all I was very lucky you know. If he had asked any of a number of questions like, ‘Do you have the Will’, or ‘Did you kill the man with the gun?’ I don’t know what I would have done!”

The
Count smoothed down his hair with his hands and then said in a sol ksaijust emn matter of fact way, “Denefer is well over two hundred years old and is a very good truthreader. To have survived his questioning was more than a fair performance, you did well.”

Art managed a small smile and they both happily strode on.