The White Robe (21 page)

Jarrul shook his head. “No, fighting is not the answer. What we need to do is tell our version of the story before Andron does.”

Malingar jumped up and turned on Jarrul ready to defend his point, but Tarraquin held up her hand to stop them. “Gentlemen, you are both right. What we need is help from those who know that I am the rightful queen and I don’t think we are going to get that by sitting around here arguing amongst ourselves.”

“What we need are envoys,” put in Lord Istan. “They used to come to Sarrat’s court from time to time and he was obliged to listen to them. He even agreed to their proposals on rare occasions and he always treated them with the utmost respect to their face, if not behind their back.”

The queen nodded in approval. “That’s a good idea. We could put our case and ask each of the kingdoms to provide a small force against any insurrection until I have secured my throne. That way no one kingdom would be tempted to invade for fear of upsetting the others and Andron could easily be contained. What do you think?”

The others nodded cautious ascent. “Who will you send?” asked Jarrul.

“Why, you of course, along with Lord Istan.” She smiled at Malingar. “You have connections in Northshield, don’t you?”

“Yes, My Lady. I would be pleased to present your request to King Borman.”

“And you, Lord Istan?”

“My house and the royal house of Essenland have had close ties for generations and Prince Pellum and I have hunted together on a number of occasions. I would be happy to go there and then on to Vinmore.”

“Jarrul, can you manage Tarbis?”

“I’m no diplomat, My Lady, and besides which, if we all go who will be here to advise you.”

“I have faith in you, Jarrul, and don’t worry about advice. Haven’t I just appointed a council, including Guildmaster Jobes?” She looked at Istan accusingly and gave a small laugh. “That’s settled then. With the exception of Sandstrone, which I don’t think would be pleased to see any of you; my three special envoys will seek support from the six kingdoms.  Good luck my friends.”

“I think we are going to need it,” muttered Jarrul to himself.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Acolytes

“No! No! No! Haven’t you learnt anything in the twenty summers you have lived in this land of magic?”

The Master of Magic, a small round man with the face of a cherub flicked Jonderill around the ear with his thin, whippy wand making a sound like the snapping of a twig and making Jonderill jump. The brief strike didn’t hurt, or at least the first one hadn’t but after half a dozen such assaults, his ear was starting to feel tender and the irritable flick felt like the sting of a buzzing insect. That wasn’t what hurt though; it was the humiliation of being an utter failure.

After a complete moon cycle of instruction, cajoling and threats he still hadn’t been able to move a single wine berry on the table in front of him at all, let alone from one side of the table to the other. Now his humiliation was complete as the wavering ball of elemental fire at the end of his fingers spluttered and went out leaving the candle, he was trying to ignite, unlit. Behind him he could hear the small group of acolytes whisper amongst themselves and snigger at his failure. This time the master didn’t bother to silence them but just stood with his hands on his hips and glared at Jonderill.

“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time on you, boy. Even these fools can control elemental fire and move small objects around and they are just ungifted boys. Why the High Master believes you to be anything more than an ignorant peasant beats me. Now try again. Use what little bit of a brain the goddess has given you and concentrate on rolling that wine berry across that table.”

Jonderill took a deep breath and stared at the wine berry but the wine berry remained where it was. He raised his wand and pointed at the wine berry and concentrated on its roundness and how easy it would be for it to roll across the table, but still it wouldn’t move. Feeling completely foolish he leant forward and put the tip of his wand a fraction from the smooth red skin and muttered the words he’d been taught under his breath but still nothing happened.

“Louder!” commanded the Master of Magic; flicking his wand once more into the side of Jonderill’s ear.

“Damn it!” shouted Jonderill bringing his wand down on top of the wine berry, splitting the skin and squashing it messily into the table top. “I’ve had enough of this and enough of you too.”

He threw the wand on the floor and barged past the surprised master almost knocking him to the ground. The others watched in stunned silence as Jonderill threw open the door of the instruction room and slammed it shut behind him. For a moment there was silence and then the small group of acolytes burst out into excited conversation.

“Silence!” commanded the Master of Magic as he straightened his robes that Jonderill had knocked askew. “You will leave now and you will say nothing of this disgraceful exhibition to anyone, do you understand?”

The acolytes nodded and meekly trouped out of the room under the stern eye of the master without saying a word.

“There’s not much hope that they’ll keep that incident to themselves, is there?” said a voice from behind the master.

He jumped in surprise and turned and bowed. “I regret not, High Master. You saw what happened?”

“Only the last few moments, but I assume that the rest of the time he has spent with you has been equally unproductive?”

“The boy’s an idiot. I’ve spent a moon cycle trying to teach him the basics of magic but he lacks concentration, his enunciation is peasant and his movements are as coarse as a muck digger. He’s only fit to be a servant and a lowly one at that.”

High Master Razarin wandered slowly around the room thoughtfully touching the array of objects that the Master of Magic used in his lessons. “And yet the blessed goddess favours him?”

“Perhaps the goddess is mistaken.”

“Perhaps, but Callabris too saw something in the boy.”

The master shrugged. “Since the death of his brother, Callabris searches for a replacement. The boy has green eyes but that is where the similarity ends. Believe me, Jonderill is definitely not another Coberin.”

“You may be right but I don’t think we should give up on Jonderill just yet.” He smiled at the Master of Magic as he studied a wooden bowl full of squashed red fruit. “I think you need to buy yourself some more wine berries.” He pushed the bowl into the hands of the astonished master and left by the same hidden door which he’d used to enter the room a short time before.

Jonderill had marched out of the House of Learning slamming every door behind him and stamped across the carefully manicured lawns until he reached the main roadway through the city. From there he turned away from the goddess’s temple and the buildings where the acolytes lived and followed a lesser road. It brought him to Smith’s Square where he took the second exit under an archway, turned around the corner of a building and stomped loudly up the wooden stairway which led to the collection of small rooms above the Armsmaster’s Inn.

As usual, the outside door was unlocked and the inside hallway was unlit, so he slipped inside and in the dark, counted down four doors until he found his room. He retrieved the iron key from the pouch at his belt, let himself in and locked the door behind him. Breathing heavily he stood in the dark room with his eyes closed. When his breathing had slowed and he’d stopped shaking with anger and frustration he opened his eyes, held out his hand in front of him and produced a steady flame at the end of his fingers which he used to light the small oil lamp at the side of his bed.

Slowly and with deliberate care, he pulled his grey robe over his head, rolled it into a tight ball and dropped it into the empty slop bucket in the corner. Equally as carefully he picked up the oil lamp and dropped it on top of his robe taking a hasty step back as the glass shattered and the flame caught. The spilt oil from the broken lamp flared up and lit the room with a lurid red glow. He sat on the edge of his bed in his small clothes and watched the conflagration until the flames had died down.

Yesterday he’d tried to rip the robe apart with his knife and had even hacked at it with his sword, but apart from it being a bit crumpled around the sleeves, the robe was undamaged. The day before that, he’d thrown it out of the window into the pathway of a passing squad of armsmen. The squad leader had returned it to him, apologising that it was slightly dusty but one good shake had removed any trace of boot marks. He looked at the bucket and decided he didn’t want to see what effect the oil and the flames had on the thing.

A knock on the door made him look up but he decided to do nothing about it; after his complete and utter failure to produce any trace of magic and his display of temper he really didn’t want to be lectured by some pompous master or goaded by a gloating acolyte. It was their mocking which had driven him out of his luxurious suite of rooms on his first day at the Enclave. He’d found the small inn hidden down an alleyway in the craftsmens’ quarter by accident after stumbling around the city in the dark for several candle lengths.

After he’d drunk a second tankard of ale, he had realized that he had left his coin pouch behind, but fortunately the innkeeper had believed him when he said he could pay for his drink, room and food but had left his belongings elsewhere. Just to make sure though the innkeeper had provided him with the pot boy to help him find his way back to the acolyte’s quarters so he could collect the few things he owned. His new room was small and cramped and the single window opened onto a steaming middin heap but it was his, or at least it was until his coins ran out.

The knock came at the door, louder and more insistent this time but he continued to ignore it. He’d promised High Master Razarin that he would stay for a moon cycle which should have been a long enough time for him to learn how to defend himself on the road, but so far all he had done was pretend to be a magician so others could laugh at him. His attempts at moving things had been a waste of time and his efforts at opening locked doors had all ended in failure. He’d tried enhancing his senses and constructing simple enchantments to refill empty goblets but nothing worked.

The only thing which had been vaguely successful was when he had tried to command others without speaking and then Sansun had arrived outside the House of Learning, hot and lathered having almost demolished the stall in which he’d been stabled. For a moment the knocking at his door increased in intensity and then abruptly stopped. He listened to the shuffle of feet outside the door of his room and then the sounds of footsteps walking away and finally being silenced as his visitor let himself out the outside door.

Jonderill gave a sigh of relief and produced a bright ball of light which he placed in the air just above his shoulder. He’d given the High Master and the others the moon cycle which he’d promised them. In that time he’d tried his best to be what they wanted him to be, but it hadn’t worked out so now, as far as he was concerned, he was free to leave. With his decision made he felt better, almost as if a weight had been lifted from him. He also felt hungry and realised that he hadn’t eaten since the night before.

Leaving the ball of light floating above in the air he rummaged in the chest at the foot of his bed for suitable clothing. He ignored the fine shirts and tunics which the master’s had provided and instead pulled out the shirt, breeches and boots which Allowyn had given him. They were a bit crumpled and the shirt had a small hole in it and a blood stain at waist height, but that didn’t matter, at least he would look normal for a change. He strapped on the fine leather belt and went to attach the sword and scabbard but stopped before he picked the sword up. Somehow it didn’t seem right to wear a sword to a peaceful inn when all you were going to do was eat a bowl of stew and down a few pots of ale. He left the sword where it was, snapped his fingers to extinguish the light and made his way down the stairs and around the corner to the door of the inn.

When he went inside the inn the common room was crowded and noisy, and the table in the corner, where he’d sat last night and the night before, was taken by four craft workers with the bulging arms of smiths or arms makers. The tables by the rear wall where you could prop yourself up and watch what was going on in the common room were also taken, leaving just those by the hearth or a few in the centre of the room. He’d tried the ones by the hearth on the first night and had almost roasted as the inn became more crowded and he was pushed closer to the fire. On the other hand he didn’t fancy the ones in the centre of the room either where people jostled and pushed past you to get to the other tables.

He sighed and went to return to his room when the boy who had helped him move into the inn grabbed his sleeve and tugged urgently on it. “Hey! Mister! Me master says ‘e’s got a space over ‘ere fer yer if yer aint bovered ter share the doss wiv some toffs later like.”

The pot boy pulled Jonderill in the direction of an empty table to one side of the bar. “’e says ‘e’s got stew an’ bread if yer want it, an’ some nice Vinmore red which ‘as jus’ come in today.” The boy shoved Jonderill the last few steps to the table and pulled him into a seat. “Now yer stays dossin’ an’ I’lls get yer grub an’ plonk an’ I’lls be back in a tick.”

He sat at the table feeling slightly bemused at being hassled by a slip of a boy but he was right; it was a good spot. The table was round with six chairs surrounding it and a large reserved sign sitting in the middle of it. He shuffled into the chair that was protected by the angle of the wall and the bar, but it gave a clear view of the rest of the room except the furthest most corner. Despite craning his neck around he couldn’t quite make out who was sitting at the corner table and whether they were likely to leave soon so he could move into it.

Clearly the table where he sat was being held back for someone with influence but with any luck he could eat his meal and disappear back to his room with the remains of the wine before whoever it was found him sitting at their table. As if he had read his mind, the boy arrived with a large bowl of steaming stew in one hand and a half flagon of wine in the other. He put them on the table along with a small loaf of bread from under his arm and a clay goblet and wooden spoon from the pocket of his grubby, grey shorts. He gave a gap-toothed grin, a quick salute and scurried back into the crowd.

Jonderill smiled to himself and wiped the spoon and the rim of the goblet on the sleeve of his shirt before attacking the meal. The stew was thick and rich and just spicy enough to make his tongue tingle and his throat burn; he was glad he wasn’t sitting near the fire. He broke open the loaf which was still steaming slightly inside and dipped it into the dark gravy washing it down with the soft, warm wine. For the first time that day he felt that life really was worth living.