Magician (20 page)

Pug sought to take the advantage and
swung a wild, roundhouse blow at Roland’s head. Roland dodged
back as Pug swung completely around, then the squire jumped forward,
his left hand snapping out, catching Pug on the cheek, rocking his
head back with a stinging blow. Pug stumbled away, and Roland’s
right hand missed Pug’s chin by a fraction.

Pug held up his hands to ward off
another blow and shook his head, clearing it of the dancing lights
that obscured his vision, barely managing to duck beneath Roland’s
next blow. Under Roland’s guard, Pug lunged, catching the other
boy in the stomach with his shoulder, knocking him down again. Pug
fell on top of him and struggled to pin the larger boy’s arms
to his side. Roland struck out, catching Pug’s temple with an
elbow, and the dazed magician’s apprentice fell away,
momentarily confused.

As he rose to his feet again, pain
exploded in Pug’s face, and the world tilted once more.
Disoriented, unable to defend himself, Pug felt Roland’s blows
as distant events, somehow muted and not fully recognized by his
reeling senses. A faint note of alarm sounded in part of Pug’s
mind. Without warning, processes began to occur under the level of
pain-dimmed consciousness. Basic, more animal instincts took hold,
and in a disjointed, hardly understood awareness, a new force
emerged. As in the encounter with the trolls, blinding letters of
light and flame appeared in his mind’s eye, and he silently
incanted.

Pug’s being became primitive. In
his remaining consciousness he was a primal creature fighting for
survival with murderous intent. All he could envision was choking the
very life from his adversary.

Suddenly an alarm rang within Pug’s
mind. A deep sense of wrongness, of evil, struck him. Months of
training came to the fore, and it was as if he could hear Kulgan’s
voice crying, “This is not how the power is to be used!”
Ripping aside the mental shroud that covered him, Pug opened his
eyes.

Through blurred vision and sparkling
lights, Pug saw Roland kneeling a mere yard before him, eyes
enlarged, vainly struggling with the invisible fingers around his
neck. Pug felt no sense of contact with what he saw, and with
returning clarity of mind knew at once what had occurred. Leaning
forward, he seized Roland’s wrists. “Stop it, Roland!
Stop it! It isn’t real. There are no hands but your own at your
throat.” Roland, blind with panic, seemed unable to hear Pug’s
shouts. Mustering what remaining strength he possessed, Pug yanked
Roland’s hands away, then struck him a stinging slap to the
face. Roland’s eyes teared and suddenly he breathed in, a
gasping, ragged sound.

Still panting, Pug said, “It’s
an illusion. You were choking yourself.”

Roland gasped and pushed himself back
from Pug, fear evident on his face. He struggled weakly to pull his
sword Pug leaned forward and firmly gripped Roland’s wrist.
Barely able to speak, he shook his head and said, “There’s
no reason.”

Roland looked into Pug’s eyes,
and the fear in his own began to subside. Something inside the older
squire seemed to break, and there was only a fatigued, drained young
man sitting on the ground. Breathing heavily, Roland sat back, tears
forming in his eyes, and asked, “Why?”

Pug’s own fatigue made him lean
back, supporting himself on his hands. He studied the handsome young
face before him, twisted by doubt “Because you’re held
under a spell more compelling than any I could fashion.” He
looked Roland in the eyes “You truly love her, don’t
you?”

The last vestige of Roland’s
anger slowly evaporated and his eyes showed some slight fear
remaining, but also Pug saw deep pain and anguish as a tear fell to
his cheek. His shoulders slumped and he nodded, his breath ragged as
he tried to speak. For a moment he was on the verge of crying, but he
fought off his pain and regained his poise Taking a deep breath,
Roland wiped away the tears and took another deep breath. He looked
directly at Pug, then guardedly asked, “And you?”

Pug sprawled on the ground, feeling
some strength returning. “I . . . I’m not sure. She makes
me doubt myself. I don’t know. Sometimes I think of no one
else, and other times I wish I were as far from her as I could be.”

Roland indicated understanding, the
last residue of fear draining away. “Where she’s
concerned, I don’t have a whit of wit.”

Pug giggled. Roland looked at him, then
also began to laugh “I don’t know why,” said Pug,
“but for some reason, I find what you said terribly funny.”
Roland nodded and began to laugh too. Soon they were both sitting
with tears running down their faces as the emotional vacuum left by
the fleeing anger was replaced by giddiness.

Roland recovered slightly, holding back
the laughter, when Pug looked at him and said, “A whit of wit!”
which sent both of them off on another kag of laughter.

“Well!” a voice said
sharply. They turned and found Carline, flanked by two
ladies-in-waiting, surveying the scene before her. Instantly both
boys became silent. Casting a disapproving look upon the pair as they
sprawled upon the ground, she said, “Since you two seem so
taken with each other, I’ll not intrude.”

Pug and Roland exchanged looks and
suddenly erupted into uproarious laughter. Roland fell over backward,
while Pug sat, legs stretched before him, laughing into his cupped
hands. Carline flushed angrily and her eyes widened With cold fury in
her voice she said “Excuse me!” and turned, sweeping by
her ladies. As she left, they could hear her loudly exclaim, “Boys!”

Pug and Roland sat for a minute until
the near-hysterical fit passed, then Roland rose and extended his
hand to Pug. Pug took it and Roland helped him to his feet. “Sorry,
Pug. I had no right to be angry with you.” His voice softened.
“I can’t sleep nights thinking of her I wait for the few
moments we’re together each day. But since you saved her, all I
ever hear is your name.” Touching his sore neck, Roland said,
“I got so angry, I thought I’d kill you. Damn near got
myself killed instead.”

Pug looked at the corner where the
Princess had disappeared, nodding agreement. “I’m sorry,
too, Roland. I’m not very good at controlling magic yet, and
when I lose my temper, it seems all sorts of terrible things can
happen. Like with the trolls.” Pug wanted Roland to understand
he was still Pug, even though he was now a magician’s
apprentice. “I would never do something like that on
purpose—especially to a friend.”

Roland studied Pug’s face a
moment and grinned, half-wryly, half-apologetically “I
understand I acted badly You were right: she’s only setting us
one against the other I am the fool. It’s you she cares for.”

Pug seemed to wilt. “Believe me,
Roland, I’m not so sure I’m to be envied.”

Roland’s grin widened. “She
is a strong-willed girl, that’s clear.” Caught halfway
between an open display of self-pity and mock-bravado, Roland
selected mock-bravado.

Pug shook his head. “What’s
to be done, Roland?”

Roland looked surprised, then laughed
loudly. “Don’t look to me for advice, Pug I dance to her
tune more than any. But ‘there are as many changes in a young
girl’s heart as in the fickle winds,’ as the old saying
goes. I’ll not blame you for Carline’s actions.” He
winked at Pug conspiratorially. “Still, you won’t mind if
I keep an eye out for a change in the weather?”

Pug laughed in spite of his exhaustion.
“I thought you seemed a little too gracious in vour
concessions.” A thoughtful look came over his face “You
know, it would be simpler—not better, but simpler—if
she’d ignore me forever, Roland. I don’t know what to
think about all this. I’ve got my apprenticeship to complete.
Someday I’ll have estates to manage. Then there’s this
business with the Tsurani. It’s all come so quickly, I don’t
know what to do.”

Roland regarded Pug with some sympathy.
He put his hand upon the younger boy’s shoulder. “I
forget this business of being apprentice and noble is all rather new
to you. Still, I can’t say I’ve given too much time to
such weighty considerations myself, even though my lot was decided
before I was born. This worrying about the future is a dry sort of
work. I think it would be benefited by a mug of strong ale.”

Feeling his aches and bruises, Pug
nodded agreement. “Would that we could. But Megar will be of a
different mind, I’m afraid.”

Roland placed his finger alongside his
nose “We shan’t let the Mastercook smell us out, then.
Come on, I know a place where the boards of the ale shed are loose.
We can quaff a cup or two in private.”

Roland began to walk away, but Pug
halted him by saying, “Roland, I am sorry we came to blows.”

Roland stopped, studied Pug a moment,
and grinned. “And I.” He extended his hand. “A
peace.”

Pug gripped it. “A peace.”

They turned the corner, leaving the
Princess’s garden behind, then stopped. Before them was a scene
of unalloyed misery. Tomas was walking the length of the court, from
the soldiers’ commons to the side gate, in full armor—old
chain mail over gambeson, full helm, and heavy metal greaves over
knee boots. On one arm he bore a heater shield, and in the other hand
he held a heavy spear, twelve feet long and iron-tipped, which bore
down cruelly upon his right shoulder. It also gave him a comic
appearance, as it caused him to lean a little to the right and wobble
slightly as he struggled to keep it balanced while he marched.

The sergeant of the Duke’s Guard
stood counting out cadence for him. Pug knew the sergeant, a tall,
friendly man named Gardan. He was Keshian by ancestry, evident in his
dark skin. His white teeth split his dark, nappy beard in a grin at
the sight of Pug and Roland. He stood nearly as broad in the
shoulders as Meecham, with the same loose-gaited movement of a hunter
or fighter. Though his black hair was lightly dusted with grey, his
face was young-looking and unlined, despite thirty years’
service. With a wink at Pug and Roland, he barked, “Halt!”
and Tomas stopped in his tracks.

As Pug and Roland closed the distance
between them, Gardan snapped, “Right turn!” Tomas obeyed
“Members of the court approaching. Present arms!” Tomas
extended his right arm, and his spear dipped in salute. He let the
tip drop slightly too low, and nearly broke from attention to pull it
back.

Pug and Roland came up to stand next to
Gardan, and the large soldier gave them a casual salute and a warm
smile. “Good day, Squires.” He turned to Tomas for a
moment. “Shoulder arms! March post march!” Tomas set off,
marching the “post” assigned to him, in this case the
length of the yard before the soldiers’ commons.

With a laugh, Roland said, “What
is this? Special drills?”

Gardan stood with one hand on his
sword, the other pointed at Tomas. “Swordmaster Fannon felt it
might prove beneficial to our young warrior if someone was here to
see his drilling didn’t become sloppy from exhaustion or some
other petty inconvenience.” Dropping his voice a bit, he added,
“He’s a tough lad; he’ll be fine, if a little
footsore.”

“Why the special drilling?”
asked Roland. Pug shook his head as Gardan told them.

“Our young hero lost two swords.
The first was understandable, for the matter of the ship was vital,
and in the excitement of the moment such an oversight could be
forgiven. But the second was found lying on the wet ground near the
pell the afternoon the Elf Queen and her party left, and young Tomas
was nowhere in sight.” Pug knew Tomas had forgotten all about
returning to his drilling when Gardell had come with the hood for his
fire pot.

Tomas reached the end of his appointed
route, did an about-face, and began his return. Gardan regarded the
two bruised and dirty boys and said, “What have you two young
gentlemen been up to?”

Roland cleared his throat in a
theatrical fashion and said, “Ah . . . I was giving Pug a
fist-boxing lesson.”

Gardan reached out and took Pug’s
chin in his hand, turning the boy’s face for inspection
Evaluating the damage, he said, “Roland, remind me never to ask
you to instruct my men in swordplay—we couldn’t withstand
the casualty rate.” Releasing his hold upon Pug’s face,
he said, “You’ll have a beautiful eye in the morning,
Squire.”

Changing the topic, Pug said, “How
are your sons, Gardan?”

“Well enough, Pug. They learn
their craft and dream of making themselves rich, save for the
youngest, Faxon, who is still intent on becoming a soldier next
Choosing. The rest are becoming expert cart-wrights under my brother
Jeheil’s tutelage.” He smiled sadly. “With only
Faxon at home the house is very empty, though my wife seems glad for
the peace.” Then he grinned, an infectious smile that rarely
could be viewed and not answered. “Still, it won’t be too
long before the elder boys marry, and then there’ll be
grandchildren under foot and plenty of merry noise again, from time
to time.”

As Tomas drew near, Pug asked, “May
I speak with the condemned?”

Gardan laughed, stroking his short
beard. “I guess I might look the other way for a moment, but be
brief, Squire.” Pug left Gardan talking with Roland and fell
into step beside Tomas as he passed on his way to the opposite end of
the court. “How goes it?” Pug asked.

Out of the side of his mouth, Tomas
said, “Oh, just fine. Two more hours of this and I’ll be
ready for burial.”

“Can’t you rest?”

“On the half hour I get five
minutes to stand at attention.” He reached the terminus of his
post and did a reasonably sharp about-face, then resumed walking back
toward Gardan and Roland. “After the fire-pot cover was
finished, I came back to the pell and found the sword missing. I
thought my heart would stop I looked everywhere I almost thrashed
Rulf, thinking he had hidden it to spite me. When I returned to the
commons, Fannon was sitting on my bunk, oiling down the blade. I
thought the other soldiers would hurt themselves holding in the
laughter when he said, ‘If you judge yourself skilled enough
with the sword, perhaps you’d care to spend your time learning
the proper way to walk post with a poll arm.’ All day walking
punishment,” he added woefully “I’ll die.”