Ruins of Gorlan (3 page)

There were other Craftmasters, of course. The Armorer and the Blacksmith were two. But only those Craftmasters who currently had vacancies for new apprentices would be represented today." The Craftmasters are assembled, sir!" Martin said, his voice rising in volume. Martin seemed to equate volume and the importance of the occasion in direct proportion. Once again, the Baron raised his eyes to heaven." So I see," he said quietly, then added, in a more formal tone, "Good morning, Lady Pauline. Good morning, gentlemen."

They replied and the Baron turned to Martin once more. "Perhaps we might proceed?"

Martin nodded several times, consulted a sheaf of notes he held in one hand and marched to confront the line of candidates. "Right, the Baron's waiting! The Baron's waiting! Who's first?" Will, eyes down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, suddenly had the strange sensation that someone was watching him. He looked up and actually started with surprise as he met the dark, unfathomable gaze of Halt, the Ranger.

Will hadn't seen him come into the room. He realized that the mysterious figure must have slipped in through a side door while everyone's attention was on the Craftmasters as they made their entrance. Now he stood behind the Baron's chair and slightly to one side, dressed in his usual brown and gray clothes and wrapped in his long, mottled gray and green Ranger's cloak. Halt was an unnerving person. He had a habit of coming up on you when you least expected it-and you never heard his approach. The superstitious villagers believed that Rangers practiced a form of magic that made them invisible to ordinary people. Will wasn't sure if he believed that-but he wasn't sure he disbelieved it either. He wondered why Halt was here today. He wasn't recognized as one of the Craftmasters and, as far as Will knew, he hadn't attended a Choosing session prior to this one.

Abruptly, Halt's gaze cut away from him and it was as if a light had been turned off. Will realized that Martin was talking once more. He noticed that the secretary had a habit of repeating statements, as if he were followed by his own personal echo." Now then, who's first? Who's first?" The Baron sighed audibly. "Why don't we take the first in line?" he suggested in a reasonable tone, and Martin nodded several times.

"Of course, my lord. Of course. First in line, step forward and face the Baron."

After a moment's hesitation, Horace stepped forward out of the line and stood at attention. The Baron studied him for a few seconds. "Name?" he said, and Horace answered, stumbling slightly over the correct method of address for the Baron.

"Horace Altman, sir… my lord."

"And do you have a preference, Horace?" the Baron asked, with the air of one who knows what the answer is going to be before hearing it.

"Battleschool, sir!" Horace said firmly. The Baron nodded. He'd expected as much. He glanced at Rodney, who was studying the boy thoughtfully, assessing his suitability. "Battlemaster?" the Baron said. Normally he would address Rodney by his first name, not his title. But this was a formal occasion. By the same token, Rodney would usually address the Baron as "sir." But on a day like today, "my lord" was the proper form.

The big knight stepped forward, his chain mail and spurs chinking slightly as he moved closer to Horace. He eyed the boy up and down, then moved behind him. Horace's head started to turn with him." Still," Sir Rodney said, and the boy ceased his movement, staring straight ahead.

"Looks strong enough, my lord, and I can always use new trainees. "He rubbed one hand over his chin. "You ride, Horace Altman?"

A look of uncertainty crossed Horace's face as he realized this might be a hurdle to his selection. "Well… no, sir. I…" He was about to add that castle wards had little chance to learn to ride, but Sir Rodney interrupted him.

"No matter. That can be taught." The big knight looked at the Baron and nodded. "Very well, my lord. I'll take him for Battleschool, subject to the usual three-month probationary period."

The Baron made a note on a sheet of paper before him and smiled briefly at the delighted, and very relieved, youth before him." Congratulations, Horace. Report to Battleschool tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp."

"Yes, sir!" Horace replied, grinning widely. He turned to Sir Rodney and bowed slightly. "Thank you, sir!"

"Don't thank me yet," the knight replied cryptically. "You don't know what you're in for."

"W
ho's next then?" Martin was calling as Horace, grinning broadly, stepped back into the line. Alyss stepped forward gracefully, annoying Martin, who had wanted to nominate her as the next candidate.

"Alyss Mainwaring, my lord," she said in her quiet, level voice. Then, before she could be asked, she continued, "I request an appointment to the Diplomatic Service, please, my lord."

Arald smiled at the solemn-looking girl. She had an air of self-confidence and poise about her that would suit her well in the Service. He glanced at Lady Pauline.

"My lady?" he said.

She nodded her head several times. "I've already spoken to Alyss, my lord. I believe she will be an excellent candidate. Approved and accepted."

Alyss made a small bow of her head in the direction of the woman who would be her mentor. Will thought how alike they were-both tall and elegant in their movements, both grave in manner. He felt a small surge of pleasure for his oldest companion, knowing how much she had wanted this selection. Alyss stepped back in line and Martin, not to be forestalled this time, was already pointing to George.

"Right! You're next! You're next! Address the Baron."

George stepped forward. His mouth opened and closed several times, but nothing came out. The other wards watched in surprise. George, long regarded by them all as the official advocate for just about everything, was overcome with stage fright. He finally managed to say something in a low voice that nobody in the room could hear. Baron Arald leaned forward, one hand cupped behind his ear.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that," he said.

George looked up at the Baron and, with an enormous effort, spoke in a-just-audible voice. "G-George Carter, sir. Scribe school, sir."

Martin, ever a stickler for the proprieties, drew breath to berate him for the truncated nature of his address. Before he could do so, and to everyone's evident relief, Baron Arald stepped in." Very well, Martin. Let it go. "Martin looked a little aggrieved, but subsided. The Baron glanced at Nigel, his chief scribe and legal officer, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Acceptable, my lord," he said, adding, "I've seen some of George's work and he really does have a gift for calligraphy."

The Baron looked doubtful. "He's not the most forceful of speakers, though, is he, Scribemaster? That could be a problem if he has to offer legal counsel at any time in the future."

Nigel shrugged the objection aside. "I promise you, my lord, with proper training that sort of thing represents no problem. Absolutely no problem at all, my lord."

The Scribemaster folded his hands together into the wide sleeves of the monk like habit he wore as he warmed to his theme.

"I remember a boy who joined us some seven years back, rather like this one here, as a matter of fact. He had that same habit of mumbling to his shoes—but we soon showed him how to overcome it. Some of our most reluctant speakers have gone on to develop absolute eloquence, my lord, absolute eloquence."

The Baron drew breath to comment, but Nigel continued in his discourse.

"It may even surprise you to hear that as a boy, I myself suffered from a most terrible nervous stutter. Absolutely terrible, my lord. Could barely put two words together at a time."

"Hardly a problem now, I see," the Baron managed to put in dryly, and Nigel smiled, taking the point. He bowed to the Baron.

"Exactly, my lord. We'll soon help young George overcome his shyness. Nothing like the rough and tumble of Scribeschool for that. Absolutely."

The Baron smiled in spite of himself. The Scribeschool was a studious place where voices were rarely, if ever, raised and where logical, reasoned debate reigned supreme. Personally, on his visits to the place, he had found it mind-numbing in the extreme. Anything less like a rough and tumble atmosphere he could not imagine.

"I'll take your word for it," he replied, then to George he said, "Very well, George, request granted. Report to Scribeschool tomorrow."

George shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Mumble-mumble-mumble," he said and the Baron leaned forward again, frowning as he tried to make out the low-pitched words.

"What was that?" he asked.

George finally looked up and managed to whisper, "Thank you, my lord." He hurriedly shuffled back to the relative anonymity of the line.

"Oh," said the Baron, a little taken aback. "Think nothing of it. Now, next is…"

Jenny was already stepping forward. Blond and pretty, she was also, it had to be admitted, a little on the chubby side. But the look suited her, and at any of the castle's social functions, she was a much sought-after dance partner with the boys in the castle, both her yearmates in the Ward and the sons of castle staff as well.

"Master Chubb, sir!" she said now, stepping forward right to the edge of the Baron's desk. The Baron looked into the round face, saw the eagerness shining there in the blue eyes, and couldn't help smiling at her.

"What about him?" he asked gently and she hesitated, realizing that, in her enthusiasm, she had breached the protocol of the Choosing.

"Oh! Your pardon, sir…my…Baron…your lordship," she hastily improvised, her tongue running away with her as she mangled the correct form of address.

"My lord!" Martin prompted her. Baron Arald looked at him, eyebrows raised.

"Yes, Martin?" he said. "What is it?" Martin had the grace to look embarrassed. He knew that his master was intentionally misunderstanding his interruption. He took a deep breath, and said in an apologetic tone, "I… simply wanted to inform you that the candidate's name is Jennifer Dalby, sir."

The Baron nodded at him, and Martin, a devoted servant of the heavy bearded man, saw the look of approval in his lord's eyes. "Thank you, Martin. Now, Jennifer Dalby…"

"Jenny, sir," said the irrepressible girl, and he shrugged resignedly. "Jenny, then. I assume that you are applying to be apprenticed to Master Chubb?"

"Oh, yes, please, sir!" Jenny replied breathlessly, turning adoring eyes on the portly, red-haired cook. Chubb scowled thoughtfully and considered her." Mmmmm… could be, could be," he muttered, walking back and forth in front of her. She smiled winningly at him, but Chubb was beyond such feminine wiles.

"I'd work hard, sir," she told him earnestly.

"I know you would!" he replied with some spirit. "I'd make sure of it, girl. No slacking or lollygagging in my kitchen, let me tell you." Fearing that her opportunity might be slipping away, Jenny played her trump card.

"I have the right shape for it," she said. Chubb had to agree that she was well rounded. Arald, not for the first time that morning, hid a smile." She has a point there, Chubb," he put in, and the cook turned to him in agreement." Shape is important, sir. All great cooks tend to be… rounded." He turned back to the girl, still considering. It was all very well for the others to accept their trainees in the wink of an eye, he thought. But cooking was something special.

"Tell me," he said to the eager girl, "what would you do with a turkey pie?"

Jenny smiled dazzlingly at him. "Eat it," she answered immediately. Chubb rapped her on the head with the ladle he carried. "I meant what would you do about cooking it?" he asked.

Jenny hesitated, gathered her thoughts, then plunged into a lengthy technical description of how she would go about constructing such a masterpiece. The other four wards, the Baron, his Craftmasters and Martin listened in some awe, with absolutely no comprehension of what she was saying. Chubb, however, nodded several times as she spoke, interrupting as she detailed the rolling of the pastry.

"Nine times, you say?" he said curiously and Jenny nodded, sure of her ground.

"My mother always said: 'Eight times to make it flaky and once more for love,'" she said. Chubb nodded thoughtfully.

"Interesting. Interesting," he said, then, looking up at the Baron, he nodded. "I'll take her, my lord."

"What a surprise," the Baron said mildly, then added, "Very well, report to the kitchens in the morning, Jennifer."

"Jenny, sir," the girl corrected him again, her smile lighting up the room.

Baron Arald smiled. He glanced at the small group before him. "And that leaves us with one more candidate." He glanced at his list, then looked up to meet Will's agonized gaze, gesturing encouragement.

Will stepped forward, nervousness suddenly drying his throat so that his voice came out in barely a whisper.

"Will, sir. My name is Will."

"W
ill? Will who?" Martin asked in exasperation, flicking through the sheets of paper with the candidates' details written on them. He had only been the Baron's secretary for five years and so knew nothing of Will's history. He realized now that there was no family name on the boy's papers and, assuming he had let this mistake slip past, he was annoyed at himself.

"What's your family name, boy?" he asked severely. Will looked at him, hesitating, hating this moment.

" I… don't have…" he began, but mercifully the Baron interceded.

"Will is a special case, Martin," he said quietly, his look telling the secretary to let the matter go. He turned back to Will, smiling encouragement.

"What school did you wish to apply for, Will?" he asked.

"Battleschool, please, my lord," Will replied, trying to sound confident in his choice. The Baron allowed a frown to crease his forehead and Will felt his hopes sinking.

"Battleschool, Will? You don't think you're… a little on the small side?" the Baron asked gently. Will bit his lip. He had all but convinced himself that if he wanted this badly enough, if he believed in himself strongly enough, he would be accepted-in spite of his obvious shortcomings.

"I haven't had my growing spurt yet, sir," he said desperately. "Everybody says that." The Baron rubbed his bearded chin with thumb and forefinger as he considered the boy before him. He glanced to his Battlemaster.