A Wizard In Absentia

CHAPTER 8

The house seemed magnificent to Ian. It was two stories high with a gable above the second story, and half-timbered—the walls outside were very rough plaster, with the great wooden beams of the houseframe showing clearly. The windows were divided into twelve little squares, each filled with glass, real glass, and the door had a metal lock as well as a barlatch. The shop was open, though it was barely past sunrise, so Gar and Ian went right in, and stepped into a heady scent of dye and cloth.

Inside, the house was divided into two rooms. The front was huge, as wide as the house, and square. It was filled with tables, upon which were piled bolts of cloth in all manner of colors and textures. There were velvets, satins, even silks, as well as common broadcloth and monk’s cloth. Gar’s friend was a draper, a cloth-merchant.

The back room, in which they met the merchant Oswald, was much smaller, only twelve feet deep and half the width of the house. It was still quite large to Ian’s eyes, and was Master Oswald’s office. He had a great wooden table for a desk with a counting-frame propped up at an angle, and his most precious bolts of cloth locked in great wooden chests with huge iron padlocks. Master Oswald looked up, surprised, when Gar walked in. Then he saw Ian, coming in behind Gar, and stared, astonished—and, yes, alarmed. He recovered quickly, though, and stood up, arms open in greeting and smiling. “So, you are back so soon, Gar!”

“It was this young fellow who speeded me, Oswald.” Gar clapped Ian’s shoulder. “Meet my new apprentice. His name is Ian Tobinson, and he has agreed to bear my shield, should I have one, and to cook my meals and pitch my tent.”

Ian looked about him, wondering. He had hoped for a home for a little while—but he had scarcely imagined something so grand as this!

“Well, well!” Master Oswald’s gaze swiveled to the boy. “And young enough to have no brand, I see! We shall have to dress him as befits his station.” He frowned. “You’ve apprenticed yourself to a hard trade, my boy.”

Ian felt obliged to say something. He thought quickly and forced out the words: “I am thankful to Master Gar for taking me, sir.”

Oswald smiled, amused, and nodded. “So you should be, my boy. Days of strife are coming for this land. It will be well for a man to know how to use a sword, and you could have no better teacher than Captain Pike.”

Ian looked up at Gar, astonished. He hadn’t known the freelance was a captain!

Oswald cocked an eyebrow at Gar. “Have you fed?”

“Not for hours,” Gar said, grinning.

“Well enough, my lad,” Oswald chuckled, “though you’ve called me an old mother hen often enough.” He thrust back his sleeves. “Naetheless, I think we can fill that belly of yours, even if ‘tis with naught but porridge. Come along.”

He led them down a short flight of stairs, and Ian found himself marveling. This was the second time in his life he had seen such a staircase, the first having been in the Stone Egg. What a fine thing it was to be a gentleman!

They came down into a hall walled with rough plaster. Oswald turned to his right and led them through a narrow door into a kitchen. A lean woman with a sharp chin leaned over a pot, eyes narrowed against the smoke.

“Two more for breakfast, Matilda!” Oswald called. “We would be grateful for the porridge, Matilda,” Gar said. “I have journeyed all night on your master’s business, and the least he owes me is a hearty meal.”

The old cook gave him a gap-toothed smile, which seemed surprising in so severe a face. “Eh, seat yourself, Master Gar. I’ll have your porridge shortly—another pot for me master.” She squinted, peering at Ian. “And who is this?”

“My new apprentice,” Gar said easily. “His old master thought him too quarrelsome to be a weaver.”

Matilda frowned. “A blankshield soldier, taking an apprentice?” She hobbled over to Ian and bent down to peer into his face. Then she grinned again and turned back to her stove, cackling and shaking her head. “Aye, he’s naught but your apprentice, Master Gar! Aye, surely!”

“How now, you old hag!” Gar’s voice was still good-natured. “He is my apprentice, nothing more and nothing less, I say!”

“Aye, aye.” Matilda nodded, stirring her porridge. “Your ‘prentice and nothing more, I’ll be bound, and no reason to take him save to aid a poor weaver who had a ruffian on his hands! Oh, aye, Master Gar! And there is none of your blood in him, as these old eyes can see!”

“Well…” Gar contrived to look embarrassed, and cleared his throat. “You have caught me fairly, Matilda. He is, my, uh, nephew.”

“Oh, aye.” Matilda looked up at him wide-eyed, then nodded wisely. “Bless thee, Master Gar. Oh, how you could have fooled me.”

Ian looked up at Gar in surprise. Could there really be any resemblance between himself and the swordsman?

Then he realized that the cook was old, nearsighted, and probably half-blind, and the resemblance was probably more in her mind than in his face.

Gar squeezed his shoulder, and Ian looked up to see the freelance wink and smile. He grinned back. If the cook believed the story Gar had intended to tell anyway, so much the better.

“Seat yourselves,” Matilda called, tilting the pot and scraping out two huge bowlfuls of porridge. “Sit and eat your breakfast, before it sets.”

They ate in a room just for dining, with Master Oswald—and they ate hugely, with milk and honey on their porridge. Ian could scarcely believe his eyes, or his mouth—milk and honey were for the lords, and thick porridge was only for the gentry! His own breakfast, as long as he could remember, had been only thin gruel.

He ate his fill and a little more, until the bowl was empty; then he sat back with a great sigh and a very full stomach.

Gar looked up and smiled. “Had enough, lad?” Ian nodded and blinked. Suddenly, he felt very sleepy. He yawned hugely, and Gar chuckled. “Aye, I’m beginning to feel the night’s strains a bit myself.” He turned to the cook. “Where shall my nephew doss down?”

“In the attic, good soldier,” the cook answered. “He can fall asleep on a pile of straw, like any other young ‘prentice.” She hobbled over to Ian and scooped him out of the chair, more by gesture than by strength, and ushered him out into the kitchen.

Once there, though, she paused, pursing her lips. “Nay, I think not—the other ‘prentices will be just waking as you’d be lying down. Bad for them, that—give them ideas of laziness, it would. Besides, you’ll need long sleep, after being on the road all night, with Master Gar.” She glanced down at Ian. “You did ride by night, didn’t you?”

Ian wasn’t sure whether or not he should tell her, then realized he couldn’t dissemble much if he were going to sleep during the day. “Aye, mum.”

“So I thought.” Matilda thrust her lower lip out and sucked on her few remaining teeth, considering. “We’ll put you in the pantry for the day. Let me see, now—what stores will I need? A sack of potatoes, another of flour, and two measures of dried pease.” She nodded, satisfied, and pushed him toward the door at the back of the kitchen. “Bring me those, then settle yourself!”

Ian made two trips of it, reflecting that this fetching and carrying didn’t guarantee him a sound sleep. Matilda was bound to think of something she’d forgotten, and come bustling in to fetch it, or to send her scullery maid, if she had one—and she might make a second trip, or a third. Ian determined that he would sleep soundly no matter how much noise she made. He brought the sack of flour last, and could just barely manage it—it was very heavy. Matilda blinked at him, surprised. “Well, then, manikin! Master Gar may make a soldier of you yet!”

But Ian scarcely heard her; he had already turned away to the pantry, nodding. He threw himself down on three huge bags of flour, and was instantly asleep.

Ian was awakened by a loud clatter of dishes and Matilda scolding at her scullery maid. He sat bolt upright, startled by the noise, then realized what it was, smiled, and lay down. The sun was coming in the eastern window; he could only have slept a few hours. He closed his eyes and settled himself for sleep again…

“But how did the boy find the entrance to one of the Safety Bases?”

Ian opened his eyes, surprised. He frowned and looked over the side of his improvised bed. There was a crack between the floorboards; through it, he could see Master Oswald’s bald head. Was there a secret room beneath him? No, surely not, he chided himself—only a very ordinary, and un-secret, cellar. Surely. He heard Gar’s voice rise in answer to the draper: “It must have been an accident. He certainly could not have reasoned out how to open the hatch.”

Ian squirmed. It wasn’t right to eavesdrop. He was sorely tempted, but he resolved to be good. He forced himself to turn over, face away from the crack in the floor, and closed his eyes tight, willing himself to sleep.

However, he might have been willing, but sleep was not, and he couldn’t shut out the voices—nor could he come out into the kitchen after so short a while. What would he say if Matilda asked him what he was doing up and about when he’d been told to sleep? That he was turning away from the voices? When he wasn’t even supposed to know about them?

“How could they have known he was there?” It was Master Oswald’s voice. “They must have, for they came to bring him back.”

“He must have activated the beacon by accident,” Gar answered. “Certainly a boy from this culture would never have figured out a control panel by himself. Serfs can’t even read.”

“True,” Master Oswald rumbled. “Even the freelance who hid there with me couldn’t figure it out, and he was a gentleman, who had had some education, or what passes for it in a medieval culture. But how do you know this boy isn’t a spy from the lords, who does know how to operate such controls?”

Ian stiffened. Could Master Oswald really think such of him? But no—Captain Gar’s voice indicated that by its tone, as he answered. “Possible, of course—but unlikely, since he’s a child. And if he were, why would he have come out before his help arrived?”

“Perhaps he knew it was close.”

Ian could hear the smile in Gar’s voice. “If his help had arrived, why would he have run away with me? No, I’m almost certain he’s a local boy.”

“Almost certain.” Master Oswald pounced on it. “You’re not really sure, then.”

“Quite sure.” Gar was still amused.

“But just in case, we have him where we can watch him.”

So that was why Gar had helped him! A knot twisted itself up in Ian’s belly. Had the freelance aided him only because he did not trust him? “Besides,” Gar went on, “I like the boy.” The knot loosened, a little.

“You’ve taken a liking to him awfully quickly.” Master Oswald growled.

“Amazingly so,” Gar agreed. “Any kid who’s willing to brave the dangers of that forest, and take on a two-hundred-mile walk at his age, just because he wants to be free … well, I’m on his side.”

“So am I,” Master Oswald admitted. “But encumbering yourself with a child could be very foolish. I needn’t remind you how much of a liability he could be, to someone who has to stay on the move—and secretly!”

“Or how much of an asset,” Gar countered. “He knows things about this culture I could only guess at—and I’d trust him a lot further than any adult.”

The knot loosened the rest of the way, and Ian resolved that he would prove Captain Pike right to have trusted him.

“Yes,” Master Oswald mused. “That brings us to why he ran away from home. As to that, I had some news last night, after you had gone. It seems one of Lord Murthren’s serfs had helped his daughter to escape into the forest—just in time, too, because Lord Murthren had noticed her, all too favorably.”

Gar whistled. “The lord himself? The poor lass was in for trouble!”

“A lot,” Master Oswald agreed, “a great deal of trouble. Her father helped her escape, and they whipped him within an inch of his life for it.”

Ian squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw, fighting to keep from crying out, trying to banish the sight of his father lashed to the post.

“Brave man,” Gar whispered.

“Very,” Master Oswald agreed. “He went on to urge his son to run away—when he’d just been taken down from the whipping-post and needed somebody to care for him, he told his son to run away right then, when they’d least expect it. The kid ran—a boy too young to have a brand.”

“And they flogged the father again?” Gar asked. “No, he cheated them. He died first, before they discovered the boy was missing.”

The cellar was very quiet. Ian felt the ache within him expand, hollowing him out; two hot tears forced their way through his clenching eyelids.

“So.” Gar’s voice was soft. “Our young guest really needs a friend.”

“He’s a brave boy,” Oswald admitted, “and an orphan now—the mother had died a while before.”

“You had the news quickly,” Gar said, in tones of respect, “and thoroughly.”

“That’s my job,” Oswald growled.

“Well, I have some information for you, too,” Gar said, “something we very narrowly managed to avoid on the way back here.”

“A troop of soldiers, of course.”

“More than that—Lord Murthren himself.”

“Lord Murthren!” Master Oswald sounded amazed—and, yes, alarmed. “Out hunting a simple serf boy by himself?”

“No, he had a troop with him,” Gar said grimly, “but yes, he was definitely leading them in person. He said something about the boy having violated one of the Secret Places of the Old Ones.”

It was very quiet in the room below. Ian lay very still, and tried not to breathe.

“He couldn’t have known that when the boy escaped,” Master Oswald said.

“No,” Gar said. “So…”

“So he received the distress beacon, too,” Master Oswald snapped, “which means he has a scanner.”

“And knows how to operate it,” Gar pointed out. “Yes.” Master Oswald’s voice had hardened, but began to sound sarcastic now, too. “And, although Lord Murthren is one of the two or three top aristocrats in the land, he’s hacked his way to that position on his own. His father was only a count.”

“Of course,” Gar said, “it’s possible that the King gave him a scanner, and taught him how to use it after he’d become a top counsellor. However…”

“However.” Master Oswald sounded as though he were grinning like a cat, licking cream from his whiskers. “However, he probably inherited the rig from his father, who inherited it from his father—and on and on back.”

“Chances are that it’s probably been there since the colonizing ship landed,” Gar put in.

“Exactly,” Master Oswald grumbled. “And if even a petty count in the backwoods has a scanner and knows how to use it…”

“Probably,” Gar finished, “all the lords do.”

“So that’s one more piece of technological knowledge they’ve kept,” Oswald said, with an air of satisfaction. “Possibly ritualized—you know, you push this button, and then that button, and twist this dial, and the thing does what it’s supposed to do, and they do it as part of their daily duties…”

“The same way that they know how to operate their machine guns and pocket nuclear bombs,” Gar agreed, “and how to make more ammunition. And they’re lucky their ancestors made the blasted things damn near indestructible.”

“They know how to clean them and maintain them, presumably,” Oswald said, “but again, only as a ritual. ‘You must do this and this and this to your machine gun when you waken every morning, or it will fail you when you need it.’ That’s how they know how to make gunpowder, too—just follow the recipe, pour the powder into the casing, and squeeze the bullet in on top.”

“Making brass casings is a strain on a Baroque metalsmith, I’ll agree, but it’s possible, especially with hand-me-down equipment from a high-tech culture,” Gar said, “once he’s been shown how. He wouldn’t understand what he was doing or why, but he could do it.”

“Rimfire,” Master Oswald said. “Who couldn’t? And that’s why the ancestors went to slug-throwers instead of beamers, of course—something just barely within the capabilities of a Baroque society. That’s probably the way they use their safety bases—by rote.”

“Self-repairing,” Gar said, “not that they’d need anything beyond cleaning, hardly any maintenance. Last forever.”

“As they have,” Master Oswald agreed, “or for five hundred years, at least.”

They were silent a moment. Then Master Oswald said suddenly, “Where’s the boy heading, anyway?”

“Castlerock,” Gar said. “So he says, anyway.”

“Castlerock!” Master Oswald was delighted. “No! You mean it? That far in the backwoods, and he’s heard of Castlerock?”

“Heard enough about it to want to go there,” Gar confirmed. “After all, it’s the only place an escaped serf can go and be even halfway safe.”

“So even here, they’ve heard there’s an island off the north coast that serfs have been escaping to for the last dozen years! That campaign is taking very firm hold.”

“Word gets around,” Gar said, “especially among an oppressed population. When virtual slaves hear of an island in the Central Sea where serfs can actually hold off their masters’ armies, it captures the imagination.”

“Hope,” Master Oswald agreed. “Even if they can’t escape, they can hope—for themselves, but even more for their children.”

“Which plants the seed of unrest,” Gar noted, “and which is why the masters have to stamp it out, as quickly as they can.”

“They may have better capabilities than we’ve seen so far,” Master Oswald growled. “If they have scanners, they may have blast-cannon, and fliers. Besides, there’s that slender, very well-contained offplanet trade. What’s to stop them from hiring a merchant captain to land on Castlerock, and burn everyone to cinders with his exhaust?”

“Nothing but his conscience,” Gar said grimly. “Are our men working on the captains?”

“We’re making some progress there…” And Master Oswald was off into a sea of terms that Ian didn’t understand, words like “capital” and “interest” and “extension of terms.”

Actually, there had been so many of those that he had only barely been able to grasp the gist of what they had said. What was a “scanner,” he wondered, and a “distress beacon” and a “machine gun”? He grasped the general idea, though: when he had accidentally pressed that circle on the table in the Stone Egg, it had somehow sent out a message that had called in Lord Murthren. Fortunately, though, Gar seemed to have heard it, too, and had come and saved him.

The nobles had magical things—everyone knew that…

Except, perhaps, Gar and Master Oswald? They had been talking as though these magical talismans were news to them, as though they had just discovered something that they had only suspected before. And, since everyone in the kingdom knew about the talismans, these two men must be from a foreign country.

Spies!

Ian’s blood chilled, sending a shiver through him. He lay there wondering, dread pooling in him… Then he remembered—they had spoken of Castlerock, spoken of it as though they had something to do with it. They were helping Castlerock, then! Helping serfs, like himself! They were on his side, to protect him against the lords, against Lord Murthren. He relaxed again, smiling—his judgement of Gar had been right—the man was good …

And Castlerock was real.

Ian closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep in spite of the murmuring voices from beneath the floor. He would go to Castlerock, and be free!

Ian woke after sunset. He came out of the pantry, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Matilda peered at him. “Eh! It’s you, is it? Slept well enough, did you?” She pointed a finger at a chair by the wall. “There be your new clothes. Into them quickly, and don’t be long about it, for your new master…” (and for some reason Ian could not understand, she giggled at this) “…your new master has a wish to be up and away right soon. You’re to be setting out for the north tonight, the both of you.”

The north! Ian’s heart leaped. Yes, he would certainly be dressed quickly!

He turned toward the chair to pick up the clothing, then stood still, frozen in amazement. “But—these cannot be for me!” There on the chair were not a serf’s rough tunic and leggins and cross-gartered sandals, but a jerkin and hose, such as a gentleman’s son might wear, though they were made out of plain broadcloth—a green jerkin and brown hose, and real leather boots! And hanging over the back of the chair was a sword, a real sword—boy-sized, but real for all that!

Matilda gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, they’re for you, manikin. Not what you’re used to, I’ll wager. But your new master is a man of means, and you’ll have to get used to it.” She brandished her big wooden ladle in a mock threat. “Get along with you, now, for there’s no time to waste!”

Ian gathered up the clothes and ducked back into the pantry. He came out a few minutes later, feeling like a prince in his finery.

“Sit ye down, now,” Matilda said, jabbing her spoon at the table. “Don’t bother about what you’re eating, and be quick about it, for you must travel long and far tonight, and you can’t manage it on too full a stomach.”

Ian stared at the plate of beef for a moment. Then he shook himself and sat down at the table. He wondered if he would get used to having meat so often.

He was just finishing when Gar came in, with Master Oswald behind him. He grinned at Ian. “Well, then! Finished, are you?” He sat down at the other side of the table. “Still, take your time. We’ve quite a bit to tell you before we set out for the north. We must look as though we’re only going for a short stroll in the moonlight.”

Ian swallowed and stood up. “I’m ready now, sir.”

“I’m not.” Gar tapped the table with a forefinger. “I’ve much to tell you, as I said. Matilda! Some tea, if you have it!”

“If I have it?” The old cook snorted in indignation. “When was the day that there wasn’t a simmering kettle on the stove in this house, and a pot of tea ready to brew! If I have it, indeed!” And in very short order, there were mugs of tea before each of them. There was a third cup at the side of the table where Master Oswald was just sitting down. “Now, then, Matilda!” he chuckled. “I do imagine the captain had no idea.”

“Live like animals, that’s what,” Matilda snorted. “Now don’t bother me, silly menfolk! We’ve dishes to wash and pots to scour, and a kitchen to get in order.”

Ian sipped at his hot, strong tea, marvelling at its flavor while Gar explained their journey. “A lord in the north has need of troops, Ian, for he is beset by his rival noblemen. They haven’t marched on him yet, but they will soon, or I mistake the news completely.”

“He is a most worthy lord,” Master Oswald rumbled. “He treats his serfs well. They say that when one of them dies, he weeps as though at the death of a kinsman.”

Or a favorite dog, Ian thought—but he didn’t say so.

“They die mostly of old age, or disease,” Gar put in.

“Only diseases that can’t be cured,” Master Oswald said, nodding. “He keeps three doctors on his estates, besides his own personal physician. If one of his serfs falls sick, he—or his lady, while she lived—goes out to look after that one, themselves.”

“So they die on his estates only rarely,” Gar said. “You may have heard of him—Lord Aran.”

He caught Ian with tea in his mouth; he swallowed convulsively, and almost choked on it. He coughed; Master Oswald leaned over and thumped him on the back, grinning. “Ah, yes—I’d say you’ve heard of him, lad.”

Ian looked up, wiping his streaming eyes, and nodded. He had heard tales of Count Aran’s estates—was there a serf in his village who hadn’t? They said he treated his serfs as though they were free men, with respect and honor. “They say,” he said, “that serfs are whipped on his estates only rarely—and then only for harsh offenses, such as striking another man who is weaker than he, or stealing.”

“But stealing from another serf.” Master Oswald nodded. “He doubles the number of strokes if they steal from a gentleman, and triples it for a nobleman—but the punishment is the same. It is the crime he punishes, not its object.”

“But even so, they are never flogged more than forty lashes,” Gar said. “Ten for a serf, twenty for a gentleman or a serf woman, thirty for a nobleman or a gentlewoman, forty for a noblewoman. That is his code. Beyond that, it is death for murder or rape.”

Master Oswald nodded. “His justice is famous. He treats his serfs as men, not as animals who are his property.”

“He is a man I could fight for with a good conscience.” Gar winked at Oswald and sipped from his cup.

Ian wondered about the wink.

Master Oswald said, with sarcasm, “Good conscience—and I understand he pays well, too.”

“Aye, that is one thing about good treatment of serfs.” Gar leaned forward, suddenly serious. “His land produces much more than that of his neighbors.”

Master Oswald spread his hands. “What can you expect? He gives each serf a plot of land and says, ‘This is your own, for as long as I am lord here. You must give me half of your harvest, but the rest is yours to do with as you will. Keep it, or sell it—and if you sell it, the money is yours.’ Will not the serfs, then, labor harder on the land, to produce more?”

Gar nodded. “Yet they are still there to labor together on one another’s fields, and on his. Of course they produce more—and his neighbor lords are jealous.”

“Certainly, certainly! No man likes to see his equal get ahead of him. But will they follow his methods, and mimic his ways of dealing with his serfs, so that they may produce more on their own land?”

“No, of course not. They will band together to tell him he must cease to treat his serfs so well.”

“You cannot blame them.” Master Oswald grinned. “If his ways caught on, their serfs might begin to think they have rights as human beings, too—that they are humans, not animals. They might even begin to show some evidence of self-respect. Thus does he breed discontent.”

Ian followed the conversation, looking from man to man, wide-eyed. “Rights?” What were those? “Yes, the rights of men,” Gar agreed, “and what happens then, to the privileges and the tyranny of the lords?”

A whole new world was opening within Ian’s mind. That serfs might consider themselves men—poor and uncultured, but just as good inside as gentlemen, or even lords! Even more, though—that the power of the lords was not absolute, that it could be resisted, perhaps even lessened! He almost gasped out loud—it was an amazing thought, and the possibilities it opened were limitless! Whole companies of serfs might go to places like Castlerock, or bury themselves in the fastnesses of the forest, and farm for themselves, and be free in their own right, be their own lords! As far as he could tell, Count Aran ruled his people, but did not oppress them—his serfs did not think to disobey, but they dared to stand in his presence, and even disagree with him! What could they do, he wondered, if Count Aran became like all the others, like Lord Murthren? Would his serfs submit, as his fellows had? Or would they oust Count Aran, and choose another lord?

His brain reeled, and he shut off the speculations; they were too confusing, he could not deal with them. What manner of men were Master Oswald and Master Gar, that they could speak of such things so casually and with no sign of fear? That one fragment of conversation he had overheard last night, still lingered in his mind. Castlerock …

“Enough of talk.” Gar rose to his feet, clapping a hand to the sword hilt at his hip. “I must be off to action. I would see this paragon of governance with my own eyes, and how he manages his estates. Rumor is interesting, but it also has a way of being only half-true.”

“Still,” Master Oswald demurred, “there is always a grain of truth at the bottom of it.”

Gar smiled sourly. “Not always. I have known men to start campaigns with rumors, Master Oswald. If they could discredit the leaders they hated, their men would fight with less verve.” He grinned. “Thus have I come to have a taste for seeing with my own eyes.” He cocked an eyebrow at the boy. “Haven’t you, Ian?”

“Aye, most assuredly,” Ian gasped, pulling himself together and jumping to his feet. “Whenever you go, Master Gar, I will ride wherever you wish!”

Gar’s face twisted into a sardonic smile, and Ian’s heart stopped for a moment, afraid that he had offended his protector. But Gar looked at Master Oswald and said, “How quick to obey. My wish is his law.”

“It is not good,” Master Oswald agreed heavily, “but I do not doubt that, under your tutelage, he will develop some belief in himself, Gar Pike. You will make a man of him.”

“I will indeed.” Gar eyed Ian, measuring him. “He will have the strength of the serfs when he’s grown, but will combine it with the hardness and toughness of a warrior—and from such iron, we can forge a stalwart blade.” He came around the table, clapping Ian on the back. “Come, lad! Horse and hattock! Ho, and away! ”

Ten minutes later they were mounted, Gar on a tall roan stallion and Ian, still not quite believing it was happening, on a pony.

“Stay well, Oswald,” Gar said, raising a hand in farewell to his friend. “May the world prosper for you.”

“Make it prosper, Gar,” Master Oswald returned. “There’s little enough I can do here, with my buying and selling; it is you who must go out into the field and make the great things happen.”

Gar answered with a flat laugh. “I have more knowledge than to believe that, Oswald,” he said. “I don’t underestimate my own part, mind you—I can visit the noblemen in their courts, and give things a shake here and there around the country. But you are the one who sees the points of weakness and sends us out to make the changes happen, whether I will it or not.”

“Oh, I can find the right place to push,” Master Oswald growled, “but those tremors might yield a harvest of bloodshed and suffering. It is you and your kind who will keep the cost down.” His voice grew wistful. “Good luck to you—and farewell.”

Gar waved in return, knocked his heels into his horse’s sides, and rode off at a trot. The pony lurched into motion, and Ian hung on in a panic, barely managing to keep his seat. Gar looked back, grinning, then stared in surprise, and stopped his own mount. “I see,” he said. “You haven’t ridden before. Well, hold the reins above the saddlebow, lad, and keep to a walk until you get the knack of it.”

Gar started up again, his horse at a walk. “And, Ian—slap his back with your reins.” Ian did, and the pony began to walk forward after Gar’s great roan.

So, walking their mounts, they passed out of Master Oswald’s stableyard, and set off on their journey to Lord Aran’s castle.