Authors: Angus Wells
“The one because it should be a great waste of your talent. You’ve the makings of a fine Rememberer, and you’ve worked hard for that. To quit the College now would be to throw away the years you’ve spent in Durbrecht. What would you do else? I doubt you could return to that village of yours and become a fisherman. Would you join some war-band, be a soldier?” He paused, as if to let his words sink in. Outside, the day darkened, allowing the lanterns’ light greater play on his hair and face. He was very solemn: I thought of prophets. “The other? In part for the same reasons, in part because I am your friend, and I do not enjoy waste.”
“Whilst you are banished to the Border Cities!” I cried.
“It’s not quite banishment,” he said. “That we must part saddens me. But that should have come to pass in any event, no?”
Again he spoke only the truth, which made it no easier to swallow. It was less the fact of parting than its manner that troubled me. It was somehow comforting to think of Urt continuing at the College, perhaps impressing some student come after me with his humanity; perhaps to open another’s eyes. I said, “It is not fair to punish you for my sins.”
He said, “I shared them. I knew—perhaps better than you—the risks we took. I knew judgment would be delivered, were we discovered.”
“Yet still you aided me,” I said.
“You are my friend,” he said. “What else should I do?”
I looked him square in the eye then and said, “Have I ever the opportunity to repay you, Urt, you’ve but to name it.”
He nodded, once, and said, “I know that, Daviot.”
“Perhaps they’ll allow you stay,” I said. “At least until I go out a Storyman.”
I knew, or sensed, that I clutched at straws. Urt confirmed it with a shake of his head.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” I said, still clutching.
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “I hope we may.”
It had grown dark now, and the clatter of hammers, the drone of saws, had ceased. Occasionally there came a shout from the yards outside; mostly the night was silent.
“Save you’ve need of anything, I’d best go.”
Urt rose. I shook my head. I wanted to say more, but there were no words, only a sadness in me that was colored with the fire of anger. Was this what it was to be a Mnemonikos? To see one’s loves, one’s friends, all left behind? I had known it should be a lonely path to take, but that awareness had been intellectual, unreal. Now it was emotional, personal. It hurt. I watched him take his tankard to the closet and rinse the mug. He set it down beside the keg and came to stand before me.
“The tribunal will deliver its verdict soon,” he said. “I’d ask you heed my advice when they call you.”
“Yes.” I knew not what else to say. I rose and took his hand as I would any Trueman’s. “The God go with you, Urt.”
His grasp was powerful as he said, “I do not think the God cares much about we Changed, Daviot. But still, my thanks.”
He loosed his grip and went out the door.
Cleton returned at some point, but I was unaware of his presence until the impatient tapping on our door woke me. I raised my head from the pillow, noticing from the quality of the light that it was only a little while after sunrise. Then I realized the tapping lacked the softer sound of flesh and knuckle but was rather the sharp rattle of wood on wood. Such as a caduceus would make. I sprang naked from my bed, motioning Cleton back as he stirred, and went to the door.
Ardyon stood there, his cadaverous face impassive. I felt my stomach lurch. I had believed myself resigned: I had been wrong.
I said, “Day’s greetings, warden.”
He nodded, sniffed, and said without preamble, “Dress. You’re summoned to the master.”
I said, “Yes,” and stood back, thinking he would enter; perhaps to watch over me for fear I should escape from the window. Instead, he shook his head and waved his caduceus to indicate I hurry, closing the door on me as I retreated.
Cleton was sitting up, his blue eyes worried. “The verdict?” he asked.
I said, “Ardyon awaits me,” and affected a smile I hoped was brave, “with his trusty caduceus.”
I went into the alcove to splash my face. I satisfied a suddenly urgent need to urinate. I wondered if the sound I heard was the tap of the warden’s staff against his thigh, or the thudding of my heart. I dragged on clothes. I could not understand why I was so nervous. I had believed Urt when he told me I should not be expelled. I had not thought I cared so much.
Cleton said, “The God grant it goes well.”
I nodded, shoving shirt-tails into my breeks. I ran fingers through my hair, took a deep breath, and crossed back to the door.
Ardyon seemed not at all impatient. I studied his face, seeking some clue to my impending fate, but he gave me nothing, only ducked his head as if in approval of my haste, and set off down the corridor. I limped after him. I dared not speak. Even had I, I do not believe he would have answered. He was a man who took his duties very seriously; he did not consider explanations to be amongst them.
We went down the stairs into the yard. I caught the smell of breakfast wafting from the refectory. My stomach rumbled, either from hunger or trepidation. The sky was aquamarine, the sun not yet visible above our walls. A breeze stirred, warm. I licked my lips and followed the warden into the building that held the master’s quarters.
We halted at the familiar door and Ardyon applied his caduceus. A voice came muffled through the wood, and he swung the portal open, motioning me inside. I stepped past him and started as I heard the door close behind me, leaving me alone with Decius.
I had expected to find those others who had sat in judgment present, but Decius was alone behind his desk. For an errant moment I wondered if he spent the nights there, if he
ever left. Perhaps he was crippled and lived all his life behind that desk. I said, “Day’s greetings, master.” I was surprised my voice did not quaver.
Decius answered formally and beckoned me closer. His chambers lay to the west side of the College and thus were sunlit only in the afternoons. I had always been summoned before him later in the day: now I could see his round face clearly, unmasked by opposing light. It was concerned, as if he were a father confronted with a naughty child, bound to deliver some reprimand, but not much taken with the notion. He cleared his throat and frowned. I waited.
“We have debated your case at length, Daviot,” he said, “and it is decided you shall not be expelled.”
He studied me. I thought he waited for some response, and so I said, “Thank you, master.”
He smiled very briefly and said, “There are some consider you a risk, a bad influence. They’d see you ejected.”
I thought,
Ardyon,
and wondered who else.
Decius said, “Others believe you one of the most promising students we’ve had. But even so …”
He ran a hand across the smooth skin of his pate, which I had never seen him do before. I could not be sure what the gesture meant.
He cleared his throat again and said, “For my own part, I believe you might one day be a tutor. Master, even.”
I was amazed. I gasped and stuttered, “Thank you.”
He waved dismissal of my gratitude. “But you’ve that in you as to arouse doubts. This latest matter”—he shook his head—“you knew it was frowned on, but still you continued. You suborned others to your cause…. That you should not have done.”
“No,” I said, thinking perhaps I might win Urt a reprieve did I humble myself; thinking of his advice. “I should not have. I apologize for that, master. For all I did.”
Decius nodded and caught me out in my false humility: “Do you then repudiate your mage?”
I swallowed, recognizing the trap. Dismiss Rwyan? I could not do that. Would not! I said, “I cannot, master. I love her still.”
I saw his face cloud at that, and my sense of self-preservation prompted me to add: “Even though I shall likely never see her again.”
It seemed to mollify him. At least he nodded and murmured, “Likely not. A Storyman fares better alone. Do you serve out that time, and then, should you become a tutor … He smiled. I thought it the smile of a man who suggests some course he does not truly believe in, or properly understand. “Then you might take a wife. Or find a mistress. This Thais, for example. Is she not satisfactory?”
Once more he succeeded in taking me aback. Thais? How had he discovered her existence? Cleton had not told me he made any mention of the cyprian. I wondered if there was anything the master did not know. I wondered if he was a sorcerer, besides head of our College. I gulped and said, “Yes. I suppose so. She’s …” I faltered. “She was … satisfactory.”
“Then I’d suggest you take what pleasure you need there,” Decius said. “And from henceforth leave alone those others.”
I had no intention whatsoever of following that advice: I nodded.
He nodded in return and said, “So, to your future. You shall remain amongst us, but—on probation. Do you err again, it must be the last time. You understand?”
I said, “Yes, master.”
“And do you accept?” he asked.
Again I said, “Yes, master.”
“Then understand the strictures that apply,” he said. “You will not depart the grounds without specific permission. Nor shall you attempt to contact this Rwyan in any way.”
I said, “Yes, master,” thinking I began to sound like some timid Changed.
“When you are allowed to leave the College grounds,” he went on, “it shall be only in company with two others. One may be Cleton.”
His expression seemed to me to invite thanks for that favor, so I repeated my iteration: “Thank you, master.”
He paused again, musing, as if he mulled his next words. I continued to wait. I wondered why I was allowed Cleton’s company, he having been integral to my affair. Perhaps Decius believed his influence would draw me back to the safer pursuits of the street of green lanterns; perhaps the
master thought to keep his bad eggs in the single basket. I was not about to question the decision.
Then he said, “By this year’s end, you’ll have all the learning we can give you for now. Next spring, you go out a Storyman.”
“Master?” He had the ability to surprise me still. I wondered if it was amusement I deciphered in his eyes.
“A Storyman, Daviot. Did you not expect that?”
Now it was my turn to pause. Of course I had expected it: it was the next step. Why else was I here? But to be told this news in such circumstances left me befuddled. I had thought it more likely I should be kept close to the College, until such time as I was deemed sound. I saw that Decius expected a verbal response, and said honestly, “I was not sure, master. I thought perhaps …”
I shrugged, lost for words. Decius said, “We’ve lost too many in these last attacks. There’s a need for good Storymen; more, I think, in the days to come.”
I was not sure what he meant by that. I had heard no rumors to suggest the Sky Lords came again. Was he privy to secret knowledge? Certainly, he seemed so far omniscient.
When I said nothing more, he continued: “So you shall be sent out at winter’s end. Cleton, too. You may tell him that.”
I chanted another of my “Yes, master’s,” aware that he had so far made no mention of Urt. My future was secure, and Cleton’s; but what of my Changed comrade? For an instant I debated the wisdom of inquiry, knowing even as I did that it was the safer course to play the penitent, to humbly accept, and say no more than yes and no and thank you. Urt himself had counseled me to that course, and likely inquiry after his fate would serve only to harm us both: I remained dutifully silent.
Decius sat awhile, as if pondering whether to say more. I stood, doing my best not to fidget as my healing leg began to itch horribly.
Finally, the master raised a hand, waving me toward the door, saying, “Enough. You’ve lessons still. Go.”
I said, “Yes, master; thank you,” and turned away.
I was tempted to run but settled for a more dignified, if somewhat brisk, walk to my chamber. I was surprised (startlement seemed the order of this day) to find Cleton there.
“I waited,” he said, unnecessarily. “What happened?” “We stay,” I told him, and then explained all Decius had told me.
“The God be praised!” He clapped my shoulder. “Next spring, eh? I’m not sorry I missed my breakfast. Not for such good news.”
“Did you not have Urt bring food?” I asked.
His answer was casual: “I’ve not seen Urt this morning.” It struck me like a blow.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
Cleton took a step back as I faced him. He shrugged and said, “I’ve no idea.”
I did. I mouthed a string of curses that might have blistered even Garat’s ears and shouldered past my friend in search of my other. Cleton hurried to catch me, his expression puzzled.
“What’s amiss?” he asked, to which I answered simply, “Urt.”
To give him his due, he recognized my concern and took a share, falling into step at my side as I flung myself down corridors and stairs into the yard. I was grateful that he asked no further questions: I was in no mood to give kindly answers.
Together we pushed our way through students going to their lessons. Our own would soon commence, but I cared not at all. I thought Ardyon the most likely to answer my fear, and the refectory the most likely place to find the warden—I took Cleton there.
Ardyon was moving toward the door as I entered. He was in conversation with Clydd and a tutor of politics, Faron. I set myself in their path, ignoring raised brows and the warden’s ominous sniff.
I said, “Urt! Where is he?”
Ardyon’s deep-sunk eyes met my gaze with massive indifference. He said, “Remember you are yet on probation. You will address your superiors in suitable manner.” His voice was flat; and heavy with threat.
I felt Cleton’s good hand on my arm. It held me back from striking the warden, which I think Ardyon knew, for he brought his caduceus to rest on his shoulder. The staff was solid enough to do me harm: I did not care.
However, I controlled my anger and forced my voice to
semblance of civility. “I have not seen Urt this morning, warden,” I said. “I’d be grateful to know his whereabouts.”
The skin was stretched so taut across the bones of Ardyon’s face, it was bland as a mask. He sniffed now. I thought the sound suggested relish. He chose to address my statement: “You were with the master, no? How then should you have seen your servant?”