The Brave Apprentice (11 page)

“Simon, please stop,” Patch pleaded.

“Simon!” Patch snapped, poking the fool on the shoulder.

“That’s just when the trolls hit me!” Simon said, sounding wounded.

“Small wonder,” the constable said from the side of his mouth.

Patch rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “Sit down again, please, Simon.”

“Simon, did you overhear the trolls talking? Did they say why they are here?” asked the queen.

Simon crossed his arms. “Well, my queen, I hardly think I should be snooping into anyone else’s business.”

“Simon, these trolls are dangerous—you have to tell us anything you heard!” Patch said.

“Oh, I see—well, I don’t think any of you are in danger. It’s somebody named ‘Dartham’ they’re after.”

The queen gasped. Patch dropped to one knee in front of the fool and clasped his arm. “Simon.
This
is Dartham. The castle you’re in now. Where the king and queen live, and where they rule over the kingdom.”

Simon’s face lit up with recognition. “Ooooohhh! Then we’re in a great deal of trouble, because I heard one of them say, ‘Tear Dartham to pieces.’ And I thought, ‘I wouldn’t want to be that Dartham fellow!’”

“When, Simon?” The queen’s voice was suddenly toneless. “When will they tear Dartham to pieces?”

“I don’t know, my queen. They’re waiting for something before they start.”

The queen looked to Patch. “Waiting for what?”

Patch shrugged. “Simon—the big troll named Hurgoth, the one that had you tied to the rope—is he the leader?”

Simon nodded briskly. “Oh, yes—that Hurgoth does most of the talking. He’s the one that talked about Dartham, about waiting for something. And when the others start to grumble, he sets them straight, knocks them right on the head.”

They kept asking Simon questions, but the fool had no more useful information for them. The queen asked the constable to take Simon to the kitchen for something to eat, and to reward him with warm clothes, boots, and a small pouch of gold coins.

“You were right, Patch,” she said as soon as the door was closed. “And the king must know of this. He is holding another council right now. You should go and tell the court what we have learned.”

Patch clutched the front of his shirt. “Me? Please, Your Highness—I can’t! They all hate me because of what happened. Addison told me to leave. Mannon wants me dead!”

“Patch, we cannot wait. You must go, now.”

“But won’t it mean more if the queen tells them?”

Cecilia turned her back to Patch for a moment. When she turned to face him again, her jaw was set and there was a fiery glint in her eyes. “Patch, there are important men in this kingdom who don’t like to perceive any weakness in their monarch. And if it were known that I could sway Milo, that he would look to his queen to
help him through a crisis, then some of those men might lose respect for their king. No matter how honest or good or wise or fair a man he might be. And we must not let that happen.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the queen and the tailor’s apprentice.

“You’re always there, aren’t you? Behind the curtain, listening when the king has his councils,” Patch said quietly. “When the king goes for his walk before making a decision, he goes to see you.”

“You must never speak of this,” Cecilia said.

“I never will, Your Highness. But—you were there, when Griswold was speaking. And you heard everything he said?”

“Yes …?” she replied, inclining her head.

A notion was growing in Patch’s mind. Just a seed of an idea at first, but within seconds it was fully blossomed. He closed his eyes.
Was it possible? How long would it take to get ready? Could it really work? Perhaps …

“Griswold said their eyesight was weak, didn’t he?” he asked the queen. “And their tempers—he said they lose control when someone puts the flame to them, burns them. Didn’t he?”

Cecilia narrowed her eyes. “What are you thinking about, Patch?”

Patch raised his fist and shook it. “Killing Hurgoth!”

peered out from the archway in the side of the great hall. Almost everyone who’d been present at the first council was there. Even Will Sweeting was in his familiar seat by the fire, perhaps hearing everything, perhaps hearing nothing. A queasiness fluttered in Patch’s stomach as he saw the empty place next to Mannon, who sagged in his chair with a lost look in his tired, bloodshot eyes.

A page entered the hall and brought a folded note to the king, who once again sat at the center of the table in the tallest chair. The conversation slowed and stopped as Milo took a long time to read it, with a hint of a smile coming slowly to his face. He stood to address the others, tugging at his garments to smooth the creases.

“Well. This is a day for unexpected guests. Someone will be joining us now, and I trust he will be treated fairly when he appears.” Mannon looked up, realizing that Milo had directed the comment toward him. His
brow furrowed, and anger simmered on his face.

“Come out, Patch,” the king called out, still watching Mannon. Patch stepped into the room, and all eyes turned toward him. He was just ten paces from the table, but suddenly walking felt like a forgotten skill. He crossed the space with his arms swinging awkwardly out of rhythm with his legs.

“So you have important news for us. We will hear from you in a moment, young apprentice,” the king said. Milo had spoken to him warmly when they first met, but now his tone was as cool as the ice that hung from the sills of Dartham. “But first, we have word of a stranger, also claiming to bear important news. Please have a seat.” Patch hoped nobody heard him gulping. The only open chair was the one between Mannon and Addison. Addison stared at him, as inscrutable as always. Mannon’s nostrils had flared wide, and his meaty fists were threatening to wrench off the arms of his chair. Without another glance at either man, Patch went to the empty chair and sat.

The large doors to the great hall opened, and two of the king’s soldiers escorted a long-haired, bearded man into the room.
A hunter,
Patch thought. His outer cloak and leggings were made of deer hide. An empty sheath for a long hunter’s knife was at his belt, and a quiver with no arrows was strapped to his back; his weapons would have been taken from him before he was allowed before the king. A scar, long since healed, ran down the side of
his face. It began at his temple and passed all the way down to his chin, leaving tracks where no whiskers grew. When the hunter drew close to the king, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

“What is your name, sir?” Milo said sternly.

“Clovis, Your Majesty.”

“Well, Clovis. I am told that you have information concerning the trolls. And that you will tell it only to me.”

Clovis kept his gaze on the floor. “Well, Your Majesty … when a man learns something as important as this, he hopes for some reward. For bringing it to your attention, that is.”

Milo put one elbow on the table and leaned forward. “But you would be helping your kingdom and your neighbors, who are in danger. That would be reward enough for most men.”

“There would be some satisfaction in that, to be sure, Your Highness,” said Clovis, shifting his weight from knee to knee. “Pardon me for saying, but you can’t blame a fellow for wanting to get something for himself in the bargain, a little silver in his pouch for when times get lean.”

Addison gave the hunter a reptilian stare. “Perhaps,” he said, “you should think less about the reward you will earn for your information, and more about the price you will pay for your greed.”

Marmon began to push himself up from his chair. “And perhaps I can be the man to exact that price,” he growled.

“Sit, Mannon, sit,” the king said, rapping his knuckles on the table. “Master Clovis, I’m told that I am a patient man—too patient, even. But now I have reached my limit. Tell us what you came to say.”

“Well,” said Clovis, his glance darting around at the hostile faces around him, “two days ago I was hunting in the forest, north of the lake. I was on my way home, following my own tracks through the snow. Along the way I heard some unearthly sounds. Low talking and laughing, but not by people, you understand? I crept up to see what it was, and there’s a pack of trolls before me, ten or more. But among them was something else I didn’t expect to see.”

“Which was …?” said Milo.

Clovis cleared his throat and wiped his palms on his leggings. “I’ve come such a long way, Your Highness. Could’ve stayed in my woods, never left at all.”

Basilus, the kings steward, appeared at the kneeling man’s side, holding a goblet on a silver tray. He said, “Wine for the kings honored guest?”

“Thankee,” Clovis said. He wrapped his fist around the long stem of the goblet and brought it, shaking, to his mouth. “Your Highness,” he said, drawing his sleeve across his lips after a deep gulp, “forgive me if I’m just a good-for-naught scoundrel. But do you know, I’ve never owned anything of value in my life until I possessed this bit of intelligence. Is it so wrong I should profit from it?”

Milo rolled his eyes and gestured toward the two soldiers. Each of them reached down and clamped a hand on the hunter’s shoulders.

“Wait, I’ll tell!” Clovis cried. A pained expression came to his face, and Patch thought the rascal might be feeling remorse for his blackmailing ways. Clovis opened his mouth again, but no words came out, only a strangled croak. His eyes bulged, and he doubled over, as if a knife had been plunged into his belly. He rolled onto his side as the soldiers looked down in alarm. The silver goblet rolled out of his hand, making a graceful arc across the stone floor.

Addison was the first to reach him. He kneeled beside the fallen man, lifted him by the shoulders, and turned him to look into his eyes. “What’s the matter? What is it?” Clovis was barely aware of him. Then his neck went slack, and his head rolled to one side. A drop of reddish liquid trickled out of the corner of his mouth.

Addison looked at the goblet, still rocking back and forth on the floor. “Basilus?” he said, raising his head.

Patch looked up and down the room. Basilus was gone.

“Poison,” Ludowick said.

“Poison? My steward, a murderer? What on earth is happening here?” cried Milo.

“Your Highness, we must find Basilus. Learn why he’s done this,” said Addison.

“Yes—everyone, search the castle! Alert the gatehouse! Find Basilus!”

There was a great thumping of boots and the screech of chairs shoved aside. A moment later everyone was gone—soldiers, guards, knights, and nobles. Only Patch and Will Sweeting were left in the room, with the corpse of the hunter lying on the floor growing as cold as the stone. Patch stared at the dead man, aching to know what poor Clovis had seen, what he could have told them.

Poisoned wine,
thought Patch, shuddering.
My suggestion.

He remembered the queen, and her hidden place at the back of the great hall. He walked there and went behind the curtain. The chair was empty. Of course, she would have left to avoid being discovered when the knights began running in every direction. He stood for a moment, wishing he could talk to her, wondering how he could find her.

Or maybe, Patch thought, he should join the search for Basilus. It might redeem him in the eyes of the king, Addison, Ludowick, even Mannon. But the castle was large, the corridors were many, and the hiding places were countless. He stepped back out from the curtain.
Where would I run if I were Basilus?

A hint of motion across the room caught his eye. A tapestry hung on the wall, stretching from floor to
ceiling to keep the cold and damp of the stone walls at bay. But it was swaying, almost too subtly to see, as if it had been given a gentle push. Patch watched, and the motion came to a stop.

You hid there,
Patch thought.
Until the knights left. Then I stepped behind the curtain, leaving only Will Sweeting in the room. And then where did you go?

There was an archway to the right of the tapestry. Had any of the knights even gone that way? Patch dashed across the room and through the opening, where the corridor ended in a staircase. How far down the stairs went, Patch could not tell; darkness swallowed everything beyond the fourth step. He ran back to the great hall, grabbed a candlestick from the table, and came back to the top of the steps.