The Brave Apprentice (12 page)

He sniffed the air. There was a familiar scent rising from the darkness. Cheese, he thought. And other smells—like barley or oats, and the yeasty aroma of ale.

“Patch,” a voice said behind him, and he almost shrieked in surprise. It was Cecilia. “What are you doing?”

“My queen! Did you hear what happened?”

“Yes. The poison. That poor fellow. What could he have been about to say, to make Basilus kill him?”

“I can’t imagine,” Patch said. “But I suppose we know who warned the trolls about the wine.”

The queen nodded, then saw Patch looking down the stairs. “That leads to the storeroom for our provisions. You don’t think he’s down there, do you, Patch? He would
be trapped—there is no way out except these stairs.”

“But he could never get out of Dartham with all the gates patrolled. So maybe he found a place to hide awhile—with food and drink. Until it’s safe to sneak out.” Patch started down the first two steps.

“Wait! You can’t go alone!” the queen said, tugging at him. “I’ll find help.” She gathered up her long gown and raised it above her ankles so she would not fall as she ran.

Patch watched her until she was out of sight. He moved cautiously down the stairs again.
Can’t wait,
he thought.
It’s my chance to make good.

There was a door at the bottom of the stairs. Under the handle was a keyhole. He pulled at the handle, and the door swung open with a loud creak.
Shouldn’t the provisions be locked up?
he wondered.
But of course, the king’s steward would have a key.
He held the candle before him and stepped into the room.

His heart was pounding and a sprinkling of sweat had erupted on his forehead, but even through his fear he could appreciate the wonderful smell of this room, the scent of basil and pepper and salt and dozens of other herbs and spices. The room was twenty paces wide and at least forty deep, as far as the light of his candle informed him. It was crowded with sacks of grain, casks of wine and ale, jars of honey, bushels of beans and barley, barrels of salted fish, meats hanging from hooks, and a great many wide wheels of cheese.

“I know you’re here, Basilus,” Patch called out, his voice
ringing against the stone walls and low ceiling. He peered through the gloom. Something shone out brighter than the rest of the objects there, an incongruous thing. It was a staff of polished white wood. Patch remembered it—from the night he first arrived at Dartham, when Basilus met them at the door.

The faintest sound came from behind him—it might have been a sharp intake of breath or the rustle of a robe—but it was enough to make Patch leap forward. He heard the
whoosh
of something sharp and narrow slice through the air. The back of his linen shirt tore, and he felt a line of pain, blazing hot, just below his shoulders.

Patch whirled about. Basilus was there, holding a gleaming meat hook. The steward’s calm demeanor and regal posture were gone. Now he crouched with his teeth bared, his nostrils flared, and sweat trickling down his temples. “Don’t move—I won’t hurt you,” he said, stepping toward Patch. It was such an absurd thing to say, as he raised the hook to strike again, that Patch almost laughed.

“Help is coming,” Patch said, sliding backward.

“I don’t believe you,” Basilus whispered, creeping closer. He stabbed at the air to the right and left, forcing Patch straight back until he bumped against the sacks of grain piled against the wall. There was no more room to retreat. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

“Don’t scream,” Basilus warned. Patch did not; he blew the lungful of air at his candle, putting out the
flame. Everything fell into blackness. Patch dropped to his haunches, hearing another
whoosh
in the space he had left, and sprang like a frog to one side.

Basilus grunted and cursed. Patch could hear him stabbing at the air in every direction. “If I don’t kill you, I’ll make sure the trolls do,” the steward hissed. There was a crash as he blundered into a stack of something that fell to the ground, and he cried out in pain. Patch heard him whimpering and moving again, toward the door. He followed the sounds, keeping a safe distance between them.
I’m not losing you now,
he thought.

Patch heard the steward’s feet on the steps. As Basilus mounted the stairs and moved closer to the light, Patch followed. Then came the thump of heavy boots in the main hall and the sound of shouting:“Where’s the boy?” “Through there—down the steps!”“Bring torches!”

Too late Patch realized that Basilus had turned and was rushing back down the stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, but the steward’s feet caught on his as he passed. Patch heard Basilus yelp as he fell, an ugly thud of something hard striking stone, a sound like a tree branch snapping under the weight of snow, and the harsh music of the meat hook clattering down the rest of the steps.

A flickering orange light filled the stairway. Addison came first, with a torch in one hand and his sword in the other. Three soldiers followed, peering over his shoulder.

“I found Basilus, my lord,” Patch said. For a moment
he’d forgotten the pain where the hook had sliced his back. Now it blossomed again, much greater, and he felt a spreading warmth and dampness.

Addison walked past him, to the foot of the stairs where Basilus was crumpled in a heap. He knelt by the steward and brought the torch close.

“It would have been well had you kept him alive for us to question,” Addison said.

a thousand enemies at my gate than one hidden in my house,” said Milo, shaking his head. He stood by the roaring fire, with a hand on old Will Sweeting’s shoulder and his back to the rest of the people in the great hall.

Patch hovered by the door. Many of the knights were gathered here again. They sorted themselves into groups and spoke in hushed tones. Addison sat away from the others. His sword was still drawn, and he leaned on it, brooding, with the hilt propping up his chin and the tip slowly turning, grinding on the floor.

The men began to notice Patch. Faces turned his way, curious or suspicious or resentful. There was Mannon, but trying to meet his eye was like staring into the sun.

It seemed to Patch like he couldn’t get anything right. Yes, he’d found the traitor. But now the traitor was dead and could answer no questions. What did Basilus have to do with the trolls? What was the hunter about to say,
that he had to be so cruelly silenced? Was only Basilus involved, or were there others?

An hour before, the queen had brought Patch a physician who washed the cut on his back, smeared it with an ointment that naturally made the pain ten times worse, and wound a cloth around him. She hovered nearby while the physician worked, but Patch was afraid to look her way. If he’d only listened to her and not gone down the stairs by himself, Basilus might have been captured alive.
Would
have been captured alive. But he was too anxious to help, too eager for redemption.

Cecilia did not scold him, though. When the physician was done, she only patted his hand and said, “Go and tell them now, Patch. This cannot wait. I will be listening.”

Now Patch looked around the room at the important men. He glanced at the long curtain behind the table and pictured the queen in her hidden chair. It made what he was about to do a little easier.

He walked toward the king. The conversations withered, and heads swiveled to track him as he approached the hearth. “Your Majesty,” he said. Milo turned and stared at him. The friendly glint in the king’s eye was gone; his youthful face looked ten years older.

The king’s eyebrows crinkled together as he seemed to remember something. He patted his pocket and reached in to pull out a small folded parchment. He opened it and read it. Patch recognized the note that the page had delivered just before the hunter was poisoned, before
Basilus broke his neck on the stairs. It was Cecilia’s note, the one Patch had watched her write:“Let the apprentice speak, my love. And listen well.” Milo sniffed, smiled briefly, and tossed the note into the fire.

“Well,” the king said. “What do you have to say?”

Without mentioning the queen, Patch told the court what they had learned from Simon Oddfellow: that the trolls were planning to tear Dartham to pieces, that Hurgoth seemed to be in charge, and that they were waiting for something to happen before the attack would begin.

As he spoke, the men gathered around to listen, forming a half-circle in front of the fire. Except for Addison, who was still perched on his chair, leaning on his sword.

Ludowick spoke first when Patch was done. “Are you certain about this, apprentice?”

“I am, my lord,” Patch said.

Mannon crossed his arms and scowled. “Hold on—are we really going to take the word of a boy and an imbecile?”

“What if he’s right, though?” another knight said.

Other men began to cry out, shouting to be heard over one another.

“Even if he is, what can we do to stop it?”

“I heard about what they did at Half!”

“What did Basilus have to do with all this?”

“We need more soldiers!”

“Now that the traitor’s dead, perhaps they’ll go away!”

Milo raised his hands. “Quiet!” he shouted, and the
clamor died at once. The king rubbed his closed eyes with the tips of his fingers. He turned his back to the men once more and stared into the flames. “Addison,” he called loudly, without turning around.

Addison looked up, roused out of some weighty thoughts. “Yes, my king?”

“Have you ever known our kingdom to face a greater threat?”

The question surprised Addison. “Not like this. Not ever.”

“Not ever,” Milo repeated, turning around. “So we can’t play games anymore. We can’t and we won’t.” He pushed through the half-circle of men, strode past the table, seized the curtain, and gave it a mighty pull. It tore away from its long wooden rod and fell to the floor. The men in the great hall gasped as the queen was revealed, sitting in the hidden chair.

Cecilia was halfway out of the seat and poised to run, but froze when she realized that she’d certainly been seen. She lowered herself deliberately into the chair again and looked out at the men, her eyes wide and glistening. Milo went to her and held out his hand. “No more hiding, Cecilia. No more notes. No more secret meetings. This is all too important. I need you by my side. My wisest, most trusted adviser.”

Cecilia stood and allowed the king to lead her to a seat at the table. The rest of the men stood about, clearing
their throats and glancing at one another. They turned to watch as Addison stood up, walked to the table, and sat next to the king. Ludowick sat down next, and Mannon lumbered over and sank onto a chair. And then the rest followed. There was no sound except the wooden feet of chairs scraping against stone.

Patch was still standing by the fire. He glanced down at Will Sweeting and could swear he saw a hint of a smile on the old man’s mouth as he sat there, gently rocking.

All eyes were on Cecilia, and she began to speak. “Good men of the court. We know that there will be an attack on Dartham. We know not when, but we must assume that it will come before long. So whatever we do, it should be done soon.”

As she spoke, the queen looked at each of the men in turn. “Like you, I am deeply troubled by the treachery of Basilus. And I yearn to know what the hunter would have told us. But we have learned something that may be our salvation.

“Do you remember what Griswold taught us? He said that trolls are solitary creatures. For them to invade as a group is not merely unusual—it is unprecedented in all our chronicles. Something is holding this ugly horde together. And from the fool Simon, who was once their prisoner, we may have learned what it is: Hurgoth, the wisest and strongest of them. He herds the rest like sheep. And perhaps, without the shepherd…”

“The flock would disperse,” said Milo.

“You’re suggesting we destroy Hurgoth?” Addison said. “But how?”

“We have an idea,” said Cecilia. “That is, the apprentice has an idea. Tell them, Patch.”

Patch gulped as every head in the room turned his way.

The shirt that Basilus had torn was still stained with blood but the rip was healing under Patch’s nimble fingers as he sat beside the hearth in the great hall after the council was adjourned. His needle pierced the fabric, crossed under the tear, and came up on the other side. He pulled the needle, tugging the thread and drawing the sundered edges together. It felt good to be sewing again. The rhythm of it, as familiar as breathing, kept his mind off the peril he would soon be walking into.