Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “I told Baldwin I’d take his boy. That’s the end of it.”

  “But, sir ...”

  Jarl raised his eyes to Graegor’s. “You have no contract with me anymore, understand? It was a mistake and a misunderstanding. That’s all.”

  Graegor closed his mouth, even bit his tongue, and pushed his fists into the deep pockets of his raincloak. He knew that he’d never get his own father to plead his case like Craig’s father had. And even if he did, it wouldn’t do any good. Craig’s father was a large man, and could usually get what he wanted. When Graegor thought about that, he almost laughed aloud at the bitter irony. If fighting really solved nothing, Master Baldwin’s size wouldn’t matter. Arguing the point had been a waste of time.

  Finally, Graegor managed a single, curt nod, then let himself out. Jarl never turned around.

  The raindrops were cold against his flushed face. The street was still empty, and he stopped in the middle and let the rain drench and cool him for a while. He needed to calm down. He had never inflicted a bad temper on Pritchard, and he wasn’t going to start now, since the tavern keeper, at least, had always been generous with him. Why couldn’t Pritchard have been a craftmaster?

  He ducked his head under his hood again as he slogged across the street. What was he going to tell Jolie? What was he going to do now?

  The tavern’s common room was half-full, the flames crackling in the big stone fireplace, the smell of meat and garlic floating from the kitchen. Lien and his mother were both carrying pitchers to opposite corners of the room as Graegor came in, and both smiled and waved to him, and some of the guests did too. More, in fact, than normally did. Clearly his reputation had been enhanced by whatever stories about the fight were going around. This thought helped him keep his expression arranged into cheerful politeness until he reached the kitchen door, just when Pritchard was coming out, still talking over his shoulder to the cook. He saw Graegor just before running into him. “Oh! Graegor.” But he suddenly looked worried, and he paused, with the handles of a dozen glass beer mugs hooked into his fingers. There was tomato sauce on his dark blue apron. “Go on out to the stable,” he said finally. “I’ll bring you something in a moment. You like ground beef pasta?”

  “You know I like anything out of your kitchen.”

  That got a brief smile from Pritchard. “All right, it’ll just be a minute.”

  Graegor dashed across the yard to the stable, shook off his cloak and lit the lamps. All was quiet, all was normal. The Volney brokers’ horses were gone.

  As Graegor looked around to decide what to do first, his eyes fell on the corner between the tool rack and the workbench, where his staff wasn’t. Was Sheriff going to let Graegor have it back, or had Magus Paul taken it to study it? Maybe it was magic. What if the magus wanted to keep it? He’d pay Graegor for it, of course, because not even magi could just take things, but Graegor didn’t want silver, he wanted his quarterstaff.

  Pacing around the stable wasn’t what Pritchard was paying him to do, but that’s what he ended up doing, because maybe it would burn away some of his sick frustration and help him to think. What was he going to do? With no apprenticeship, and his coming-of-age birthday only a month off, how could he start his real life?

  He could stay here at Pritchard’s, he supposed. But as generous as Pritchard was, this was a dead end. Not enough people came through this insignificant village. He’d never meet any good horse trainers or breeders here.

  Johanns. He had to talk to Johanns. Johanns would help him, and Johanns knew a lot of people. But that meant he had to go to Farre.

  Not forever, of course. He had to make sure Jolie understood that. It would only be a couple of years, maybe three, before he could come back for her. He could even visit her, maybe even every month, depending on where he ended up working. If Johanns could introduce him to some of the horse-training masters in Farre, and if they were impressed enough with him, he could stay in Lakeland, and not be very far from her at all.

  It would make her unhappy, that he had to leave—but he had to, for her. He would come back, he would give her his solemn promise.

  He stopped in the middle of the stable. A promise—a pledge. He needed to give her something. But what?

  The door creaked open, interrupting the whirl of his thoughts. Pritchard came in, carrying a soup bowl loaded with ground beef pasta pockets in tomato sauce, covered with grated cheese. “Here you are, nice and hot.” He set the bowl down on the worktable and then sat down himself, so Graegor was obliged to join him.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Eat up.” The tavern keeper tried to smile again. “Cold day, so keep warm.”

  “Yes, sir.” Since he was at table, he recited his meat-thanks in his head, traced the Godcircle, and started on the pasta, but it felt awkward to be eating when Pritchard wasn’t, especially when Pritchard clearly wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start. After a few bites, Graegor asked, “Sir, is there something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Pritchard sighed. “Yes.” After another pause, he went on, “First, I have your quarterstaff upstairs. Chervis gave it to me this morning. Is it really magic?”

  “The magus said it wasn’t, sir. But thank you for holding onto it.”

  “And second—Graegor, I really, really hate to do this, you’ve taken such good care of the horses and gotten the stable into such top shape ...”

  Graegor put his spoon down, determined that this time he would not, would not lose his temper, especially not with Pritchard. “Sir, are you saying that I can’t work here anymore?” He was surprised how easily the words came—but why wouldn’t they come easily by now? Twice in one day—

  “I’m sorry, Graegor. Your father came to see me. He doesn’t want you working here, and since you’re not of age yet I have to abide by his wishes.”

  Graegor said carefully, “I understand, sir. Did my father say why?” Not that he didn’t already know the answer.

  Pritchard heaved another sigh, and his broad shoulders slumped. The lamp cast a gleam on his thin brown hair. “He said that he wants you to concentrate on finishing all the schoolwork you can before your apprenticeship starts.”

  Graegor waited, and Pritchard eventually went on: “He also said that he didn’t want to risk you getting into another fight, and that unfortunately taverns are where fights are more likely to happen.”

  “He shouldn’t have insulted your place, sir. I apologize.”

  Pritchard waved dismissively. “He’s right, in general. Not about this tavern, but most. I can’t argue with him, because you really should spend time getting ready for your apprenticeship. We both knew that you were just going to help me out for a few months, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” That had been the agreement. “The problem, sir, is that Master Jarl tore up my apprenticeship contract.”

  Pritchard’s eyes widened. “He what?”

  “He said he was going to take Master Baldwin’s son instead. He said he had forgotten the promise he had made to Master Baldwin.”

  Pritchard stared at him for a little longer, then shook his head. “That’s not right. If he contracted with both of you then he should take both of you.”

  Graegor nodded and started eating again so that he wouldn’t have to talk.

  “I know the man hates having apprentices around, but tearing up your contract ...” Clearly offended, Pritchard got up and did a little pacing himself. Graegor still didn’t feel like he could talk without cursing and shouting, so he just kept eating.

  Pritchard stopped and looked at Graegor. “I could talk to Master Baldwin for you,” he offered. “His boy’s not ready, and by the time he is, you could get passed on to a master in Big Mill or Daviton.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir.” But he wouldn’t get his hopes up. People liked Pritchard, but the craftmasters were touchy about their prerogatives. It was unlikely that a tavern keeper could get Baldwin or Jarl to change their minds.

  “In the m
eantime, maybe you can ask your father if you can keep helping out here. I really hate to lose you.”

  Graegor nodded. “I’ll ask him.” He didn’t have much hope about that either.

  Pritchard patted Graegor’s shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do. Baldwin and I go way back. I can’t make any promises, but ...”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Let me know whether or not you can stay on here, all right?”

  “I will, sir.” With two big bites Graegor finished the pasta and stood up with the bowl. Pritchard reached over and gently took it from him, both because he tended act like a servingman whenever food and people occupied the same room, and also because Graegor’s grip was a little too strong on the stoneware.

  This time when Graegor came home he didn’t pause to look in the display windows. He came straight around the back toward his father’s workshop, but the wagon was gone. He looked into the workshop and asked Joshua where his father and Pieter had gone. Joshua, hunched over a drawer facing, looked at Graegor with wide eyes. “Up to the mill,” he finally said quickly, almost as one word.

  “Which mill?” If he’d just gone to the village mill, Graegor would track him down, but if he’d gone up to Big Mill, he wouldn’t be home before dinner, if he even came home tonight at all.

  “Big Mill.” Joshua bent to study his carving again. Graegor was about to ask what time his father had left, but he bit it off. Joshua never talked to Graegor any more than he could help it—in fact seemed scared of him, which Graegor found ridiculous in any apprentice of his father’s—so Graegor knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of him.

  He tramped across the back yard, passed the tipi plants, did what he needed to do in the privy, and went in the door of his mother’s workshop on the other side of the house. The chandlery was hot, as usual, with the vats boiling on the big stove and a spicy smell heavy in the steam. His mother was pouring colored wax into one of the new ceramic molds that the potter had made for her from her designs. Ulla was holding the mold steady, and Audrey was just going out the other door with one of her friends, but she stopped when she saw him. Graegor waited until his mother had set her ladle down before he said, “Will Father be home tonight?” He had thought he had spoken without emotion, but all the female eyes on him grew alarmed.

  His mother murmured something to Ulla, who nodded and took the ladle. She gestured for him to follow her, and he did, not speaking as he passed Audrey and her friend on his way into the house. His mother shut the door to the chandlery and led him all the way over to the dining table, where she pointed to the same chair Audrey had been sitting in the night before. “Sit.”

  “Mom—”

  “Sit.”

  He sat. She sat too. “I know you’re upset,” she said immediately. “Maybe it would have been better if we had told you about this ourselves. But your father thought that Mister Pritchard should be the one to tell you, since he’s the one who hired you.”

  He didn’t answer. Again, he thought he was keeping his control pretty well, but his chest was tight and his throat was tight, and he could tell that his mother wanted to hug him or pat his arm but that she was afraid to.

  Instead she got up and went to the stove, to the kettle. “Tea?”

  “No thanks.” It was ridiculous—she knew he didn’t like tea.

  She poured herself a cup and came back to the table. “I’m sorry. You really should have heard it from us.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But you see why, right?—Why we thought you shouldn’t work there anymore? You have to finish up school and get ready to start your apprenticeship.”

  “There is no apprenticeship,” he said, as flatly as Jarl had.

  His mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Master Jarl is taking Craig’s brother instead.”

  She sat back in her chair. Her eyes were bloodshot from the hot fumes of the chandlery, and droplets of blue wax were splattered on her smock and her hands. After a long time, she asked, “Did he say why?”

  “Just that he’d already promised Craig’s father before he promised me.”

  “But if he promised both of you, he should ...”

  “I know,” he snapped, then, more respectfully, “I know, Mom. But he won’t.”

  She muttered something he couldn’t hear, then drank some tea and said, “The saddlemakers’ guild will hear about this.”

  “But they won’t do anything,” he pointed out. “They’ve let him go without an apprentice entirely for years and years. They won’t force him to take two if he doesn’t want to.”

  She knew he was right. After a while she sighed. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  “It’s all right.” He tried to sound casual. “When we’re in Farre, I’ll talk to Mister Johanns, and I’m sure he’ll be able to find something for me.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” his mother said hurriedly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find another apprenticeship for you, maybe in Daviton, or Big Mill.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You want to work with horses, right? You don’t have to go all the way to Farre to do that.”

  “Where else would be better?—You need to know somebody to get into the business, and Mister Johanns knows everybody. He could recommend me to the guild hall, and I could sign on with the best trainer or breeder in Lakeland.”

  “But—I just—” She cast about for the right words. “I just don’t like it that you’d be living in the city.”

  Not this again. “Mom, it’s not just ‘the city’. I know Farre almost as well as I know this village. I’ve been there a lot, and I’ve ridden around it a lot on my own.”

  “But you haven’t lived there, you haven’t walked the streets. Mister Johanns is lucky enough to have a big house in a nice neighborhood, but there are other neighborhoods that aren’t nice at all.”

  “I know, Mom. I’ve seen them. Do you really think I can’t take care of myself?”

  “No, of course not. That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?” How could he reassure her? He’d never seen her this anxious.

  “It’s—cities—cities are cold. I grew up in Rochden, you know. I do know what I’m talking about.” Now she seemed offended, like she thought he didn’t believe what she’d told him about her childhood. “The air is so foul. No one cares about each other, no one helps each other.”

  “I’ve heard Father say that about Naben a hundred times. The next part of that story is about men drinking themselves to death in alleys and children living in piles of garbage. But I won’t be drinking myself to death, and I won’t be living in a pile of garbage! I’m going to find work! That should make you happy.”

  “But there’s work to be done here!” She actually slapped the table. “Right here, or in any of the towns around the lake. Why are you so sure that you have to go all the way to Farre?”

  “Why are you so sure that I have to stay?”

  “Because—” She seemed to think that it was so obvious that it defeated description. After a long stare at the ceiling, she finally spoke again, slowly and carefully. “You grew up here because that’s what your father and I decided when we got married. Our hope was that our children and grandchildren wouldn’t be in the stink and filth and squalor of too many people crammed too close together.”

  Grandchildren. So that was what this was about. “Mom, I’m not saying you’ll never see me again.”

  “I know you’re not. But—this beautiful lake, this little artisan town that hasn’t been here even a hundred years yet—from the moment we first saw it, we knew that God meant for us to be here.”

  “Maybe God means for me to be somewhere else.”

  She wrinkled her nose and gave her head a tight shake. “I can’t believe God means for anyone to live in cities. This town, this place that bores you so much, is clean and safe and no one is poor or hungry.”

  “Except the fisherfolk,” he said. It had always bothered him that
the craftmasters didn’t respect the people who provided the town’s most common food.

  “They’re not hungry,” she said.

  “They’re poor.”

  “Not compared to people I saw in Rochden. Do you understand what I’m saying? Everyone’s talking about this fight you were in, and why?—Because things like that don’t usually happen here.”

  “Mom, nothing happens here.”

  “Aach.” She rolled her eyes, and he could see that she was holding onto her patience as tightly as she was holding onto her teacup. This wasn’t just important to her—this meant everything to her. Why was she trying to hold him back? He wasn’t a child anymore. Did she see these imaginary grandchildren so clearly that it was as if he was taking real babies away from her?

  She looked at him again. “I don’t think God means for you to be somewhere else. This is where people should live—where everyone can be safe and healthy.”

  The word healthy, and the idea of babies, reminded him of something she had told him a long time ago. “Mom ... there were other children born here when I was, but you said that they weren’t healthy and they died. You can’t keep me safe just by keeping me here.” To his alarm, her face crumpled as if she was going to cry—and suddenly he thought he understood. “Did I almost die too?”

  But she shook her head, taking a deep breath. “I almost did,” she said in a low voice, “but the point is that I was afraid you would, when the others did within a week of your birth ... some terrible sickness, or curse ... I was so afraid that you would be next.”

  “You almost died having me?—Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, Graegor, I’m not one of those mothers.” But her abruptly scoffing tone did not take away the clench in his gut at the thought of growing up without her, without Audrey ... just him and his father, maybe a stepmother ... no, no, he wouldn’t think about that.

  “It is why we waited a while before we had Audrey,” she was saying, “but her birth was a midwife’s dream, so quick and easy.” Her voice was normal again, and the quick swipe of her hand against her eye was as matter-of-fact as cleaning up a spill. But it was obvious that she’d never gotten over it. She was still very afraid of losing him.