Fletcher

by P. S. Power

  Rather than discuss it he smiled.

  “A bit of a hard thing to hear. The trick will be in making certain that both my Father and Mother know that you meant no ill will with it. In private. We aren’t supposed to mention that kind of thing in public at all. At least no one had ever mentioned it to me before a few days ago, as I lay dying. Not openly. Just in whispers and strange looks.”

  Her face tightened, then relaxed.

  “I understand. Only, of course, I do not. You are my son. The child of my husband. I should be seeing to you and yet I have been told not to do so. I will follow the ways of your people in this. It is my duty. Know that I would do it differently, if it were allowed.” Her face, plain and a bit square, was troubled by the words.

  Impulsively, he hugged her again. That way he wouldn’t have to speak.

  Holding the messages up, he nodded, not saying that he would see to them as best he could. The fact that he needed to move one of the Princes away in order to pass him a note from his own wife was going to be hard to manage. Bowing out of the room, he was passing the guard no more than two minutes later. He waved at the man, who nodded back, his hands being filled with a spear at the moment. Ready to fight in case of assassins or invasion. There was also a sword on his belt, which looked to be a heavy blade. The kind made to kill, instead of just taking blood.

  The simple message to pass was going to be the one for Depak Sona. After all, he needed to go and see to the man shortly anyway. First, he went to his own room, emptied the chamber pot and refilled his washing water for the day. His drinking pitcher as well. Then he went the ambassadorial rooms and knocked gently, being asked in by the man, who was at his own reading table, looking at a book. The empty chamber pot was in its ornate and colorful box again, near the window of the main room.

  The place was tidy and while there was water to retrieve, when he tried to take the bucket, the Magician stopped him with a wave.

  Then pointed at the bucket. It was a casual gesture, lacking in grandeur at all. The kind of thing that nearly had Anders taking it anyway, since it seemed to be the man was asking him to pick it up.

  “Wo-neg-ot-neg-fen.” There was an indication of first the bottom of the bucket then a pointed finger moving toward the top. Stopping about two inches from the lip.

  Water started to fill the vessel, the room warming as the amazing magic took place. A thing that got the Magician to seem pleased. At least there was a smile on his face when he spoke.

  “Constant practice. You’ve looked at the book?” That seemed to be unexpected, from the tone of the words. As if there hadn’t been time for that yet. As if one such as himself, a life long historian and collector of tales could have resisted such a thing with a book present.

  “I have. I don’t have it all committed to memory as of yet. A little over half of it. That doesn’t, as you mentioned in the work, give me the meditation or practice needed. If all goes well, I should have that first portion finished later tonight.” He felt poorly, taking that long for such a simple task.

  Making a mental imprint of the work simply wasn’t his main job, at the moment. A thing which felt wrong to him. As if he should pour all of his being into the effort right then, before the day truly even started.

  There was a pleased sound from Depak Sona then.

  “Ah! We will test that when you are ready. Simple things at first. Then, once you have enough to practice that will keep you interested, we will drill on that, each day. You mentioned other tasks? Making bows and learning manners and fighting, I believe? That is a well-rounded course for one so young. It has been a long while since I’ve used a bow, myself. In the last war I had to ride out in, to be exacting on the matter. I should practice. There…” He looked at the boy, then turned away. “There are dark things rising in my homeland and around it. The Modroc people are raising armies again, and their shaman are using dark rites to summon beings of great and awful power. That is not done casually or for a lark. Not even by those people. It would be well to take up such a practice again, as it may be needed soon.”

  The man didn't have a bow there, however. Not unless it was buried deep in his travel cases.

  “You need a bow and an excuse to practice… I should be learning that, soon. You can come out with me and mock my poor skills that way. Also, I think people hunt with things like that. What kind of bow do you use?”

  The man looked at him strangely, then rolled his eyes.

  “I need to be careful when speaking in front of you, don’t I, Anders Brolly? A single suggestion that I should do a bit more and you will force that into being with a smile on your face. Not that it isn’t a needed thing. I am most used to a horn bow. Out of condition and practice to use it… You can make one of those for me, if you are learning how anyway. At, call it twice what the power of your own bow will hold. It has been some time since I’ve hunted. I used to enjoy such things, long ago. The taking of life soured for me, in the war.”

  The bucket was heavy in his hands and the window was blowing comparably cool air into the now toasty room. Hefting the thing a bit, he walked off, to refill the wash station. Then, instead of having the Magician do the work again, since it had made the room too warm, or trying it himself, he jogged slowly to the well and got the water in the proper fashion. Even though he’d understood the spell that had been used.

  All of the words used were ones that he’d already put inside of himself.

  Which, clearly, wasn’t enough to really do magic like that yet. It was a complete skill, in four separate portions that had to be combined every time. Not just a few muttered lines or drawn symbols on a page. Then, most things were like that, once you truly learned them. Thinking that, Anders made sure he wasn’t being lazy, seeing to cleaning the tidy room of the Magician from Barquea.

  Chapter eight

  Working hard on his own bow, having to take a lot of the wood from the front and back, tapering the ends enough that they looked a bit off, compared to the sturdier things in the room, had the bowyer watching him at nearly ten. His gaze was stern, at first. Then softened as he moved over and picked the thing up, examining it closely.

  “Not horrible, for a first bow. Round this section here a bit more, so it won’t pull unevenly. Then we’ll work on the end horns and I’ll go over how to set a gut string for it. The oil will need to seep in for several days. We can do that shortly. Follow me.” The man was gruff with him, if not truly mean. There was a clap on the shoulder for Anders as the sergeant made clomping noises, his wooden leg hard against the stone flooring.

  Along the wall were two pegs, made of sturdy metal, and a pulley on the floor with a stout rope hooked to it. On one end was a handle.

  “First we string your creation. If you did it incorrectly, or if there’s a flaw in the wood, then it will break. Be ready for that. Even to me it happens about one in ten times. If so, then we start right into the next shaping. No crying or carrying on about it, understood? In any task there is a chance to fail. The trick is in starting over and getting it right the next time.” There was a serious expression on his face, and his bloodshot blue eyes glared at Anders.

  “Yes, Master Bowyer.” Not that he wanted to lose all his hard work. If it was just part of what happened, then it was.

  There was a nod then. The man didn't soften, though he did go over how to string a bow, using both a string and leverage from the leg and body. The thing didn't crack at all, or make any negative noise as it bent, the yew holding well enough.

  On the pegs the wooden weapon seemed thin and easily bent as the older fellow pulled on the handle, a hook arrangement pulling it down. There were lines on the wall, which were different draw lengths. The man pulled it to the biggest line and grunted. Then he did it twenty times in a row, very fast.

  “Heh. Didn’t even turn to splinters. It’s good heartwood, so I didn’t think it would. Now, use the stringer to take that off. If you don’t have reason to leave a bow strung, take it off whenever possible. Yew will spring b
ack a bit, leaving it stronger for it. They lose power if you get lazy that way. A man in the field can’t afford that.”

  Then the man quickly walked him through the spreading of oil on the wood and how to shape the string end attachments out of horn. That got him to recall what had been spoken of earlier.

  “I… How hard is it to make a horn bow?”

  That got a grunt from the man, and a smile that looked a bit like he was about to scream at Anders for even asking.

  “Harder than this. More steps and it’s a bit more complicated in that you need to learn to use sinew and glue properly. Why, planning to become a horse archer?” There was a wave at one of the other bows there which was in a shaping form made of wood. It was far shorter than even what he had made for himself. There were layers visible on the side of it and it was bent in a way that was very different than the one he’d worked on.

  The smaller size really did seem like it would be better on a horse, since you had to sit while using it. The long bow wouldn’t be useable that way, most likely.

  “I was speaking to the Barquea Ambassador this morning, as I cleaned his chambers for him. Depak Sona? He mentioned that he needed to get back into practice using weapons and that he used to use a horn bow. He suggested that I make one for him to use. A thing about twice as powerful as what I’m working on here?”

  Rather than growl at him for being foolish and over reaching, there was a laugh. It came from everyone working in the room, including the hall guard from earlier that day.

  “Ha. That would need to be a special bow then, being a gift for an esteemed individual like that. No issue for us here, except that it will take more for you to do the work. You have orders to make arrows for your practice next… If you do that in your off hours, we can move directly into a fine mid-weight horn bow in the mornings. Here, finish your shaping on the end horns and report to the Fletcher. Tell him that you need to take materials back to your room so you can work on that instead of sleeping.”

  That got another laugh, as if it wasn’t what would really be required of him to get things done in a timely fashion. Just before the mid-day meal break, he managed to get with the Fletcher, who was a younger guard. The man didn't wait for him to explain at all. His space was only about seven paces from where the Bowyer had been when speaking to him earlier, so there was no mystery in how the man knew what was needed.

  He just pointed at a box filled with long staves about the size of his thumb and another that were about half that in size around.

  “Use those for now. In the future I expect you to put in time every day shaping the staves. Between bow builds you’ll be doing that instead, understood? Now, I’ll go over how to use the glue, feathers and set the tips. You can take these to your room. I need to inspect what you make, so bring those in tomorrow. A good fletcher can make ten arrows an hour, with a start like you get here, the staves ready and glue fire hot. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Just do all the work at one time. Cut feathers, glue and wrap, groove the nock and make the point bindings ten at a time. That way you don’t have to reset each time. The glue only stays warm for so long, so keep that in mind. If you boil it or burn it, that becomes useless. Now, pay attention.”

  Everything was gone over then. It wasn’t truly complex, just new to him. He worked carefully to place the steps into his mind as carefully as possible. After the second arrow was demonstrated, Anders was put to making his own, then packed off with three large baskets of materials. Those had to be stored in his room, next to the book on his reading table. How he was supposed to do both things in the evening he wasn’t totally certain. He also needed to find a way to pass a message to Prince Alpert.

  It wasn’t as if they normally bumped into each other, day to day. Truly, he only saw the man in the distance about six times a year, mainly at celebrations. That wasn’t even to talk to, in particular.

  He scrubbed up, washing well since he had a meeting with Master Belford and didn’t wish to go in stinking of linseed oil more than he had to. That particular odor wasn’t pleasant to him, being acrid and leaving a strange taste to the air. When that was done, guessing that he had a few minutes, he sat and read from the book on his table. Memorizing only one page. Doing more, as tempting as it might be, would be courting that promised beating for not showing up to the lesson.

  When he knocked at the chamber door there was no answer. He stood there, very near his own room, waiting then. It was earlier than he would have thought. That or the man was busy that day. Still, there had been no mention of him not waiting, if the tutor wasn’t there in a timely fashion. So, he stood. Going over the symbols and sounds of magic that he was to learn, while he had the time. In the hallways of his mind, drilling with them, as if he were casting magics for real.

  That meant he was taken unaware when Master Belford arrived.

  “Brolly. So nice of you to attend. Prince Erold was called away to a meeting, so won’t be joining us today. His writing hand is fine enough already, so no great loss for him. Come. We need to hurry, if possible. I do hate to rush things this way but might be needed shortly. Please don’t take umbrage if I’m called away?”

  The man seemed to actually mean his words, as if it were important to not offend Anders for some reason. At the same time, he moved to pick up his beating stick, holding it by the end, then pointed with it at his desk. It was a bit more official than the simple table Anders had in his own chambers. Smaller, though built for writing more specifically. There was a raised round place to hold ink, metal tipped short staved pens and a box only for fine paper.

  “I do not care what you write, only that the letters and spacing are well done. Today I won’t even hit you too hard for misspellings. Begin as you will.” If the man was truly impatient, it didn’t show.

  Still, there was a thing that he was supposed to write out, so sitting straight and using the pen and ink as Anders had been taught, he worked through what he needed to put on the blank page. Of interest to him, he found that the letters of Istlan were the same he’d used in his old home, even if the shape and sound of the words were different. What he did wasn’t as dressy as could be made, though clear and with good spacing being used, so that it would easily be read.

  When he finished and started to put the pen away, after cleaning it and capping the ceramic bottle that held the ink, so it wouldn’t dry, Master Belford moved in behind him. Stick in hand. He swung it a few times, to be menacing, a wicked grin on his face.

  “Now, what have we here? A letter…” He cleared his throat, then read the thing, a bit pretentiously.

  “Prince Robarts, I have some information regarding the Ambassador of Barquea, as requested. He is partial to books, particularly on different and strange magical systems and herbology as that subject pertains to healthful practices. These can be in many languages. Also, he enjoys artwork in the manner and fashion of drawings and paintings. It seems he can use these as a medium of magical working, showing more in it than was originally put in place by the artist.” The man reading cleared his throat again.

  Then he waited a few heartbeats before going on.

  “It seems that he is as partial to music and jugglers as anyone and allowed that he would be pleased to attend such events as anyone might be. The indication was that he would not be particularly enthused, only to a normal amount. Also, he is still mourning the loss of his third wife, Entia. She passed nearly two decades ago. He mentioned that he should, perhaps, seek a new woman. Also, that doing so seemed like a lot of effort at the moment.”

  The paper was examined closely then, a slow nod being given.

  “You lack style and flare in your penmanship. That said, your words themselves are clear and legible. The information is… Well done. I’ll only beat you a little.” Then he did, with soft taps coming to the side of his left arm, near the shoulder. They weren’t enough to leave a bruise or even really sting.

  “There. You need to address the outside and make certain the ink is well dried first
. I have some fine sand for that. You can deliver this now, since my brother won’t be at lessons with Prince Erold today. You’ll still want to present yourself to him. You aren’t in a special meeting, after all.”

  They went over how to use fine drying sand, speeding the ink’s utility and how to do a proper tri-fold of the heavy paper using a wooden guide. Master Belford did it for him, so that no mistakes would be made that day. Then he had to get the pen and ink out again, to write Prince Robarts’ name on the outside. It was sealed with wax and a thumbprint, since Anders didn’t have a seal ring for that kind of thing. Given it was the first letter he’d ever written to anyone it simply hadn’t come up.

  Even in the castle most didn’t use that kind of thing. He knew that, since Belford told him directly.

  “It does mark this as coming from the lesser side of the court. I do like the flourish you added to the name. It will disguise who it came from slightly. It also shows that you know how to do that sort of thing. From this point on, all letters should be presented in such a fashion. If you write a book or treatise, use the shape you did today. You know where it needs to go?” The thin man seemed to think that might not be the case.

  “Yes, Master Belford. I’ve been set to running errands and message, so have been to the Prince’s offices before.” Which wasn’t totally true. He’d been there the day before, with Prince Erold. That kind of thing was probably supposed to be secret, even if it hadn’t been for a large purpose.

  There was a tap with the stick on his arm again. A bit harder.

  “Careful there, Brolly. Hold to perfect form and if questioned, allow only that you are working for others. A boy doing this kind of work could be exploited by many here. I know that I intend to do so in this case, with the new ambassador. For instance, I just had access to secret information about him that only Prince Robarts will be seeing. That gives me an unexpected edge over others for a short time. Now, scurry along.” The man gave him a sour look. “Not bad work here. In all of it. I hadn’t been certain you could write or read, to be truthful. You’ve rather rejected learning in the past.” The words seemed a bit suspicious. Almost as if he thought he knew something.