Fletcher

by P. S. Power

  Still speaking the same language, the older man turned his palm up.

  “Try it yourself if you wish to silence him? I don’t want the ill will. Besides, you might well find yourself over matched, if you attempt it. After all, he can understand us and will probably run away if you take fifteen minutes to attempt to place a spell on his mind.”

  Anders nodded then, trying to look considering.

  “That sounds right. I’d at least walk away with good speed. Anyway, is it possible to put a subtle design into the cloth? I can change the color, I think. That isn’t enough for anything decorative, really, is it?”

  They were still speaking in Scara, which had the Princess frown at him. She changed the language back then.

  “Well, don’t tell on me? I can bribe you. What do you want?”

  The only thing that came to mind was a thing that seemed too much to ask for. He did it anyway, as a jest.

  “More time in the day?”

  The others laughed then, without asking if he’d keep the secret of the Princess. Which he would. It was simply to keep her life easy, after all.

  Depak Sona looked at him then and pointed at the dress.

  “You could do fairly complex patterns and designs with no more than you know at this moment. We will practice that in the morning, tomorrow, when you come to see to the rooms and wake the others for the day. For now, I will see to this? It is not that you cannot master such, only a matter of time in the moment. What think you, Aisla, a gold thread, in the maze fashion of Modroc?”

  That got a considering look and agreement with a hand gesture. One that told the Magician to go ahead.

  Starting the spell instantly still had the man speaking four minutes later, describing exactly what he wanted to happen as he stared at the dress. That had to be flipped over so that he could see what he was doing on the back of it. What appeared was delicate and fine work. It looked like squares that had rounded edges, made small, as if they were interconnected flowers. Then when that complicated spell was finished, the Master Magician waved at the gown.

  “We need to make the colors more vibrant. These have faded and are not to the normal wear that a woman of Modroc would present with, if she had a choice. Do not add to them, simply increase the vibrancy. Think carefully how you would do this.”

  The words were addressed to him, so he closed his eyes and reviewed everything he knew, held in the hallway of magic. Something occurred to him then, so, over longer than it took Depak Sona to make the complex pattern, he worked out something that he hoped would be correct enough.

  “Wor li-ere ot ere-fen.” The words got the brown color to darken a good bit in the patch he outlined carefully with his finger. It meant doing the same spell six times for the whole thing, then doing a similar version for the green sections.

  Then, very, very carefully he focused on the gold thread and spoke his new idea. It was far more complex, and hopefully could be undone if it failed or simply didn’t look good. He was going for subtle with it, trying to make a soft light come from some of the golden threads. It wasn’t bright at all since he was carefully making it not just a small light. It was a small-small one.

  When he finished, Depak made a face that showed mild disgust and Aisla clapped her hands.

  “That is very good. Enough to show resources without being too open about it. That glow will last until sunrise tomorrow, too, so if she’s kept up late entertaining it won’t fade on her.”

  Depak Sona smiled then, seeming not to care.

  “Take it to her then? We will work on what I spoke of in the morning.”

  Chapter fourteen

  The Princess had seemed slightly annoyed at her new lessons and possibly the tutor of the moment when Anders came back in, carrying the gown for the evening. That was probably due to the fact that Master Belford snapped at her, twice in a row, for getting the order of the silver service wrong.

  She glanced up from the plate in front of her, a napkin on her lap, and frowned.

  “You were serious about the stick, weren’t you? Every time I err at all, his right-hand twitches. I’ve nearly punched him in the middle twice, in defense of myself.” The words were muttered and in Modroc. That didn't get them past the thin man in front of her, who nodded.

  His oiled long black hair moved a bit, not being pulled back at the moment.

  “I find it aids in keeping one focused to the task. Now, again. You have little time before you need to be readied. I see your gown is prepared?”

  The man answered in Istlan, which had Eltha move in to take the thing from his arms, her hands touching his as she did it. A move that could have been happenstance but got raised brows from Martya. Lyse ignored it, if she noticed it at all. She, like the others, were staring at the dress.

  Sandra moved in and started to touch it, then didn’t, her hand hovering over it about half a span away.

  “Perfect. It even shines, here. Is lasting?”

  Anders shook his head.

  “Not the light. I put that on and it will last until sunrise. It can be taken off, if you think it’s too much. The more intricate work was done by Depak Sona. I know that might be an issue for you. It wasn’t one for him. He doesn’t wish you presented poorly or anything. Really, he seemed eager for you to do well.”

  Which was only partially true. Selling things as being more positive than it really was felt right, in the moment. Especially to Anders. The fewer wars that took place, the better, to his way of thinking. It sounded to him as if it almost certainly would be taking place down south.

  On their own borders there, as well.

  The Princess moved to him and gave him a hug. It was friendly, without being something that he needed to be hit over. At least no one moved to do that. He did grin at her then.

  “Best watch that. Prince Erold will beat me otherwise for taking advantage of his betrothed. He can do it, too, so I’d rather avoid that.” They’d never fought, not past small disagreements in which Anders wanted to get into trouble and the Prince was smarter than that.

  The words got a chuckle from the Princess.

  “It is a lovely gown now. I’d been ready to eat ashes and look poor. None will think that was my plan now. I must send a note in thanks to the Barqean. Perhaps a small trinket as a token of thanks? That is not the custom of my people, though was spoken of here. What might he like? We could send him Sandra?”

  Anders watched the reaction of the others. It was interesting to see what was going on in response to the words. Lyse and Martya both seemed interested in the idea, nodding slightly in agreement. Duma Sett looked at the Princess closely, while Master Belford looked displeased.

  “Depak Sona enjoys books? Pictures as well. Most kinds, I think.”

  The words were almost ignored. No one led Sandra to the door down the hallway, which was probably enough at the moment. The girl was very young, compared to the Magician. Near in age to Lady Martya, at a guess.

  The lessons started again and while it took work, the foreign Princess knew what to do and had practiced it several times before the ladies moved her away to put makeup on her. The men weren’t needed for that, so bowed themselves out of the room. As they walked down the hallway, Anders stopped and knocked politely on the next door down.

  Once again, the man inside who answered was the one from that morning.

  Both he and Master Belford bowed, going low.

  “Natan Smitt, this is Master Belford. He speaks your language.” He did that part in Istlan, though the rest of the conversation was in Modroc. After a moment Anders bowed, then walked away.

  The whole thing had cost him hours. It was a needed thing, since making sure the Princess wasn’t embarrassed was important. More so than him being beaten in the morning for failure to get his work done on time.

  Beatings were unpleasant, so Anders moved with good speed back to the fletching shop, to find that everyone was still there working. He got back to it himself, just finishing his fifth batch of arrows as ever
yone started to clean up to leave for the day. The Master Fletcher patted him on the back.

  “Nicely done there. Even with being called away as you were. The bowyer has instructions for you. Best go see to that now, before he leaves.”

  He hurried over, directly, the old guard working a broom with fair vigor as he did so. A nice pile of shavings and dust had collected on the floor. Anders put his hand out to take the broom, figuring that would be his task, which got a nod.

  “Exactly so. Why else have an apprentice in the shop? You’ll be on strings all day tomorrow. Get in as early as you can and work until you have to leave. We want a few more days for your first bow to rest. Oil it again before you start working. Think you can get me ten strings an hour?”

  That would be very hard. His best rate still took him ten minutes. He was just honest about that fact.

  “No. I can move along at best speed but my fingers get sore after doing a few and that will slow me down as the day passes. It’s weak of me.”

  There was a chuckle then.

  “Too right boy. Do your very best, given that. Takes near on a month for a man’s fingers to harden to the work. We’re to ship out four hundred war bows and one hundred riding horn short bows in three days. We have half the strings we need for that now. Can you get me a hundred more of each type in three days?” The look on his face was sly.

  Telling Anders the real answer was no. He stopped to think about it, counting things up.

  “If I can do six per hour, that’s thirty-six per day, if I can find six hours for the work. A hundred and eight at that pace. So, I either have to go faster or work more to pull that off.”

  The man didn’t offer to beat him if he failed, just patting him on the shoulder a bit gruffly.

  “Sweep, then work that. You’re also making the bows still. The light horn and the regular yew war bow.” The man smiled as he turned and left directly.

  For some reason, Anders took that as a hint. The man didn't care what the rest of his day was like and might not even really know. To him there was a new apprentice, even if that hadn’t been affirmed in any way. It was, by Farad’s tradition, very fair to expect such a learner to work sixteen to eighteen hours every day, for several years.

  Sweeping quickly, he moved directly into making bow strings, over and over, while practicing magic in his head. That helped with the tenderness in his fingers. At true dark, feeling hungry, he debated running to the low hall for a meal. The food was needed. So was the time. Instead he used magic to make an arrow stave light brightly, propping it up near the string jig. Then he just worked, trying not to be distracted by the hunger in his middle.

  The passing of time was only counted in strings then, with him working until there were an even hundred of the things. That meant he had too little time for sleep that day. Laying down in the dark lasted only for a few hours. As it was, he had to force himself upright at dawn. And stumble though his morning washing and cleaning up.

  Magic was used for that, speeding things up enough that he was, a bit blearily still, able to make his way to the Ambassadorial hall. There he saw to Depak Sona first, that being his primary task. Then he made his way from room to room, waking many of the Modroc, in order to clean their chambers as well. They were supposed to have servants for that, though none showed themselves that early.

  Duma Sett was already awake, discussing things with one of the Modroc men and Eltha when he got there. The fellow smiled at him, stood and bowed, using the second courtly version. Already doing the first one, Anders slid his foot back to match the man, since it seemed he was saying something else, other than a polite greeting.

  “Well met. I am Chistos Fromet, the ambassador from Modroc? It would be time, now, perhaps, that I was introduced to those here? Is that well with you?” The man had an accent. They all did, though it was lighter with the illusionist and her student.

  From the words, it seemed that the man had been missed as being there at all. Which was both a thing that could be easily understood, given the attack on the first day, as well as a grave oversight that could easily turn into an insult if not rectified quickly.

  So Anders lied, trying to do it smoothly.

  “The King has eagerly awaited your announcement to him. We can write that up and have it delivered today, if you wish? I could, perhaps, take it to Prince Robarts and have him deliver it directly. That will be impressive. More than if I handed it to the man, at least.” Plus, the truth of the matter was that no one had, in his entire life, suggested it was proper for Anders Brolly to hand anything to the King himself.

  There were channels for that kind of thing and the errand boy wasn’t sent to do that. Neither was the Prince and Heir, at a guess. Still, he knew how to get things to the correct office that way.

  “After the morning meal, if that serves you? I can see to having that brought in for all of you?”

  Curtsying, Duma Sett narrowed her eyes at him.

  “That would serve well, thank you, Master Anders. We will need the time to pen such. I have supplies here.”

  To him it was clear that she was suggesting her hand was finer for the writing of the message. She moved to set up a writing station and played scribe, the other man speaking in Modroc to her, while Anders tidied the room, summoned water and then cooled the space. Eltha followed him around the whole time, including out into the hallway, where he ordered their breakfast.

  “Depak Sona will be dining in, so two meals for his quarters?”

  Daren simply nodded, not even acting as if that was odd. Then, the boy had simply collected up the numbers for each set of rooms and accepted it. As he moved to ready the next room, she stepped in and pounded on the door for him.

  “Awaken! Once again, the tiny shaman comes to remove your filth. Try not to act amazed at this open display of power. Also, he can clean clothing. Get your outfits out for that!” The girl, who was a woman in truth, smirked at him.

  “Half the day was spent talking about you in our chambers, yesterday. No one understands why one such as you has been tasked to care for us so closely. Do they fear us still? We came in with attackers, so that would be their right, if not fully the truth.” She didn't bother with Istlan for that little speech.

  So he answered in kind.

  “It’s mainly that the servants fear you all. Especially new magic. I’m from here and familiar, so they see me do things and yawn about it. Your illusions would fill them with an abiding terror. Even your clothing might, so part of it is just being new and different. I wasn’t sent to impress you. Rather I just started doing it, so that we won’t be as embarrassed by our people acting so cowardly.”

  The words got him a hand on the shoulder. Eltha Tennet had to reach down a bit to do that. She didn’t remove her hand until the door opened.

  No one spoke as he worked. All of the clothing they had was brought out of their trunks and bags, which meant the whole thing took several times longer than he liked. It was worse when he got to the room of the younger ladies, since they wanted him to make their dresses prettier for them.

  He did some of that, brightening the colors in places, cleaning them and removing the wrinkles of travel, until the early meal came, then used that as an excuse to leave.

  Which didn’t really get him out of that kind of work. He just had to do it while eating his own food, timing bites as he made an interesting pattern appear on his own clothing. The thing wasn’t truly grand, just being a check pattern, with each box of black he placed on the red background being about the size of his hand. That was only on the front, since without stripping down he couldn’t see the back of the outfit.

  That wasn’t required of him, thankfully.

  On the sixth time he yawned, Depak Sona looked at him closely.

  “Did you not sleep restfully?”

  “Just not enough. I was set a task of making two hundred bow strings. I did the first half last night. My fingers are sore already. From twisting the threads?” Holding them up to show his slightly
red fingers got a smile.

  “That is a good task for a boy. I should let you go back to that, now, then? You can practice magic while you work.” The last was a command, even though he wasn’t certain that doing more than reviewing and meditating on the correct phrases would be welcome in the workshops.

  “I’ll try, if I’m allowed. I don’t know that anyone needs their bows turned different colors.”

  “Ask? I know that I always do that to my own. It isn’t paint and will not harm anything.”

  Finishing the food, which was good, being well prepared for the special people, Anders moved out of the room, bowing as he did it. Then he jogged to the bow shop, to find the others just getting in as he stepped in the door himself.

  Sergeant Barkley moved to the table with the string jig on it and nodded. It was still covered with finished long bow strings.

  The man inspected them all, not rejecting any of them.

  “One hundred, even. Half done on the assignment. Did you sleep at all?”

  “A few hours, Master Bowyer. I should hurry. I have lessons in the afternoon… Oh, um… Do you want the bows in any different colors? I’ve learned how to do that. It won’t affect them except in hue. I was told that I needed to practice that kind of thing, when I can. Magic in general, not just making things different colors.”

  Rather than make a sign against evil, the man snorted at him.

  “Try the strings first. Short bow. Alternate green ones with brown ones, as long as it doesn’t slow down your production. Move up to ten an hour, if you can. You had to have been close to that in order to get that done in the time you had last night.”

  The morning was spent doing the spells, which got very boring and so did making the strings. It was mind numbing after a while, even forcing himself to move faster the whole time. One grace to the whole thing was that the short bow strings were easier to handle. It wasn’t a vast difference, since the wrapping and tying was the same. Anything was useful to him in the moment. By the time everyone else left for the mid-meal, Anders had thirty-three of the things finished.