The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  Within minutes he had excused himself from the pilgrims and joined Miyuki at a table near the door with the minstrel and a woman at his side. The barmaid dropped off a plate of freshly baked barley bread and four bowls of pork and fava bean soup. Angelo had ordered it upon the minstrel’s suggestion and Miyuki was not surprised to find it was the highest-priced item in the tavern. To the barmaid, she nodded and said, “I gratefully receive.”

  Careful, Angelo cast. You are not in Nippon.

  Oh, the customs. There was one loaf of bread at the center of the table. She assumed it was for everyone, but waited to see how others handled it first. She would start with the soup. That would be easy. One look at the bowl told her otherwise: no spoon and it didn’t look anything like soup.

  At home, if she were not given a soup spoon, it would be proper to sip the soup out of the bowl and eat the solid food with chopsticks. Why do these people make it so complicated? It infuriated her. Besides the missing chopsticks, there was no way she could drink this. The soup in the bowl before her was more of a thick mash than something like real soup, like miso soup back home. Miyuki wondered if her linguistic implant translated the word soup incorrectly. Maybe the implant needed to be—what was the term used—recalibrated?

  She looked up. To her relief, no one was watching her.

  The minstrel introduced himself as Miquel del Pallars and the woman as his wife Violant. He broke off a chunk of the bread and dipped it into his bean soup. Steam rose from the mash-covered bread in the sunlight that streamed obliquely through the open door. The sunset’s orange hue gave it a warm texture. Miyuki followed his lead.

  “So,” he said, “you like good minstrel music, do you? Well, I can see you’re a man of refined taste. You got noble blood in you, you do.” Miyuki stiffened. The minstrel must have caught her change, and jabbed the mash-bread in her direction. “Ah, I knew it.” He popped the large chunk into his mouth and smiled, feeling he had made his point. The morsel was apparently too large, even for his generous mouth, and his eyes began to water even as he tried to conceal his discomfort.

  Violant leaned into the sunlight, and plopped her elbows on the worn, oak table. The bright light fell upon her dark, braided hair and deepened her laugh lines. Her eyes were hungry for something. She leaned in close and beckoned her husband into the inner circle. He was more intent on the meal, but obliged his sales-savvy wife. “I can tell by the way you hold yourselves,” she lowered her voice and looked directly at Miyuki, “that you are noble born. Fear not, fair masters. Your secret’s safe with us. I heard you were ‘bout town looking for a minstrel for the King’s court but didn’t want to draw attention. Let me tell you, you shan’t find a finer voice than my—”

  “No,” Angelo cut her off. “I only want to know about that song, ‘The Sweet Sadness.’”

  Violant sat back. “The song? The song?” Recovering she said, “Ah, but you can get more than a song by sponsoring Miquel. You get his whole—”

  “Only the song,” Angelo said, “or more exactly, the origin of it.”

  Violant smirked. “I see. If I were a common man—and lady, “she nodded to Miyuki, “like yourselves, I would be willing to purchase this song for a modest price.”

  “The origin, please.” Angelo repeated.

  “A local minstrel is better for his Majesty than that Provençal poet.”

  “So, it’s from Occitania.” Angelo said.

  “Of course,” Miquel said, having conquered half the loaf. “Everyone knows it’s from Catalan. You aren’t from around here, are you?”

  “And this Provençal poet,” Angelo asked, “he has a name?”

  Miquel shrugged. “Guillem de Cabestany.”

  Violant slapped him.

  “What?” Miquel said, shrinking back. “Everyone knows that.” He addressed Angelo. “A splendid troubadour he is.”

  “You dim-witted, disloyal bed-toad!” Violant threw her hands in the air. Miquel flinched. “Your tongue lost us another sponsor.”

  “We weren’t going to sponsor him,” Angelo said. “Miquel, where can I find this Guillem de Cabestany?”

  “Who knows?” Miquel said. “He was in the region of Rossillon near the Spanish border. Years ago, he frequented the court of Alfonso II of Aragon, and sometimes—” Another slap from Violant cut him short.

  “Heavens, woman,” Angelo said. “I’ll hire your husband for a month if you vow not to beat him.”

  “Oh.” Violant brightened. “In court?”

  “No, in any tavern far away from you.”

  Violant drew back at the insult. She grabbed her husband’s sleeve, got up, and pulled him away from the table. “We’re done here,” she said.

  As the couple walked away, Miyuki realized Angelo had been watching her. “First thing in the morning,” he said, “we’ll take the pod to Rossillon. We’ll stay here for the night. Ask the innkeeper for two rooms.”

  She bowed her head. “Yes, Commander Angelo Tenishi-san.”

  Angelo smiled, and shook his head.

  She rose, and, with a slip into old customs, bowed to him. As she approached the innkeeper, she noted that he was a large man with keen eyes. He was engaged in a heated conversation with two inebriated patrons. As she neared, she heard them talking about an object with healing powers. It pricked the hairs on the back of her neck. She thought of a prowling tiger and blinked to use her oc-lok. A quick scan showed the innkeeper and the two drunks weren’t using Avar-Tek, but something still seemed amiss.

  Taking a chance, she asked, “Did you say some one here has mystical powers?”

  The innkeeper turned and regarded her, his gaze firm and eyes bleak.

  Half a heartbeat later, Miyuki’s oc-lok showed an Avar-Tek emission level 42 and the words oc-lok scan over his head. She tensed. He was using his oc-lok to scan her. He’s a Key’ari, probably an informant. Good choice placing him as an innkeeper. She made sure that her oc-lok was recording the event.

  The innkeeper shifted into a fighting stance. “What’s it to you?” He asked. “Better be keeping to your own business if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I am sorry to offend, but my husband is ill and if there is a healing stone available, I would like to ask—”

  “No one said nothing about a stone,” the innkeeper snapped.

  Another Avar-Tek device registered on Miyuki’s oc-lok. A 97 percent chance of a class six weapon. He had charged it.

  Miyuki cast on an open frequency, a channel that any Key’ari or Sittiri would hear, You break treaty if you try to kill me.

  I’m not going to kill you yet, he cast. I’ll take your onyo15 first.

  That was worse. The onyo was a bio-implant inserted into her brain. If he intended to take it when she was still living, he was a sadistic beast. “My husband—” she said out loud.

  “Your husband?” The innkeeper raised his voice. “He’s been drawing trouble like flies on pig filth. He needs to be tossed out with the chamber pot!” Then he cast, I’ll take his onyo next.

  Before he had a chance to draw his next breath, she drew her stun stick. It flashed into the shape of a tachi,16 but in the emotion of the moment, she chose the wrong shape for the stun-stick. Instead of telling it to use a non-lethal preprogrammed shape, she thought of battle back home and selected a tachi with a cutting edge. Before she had time to think, the stun-tachi sliced cleanly through the innkeeper’s neck. The blade instantly retracted. In the same swinging motion she used for the deadly stroke, she clipped the stun stick hilt back into her belt.

  Over the mayhem that followed, Angelo yelled allowed in Vantu,17 “Verisuit to stealth.” She complied and activated her stealth mode.

  I saw the threat, Angelo cast. You had little choice. The fool had a weapon and his threat was recorded. Grab any Avar-Tek that isn’t implanted, and head for the door.

  She scanned his body and checked his hands. In his right hand, tucked into his apron, was an M42 Charge Pistol with modified capacitors. She grabbed it, an
d quickly tucked it into her verisuit, concealing it from view. After making her way outside, she found Angelo still in stealth mode, but visible to her, under an alcove away from the crowd gathering around the tavern.

  I’ve only seen that happen twice before, he cast as she approached. The first time it was recorded, the diplomats handled it, and I heard nothing more.

  The other time, she continued for him, it led to war.

  You know your history. I’ll send in the report with the recording right away. With any luck, you won’t be called before the Archons, and we’ll be able to go to Rossillon by weeks’ end. He looked around at the city and sighed. He spoke out loud in Castilian, “Farewell, Toledo, my old friend.”

  Chapter 12

  Francisco

  Toledo

  Autumn, Year of our Lord 1211

  549 Days on the Streets

  SANCHO RAN INTO La Grande’s swordsmith shop. “Tidings,” he gasped and bent over to catch his breath.

  Francisco asked, “Is there a fire?”

  Panting, Sancho shook his head and held out his hand in a sign to wait.

  It was mid-morning on a Wednesday, a warm day for mid-November but still chilly and over a month since the Wayside Beheading as it became known. Francisco, now a full-fledged apprentice, was completing a final polish on a single-edged falchion sword, which had been delivered earlier from the hiltsmith. With tongs, Mateo held one end of an orange-hot blade on the anvil as La Grande held the other end and struck the blade with her hammer, her thick arms pounding the orange-hot steel before her ample bosom. She couldn’t stop, but Mateo and Francisco gave their full attention to Sancho.

  “Well?” Francisco asked. He couldn’t keep frustration out of his voice since he was still confined to the shop and jealous Sancho could run around the city at will.

  “A crowd ... a crowd is gathering ... around in the esplanade,” Sancho said.

  “For what?” Francisco and Mateo asked together.

  “A proclamation. I wager it is the pope.”

  La Grande laughed, her cheeks smeared with soot. “Pope Celestine III would not come here, chico.”

  “No,” Sancho said. “The message is from the pope, and the pope is Innocent III. I wager that—”

  “Now that’s funny.” La Grande laughed. “A Jew calling the pope innocent!”

  Sancho shot Francisco a look of surprise.

  Francisco shrugged. “I didn’t tell her. Besides, she doesn’t care you’re Jewish, and she won’t tell.”

  Sancho continued. “I wager that he finally declared a crusade.”

  “Not a moment too soon,” La Grande said. “The Saracens took Salvaterra only weeks ago. That’s too close for my comfort. I’ll have to learn how to forge scimitars soon.”

  “Don’t bother,” Mateo said. “The archbishop went to Rome and they’re sending help.”

  La Grande waved her hammer in the air. “Those ultramontanos18 are worthless.”

  Francisco leaned over to Sancho and asked, “Ultramontanos?”

  “Foreigners from beyond the Pyrenees,” Mateo answered for him.

  “And there is no chance,” La Grande continued, “no chance that Navarre and Aragon will fight together with Castile ... or France and Languedoc, for that matter. No chance. I should start making scimitars now.”

  Mateo said, “If they don’t band together, you will have to. It’s no longer safe in Toledo. I hear told that there’s a demon-possessed man running around at night who won’t die. Back full of blades they say.”

  Sancho glanced at Francisco and said, “Truly you jest.”

  “Nay. Some say he breathes fire, but I believe not that tale.”

  Francisco shrugged. “I believe it.” He glared at Sancho, eyes wide and intense. “He can burn you alive just by looking at you.”

  La Grande laughed and shook her head.

  “So, can I go to the esplanade?” Francisco asked.

  “Yes, yes.” La Grande stopped hammering and stared at them. “What are you waiting for? Go find out what’s happening!”

  On the way out, Francisco grabbed two black bread biscuits and a skin of wine. He handed one to Sancho who took it, but didn’t take a bite.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Sancho didn’t answer.

  Francisco shivered, he had forgotten how much cooler it was outside. Christmas was only six weeks away, but he was happy to have an excuse to get out of the smithy. This was fantastic. This war was a perfect way to honor his father with the healing stone. The more he thought about it the more excited he became. As they joined three others heading for the esplanade, Sancho abruptly led Francisco down an adjoining alley. Is this a shortcut?

  Sancho stopped and turned to Francisco. He had that don’t-be-an-idiot look in his eyes.

  Francisco lifted his hands in surrender. “What? She told me to come.”

  “It is not that. Do you know what happened at Salvatierra?”

  “Yes, the Moors sacked it, and they could be coming here by next spring.”

  “It was a long siege. I know because I’ve heard it from the Jews who were there. Remember all those Jews that lived in Salvatierra? No? Well I do. There are none left now. Not one. Homes gone. Synagogue gone.”

  “The Moors are known for—”

  “No. This was different. It was like what happened to my family. The Muslims tolerated us for generations. They taxed us, treated us as less than them, but no worse than here with you Christians, and in some ways better. They wanted us, needed us as translators, scholars, and money lenders because we knew our letters and could charge interest.”

  Francisco took a bite out of his biscuit. “Charge interest. What’s that?”

  “That is not important now. There was a change, my father used to say. Things were getting worse. Now I must fight them.”

  “Are other Jews fighting with us?”

  Sancho nodded. “Yes.”

  Francisco smiled. “Then this is perfect. You can avenge your parents’ deaths.”

  “I could die, and you... you saw what happened with the gangs. I can only imagine what you would do in war.”

  “I can finally honor my father’s last wish: heal as many as I can without payment. I failed healing and fighting the gangs because we took it too far and started to become one of them. But I’m not turning Moor, and you can’t go too far in war. You’re supposed to kill. I can heal the army and fight a bigger gang. What could go wrong? This time it is ordained by God.”

  Sancho shook his head. “It may not work.”

  Francisco continued, more excited having spoken his thoughts aloud and realizing how it all fit together. “The healing stone? Of course, it will work. We can mix healing with justice. Since the crusade is ordained by God, then God’s blessing is on it,” he counted the list with his fingers, “so the stone will work, the bad men will lose, and I have finally found my calling. The only thing that can go wrong is losing my head.” He shivered. “But if God is on our side, even the genies can’t touch me.”

  “It is not a question of God being on your side. You should ask, ‘Am I on God’s side?’”

  Francisco stood dumbfounded. “What are you saying? What else can we do? It is the law. To do anything else is cowardice, and God is not a coward!”

  Sancho closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “I might return to the Jewish quarter,” he said. “Disgrace is better than death in war.”

  “You will still need to fight.”

  “Francisco, you behave as if this is nothing more than fighting another gang. This is war.”

  “We have no choice but to go.” Francisco laid his hand gently on Sancho’s shoulder and spoke barely above a whisper. “I need you, Sancho. You’re the only one who knows about the healing stone, and you’re the only one who can keep me out of trouble.” As he spoke, he realized he was admitting it for the first time. “You were right about the gangs and my uncle. I was taking it too far.”

  Sancho bit into his biscuit.
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  Francisco crossed himself and raised his right hand. “On this day, I solemnly swear that I will stay by your side and heal you during this campaign, so help me God and all the saints.”

  Sancho sighed. “Very well. For the sake of keeping you out of trouble, I will come.” He grabbed the wineskin, washed down the biscuit, and led Francisco out of the alley. A moment later, their street met two others at odd angles and opened to the esplanade with hanging banners of the King’s colors: a yellow castle on a field of red. The esplanade was so packed with people that Francisco and Sancho had to squeeze in past the corner to see the town crier. He wore a scarlet tunic with a broad, scarlet hat and must have been standing on something. It sounded like he had been repeating the announcement for some time. His words, though loud and clear, were raspy and strained. When he spoke, the general murmur of the crowd silenced to a few coughs and the beating wings of a flock of black redstarts that flew off a building to his left.

  “All able-bodied men from the ages of fifteen to forty shall report here at the esplanade next spring on St. Leander of Seville Day. A holy crusade under Alfonzo VIII of Castile, and blessed by Pope Innocent III, has been called for all of Christendom to rid Spain of the Saracen invaders. Those of noble standing and owing fealty to our Lord the King, shall render their due in arms. All freemen in this city are called forth under the banner of the Toledo militia. Failure to report is punishable by death.”

  Chapter 13

  Miyuki

  Zaragoza, Kingdom of Aragon

  Local Date: 12 March 1212

  Miyuki determined that Guillem de Cabestany was one of those lucky people whose station in life suited both his desire and his skill. He was a handsome man with a square jaw and the voice of an angel who very much needed the praises of others. As such, he was well-suited as a troubadour. The rhythm in his step and gestures seemed to strike a resonance in women’s hearts. He held himself with the confidence of nobility and had a gentle touch that made ladies-in-waiting swoon and curse the day of their arranged marriages.

  Miyuki and Angelo watched his performance with such intensity it was as if they placed a large wager on it. Indeed, they had. The wager was the next few days or months, depending on how the recruiting played out. Miyuki had bet Guillem de Cabestany fulfilled line six of the Ox Shalay prophecy, which described him as “The healer who weeps for the enemy.” Angelo bet he would not.