Before the performance, Angelo had asked Guillem directly what he thought about the Saracens. With Miyuki as a witness, Guillem said they were not worth the ground they walked upon. For Angelo, this was proof enough that Guillem failed to match the sixth line, but not for Miyuki. She had argued that Guillem was just repeating the expected court dogma, and that he would not reveal his true emotions unless it was in song. So, they sat in the throne hall of the Aljaferia fortified palace with its interlacing arches of carved white stucco on tan marble and listened. On the benches around them, the wine-sipping audience sat facing the performers on stage under the large arch at the end of the hall.
Earlier that night, Angelo and Miyuki had programmed their verisuits to make them look like the other nobles. When she had programmed hers, her metallic suit in its natural form appeared to melt. Before it touched the floor, it shimmered and turned into a fine scarlet silk dress trimmed in gold embroidery. Down the front of her bodice, the trim bubbled and turned into polished beads. Her stun-stick melted into a modest purse that dangled from her waist. Angelo wore ridiculously pointed leather shoes, long red stockings, red breeches, and a white silk coat, held together with a massive belt also embroidered in gold. He topped it off with a scarlet cap and fur-mantled yellow surcoat embroidered with the Toulouse coat of arms: a yellow Occitan cross on a blood-red background. The verisuit also changed the appearance of his face so that he looked like a handsome, thirty-years’ younger version of himself. Miyuki allowed herself a moment of wishing the younger Angelo had recruited her. It was a fantasy she couldn’t indulge in for long, and she chided herself for even considering it.
She forced herself to think about Guillem, and in him she also found the stirrings of romance. Here was a man who knew of both love and arms, of passionate devotion and oaths of virtue, of love’s fealty and the need to defend it to the death. She could get used to court life in Aragon, if it weren’t for her awareness of rifts and the desperate need to fight against the Key’ari.
She glanced at Angelo. He was supposed to be Amaury, Baron of Montauban, and she his Baroness Mafalda, except that he, the master of gravity, tended to trip over his pointed shoes at the worst possible times of courtly introductions. Thankfully, they were sitting down now, free of any stumbling embarrassment, and waiting for Guillem de Cabestany to shed a tear for the enemy.
And here it came again, the refrain with a strum of his lute. It would be his last time singing it. Her last chance of staying in Aragon. Guillem de Cabestany’s last chance of being the One of Six.
He sang in Occitan,19 his voice reverberating in the scooped arches above,
Profeta sera.n Gavaudas
qu.el dig er faitz, e mortz als cas!
e Dieus er honratz e servitz
on Bafometz era grazitz.
Miyuki’s linguistic implant translated for her. His words were,
Gavaudan shall be a prophet
for his words shall become a fact. Death to those dogs!
God shall be honored and worshiped
where Mahomet is now served.
No tear, nor any sign of pity or remorse showed in his face. He in fact smiled as the audience cheered. He stood and bowed deeply.
Before Guillem had stepped off the stage, the next performer, a jongleur, stepped up in a crouched position, his eyes shifting from side to side, his voice low and raspy as if telling a secret. The audience sat enthralled.
He failed, Angelo cast.
Without looking at him and drawing attention to a conversation without words, she replied, Perhaps he is ‘The hero who falls in battle.’ He is preparing for that crusade in Toledo. If he goes—
Spectacularly, Angelo interrupted her, he failed.
She had no response. Angelo had all the logic and authority.
Of the ten lines of the prophecy, Angelo cast, how many did he pass with greater than eighty percent assurance?
One, the song Sweet Sadness, but there’s over sixty percent assurance on three other lines.
And zero on five others. Again, a spectacular failure.
He needs—
He cut her off. More time? No. Five months is more than enough time for a spectacular failure. He isn’t the one, Trainee Miyuki. We agreed before we setup this final test that we would start over in Toledo if he failed. Sorry. Failure happens more often than success. You just need to realize it for yourself.
Is this not my training mission? My first? Then allow me to realize it.
The audience laughed at a line from the jongleur.
At last, Angelo cast, I can’t stay with a failure. The Sittiri need my level of expertise with the real recruit.
Then how am I to learn for myself? She knew she sounded a little desperate, perhaps even disrespectful, but she couldn’t help herself.
That’s obvious.
She looked at him, not understanding. We are at an impasse, she cast. You want to return to Toledo. I want to stay here. How is that obvious?
And within your own statement lies the answer.
We cannot split, she cast. That is the rule.
Of course, we can. I made the rule, I can make another. Recruiter rule number 473: If he doesn’t cry, you can split up.
Confused, she cast, There are 472 rules?
Of course not. I just made that up, too. Angelo stood up and slipped out of the hall.
She would be alone, if he left her. Alone in this foreign land, sure to leave a string of rifts and decapitated heads behind her. She got up and followed his footsteps echoing behind the hall and down into the old keep that smelled of mold and rotting wood. There, on the bottom floor in a damp room lit by flickering torch light, she found him waiting for her.
“We can speak alone, out loud here,” Angelo said in Japanese. She was relieved he chose her native tongue.
He looked around. “They call this the Troubadour Tower. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“How am I supposed to do this alone?” she asked.
“I don’t know. You suggested it.”
“I suggested we stay here.”
“You’ll be fine,” Angelo said. “You wanted to learn on your own. Now you can.”
“I wanted to learn—to see—for myself that Guillem de Cabestany was not the one.”
“Now you can.”
“How?”
“You graduated. You tell me.”
She inhaled deeply and focused. “I have the Voice to guide me.”
“Yes, and?”
“My onyo, the nexus20 link, and—”
“Your wits and instinct,” Angelo finished. “Watch for enemy attack using your oc-lok and look for signs of the prophecy.”
“You told me that it took you six years to find me.”
Angelo nodded.
“That is a long time to search for one person,” she said.
Angelo nodded.
“How long can it take, Tenishi-san?”
“It took me fifteen years once to find a recruit.”
“Fifteen years to search for one person. Fifteen years,” she repeated. “Wouldn’t he be too old for the Academe by then?
“The Ox Shalay takes that into account. I found her at just the right time. If I had found her at the outset, she would have only been an infant.” He turned and studied her. “One must have a passion for recruiting.”
“All that time,” she said, returning his scrutiny with her own intensity. He must know that I am serious. “It must make one very patient.”
“There are not many Sittiri. Finding one is precious,” he said. “Tell me about your pearl divers, the ama.”
“Ah, the ama used to dive just for food—lobsters, seaweed, octopus—but now they hunt mainly for pearls. It can be very hazardous because they dive so deeply. The water is frigid, and they grease their skin to retain heat. Many of the oysters yield only meat, but sometimes there is a pearl, and it is worth a month’s wages or more.”
“A recruit,” Angelo explained, “is rarer than the largest pearl without flaw.”
He looked her intently in the eyes. “You’ll do fine,” he said.
“It is not me I am concerned about.” She waved her hand toward the throne hall. “It is them losing their heads. You can stay with me and use a recorder21 to search for your recruit in Toledo.” She reached into a slot in her verisuit and pulled out three recorders. She held out the dormant beetles on her palm. “You can tag potential recruits with recorders and watch them.”
Angelo shook his head. “No. I’ve tried it before. It’s better in person.”
She slipped the recorders back into the slot. “Should we call for backup?”
“Most of the Sittiri are busy out near your homeland.”
“Nippon?” Miyuki gripped her stun-stick-purse.
“No, the Ming Dynasty. Something about horse archers from Mongolia. Your people are fine.” He considered. “Well, not fine. They’re still killing themselves, but that’s normal. As for us, the problems associated with splitting are less than problems associated with losing the recruit. Therefore, it is worth taking the risk of splitting. Don’t go causing rifts, and don’t worry about Key’ari. They can’t kill you since it would violate treaty.”
The innkeeper tried to, she thought to herself, but she admitted he was an exception to the rule.
He held his hand out to her in a fist. She touched it with her fist. They pulled back and chanted, “Nec Tempore Rugam.” He stepped forward. “I know it’s not your custom, but it’s mine.” He embraced her, held her stiff body for two counts, and then stood back, holding her shoulders. “You will do well, princess.” He let go of her, lifted his right hand to touch his earlobe with his middle finger. She heard him cast to the Bureau of Temporal Corrections in Neubawni, Temporal? Commander Angelo here. No enemy engagements and no recruit. Trainee Miyuki is remaining in Zaragoza for observation. I am returning to Toledo. Transmitting oc-lok record. Angelo out.
Chapter 14
Francisco
Toledo
St. Leander of Seville Day
667 Days on the Streets
BEING BOTH DUTIFUL AND EAGER, Francisco and Sancho presented themselves at the appointed time in the esplanade. Four months after the crusade announcement, the esplanade had transformed. It felt like a cross between a military command center and an early spring fair. Minstrels on a platform to the east sang songs of war, encouraging the faithful in duty against the Crescent and reminding those around that ‘Calatrava and Alarcos fell into the hands of the Mohammedans.’22 A handful of vendors had set up booths to sell hot cider. Meat pies could be bought or bartered for outrageous prices.
The crowd gathered to listen to a few encouraging words from King Alfonso VIII, a stirring speech from Archbishop Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada, and terse instructions from the master at arms. Following his instructions Francisco and Sancho lined up for gear with anxious husbands, enthusiastic youth, and just plain annoyed merchants. Those without means or without armor of their own were to be provided gear from the King’s stock, free for service.
The master at arms’ assistants came out with rods in hand, took cursory measurements of every man and boy in line, and yelled up the numbers. The gear was assembled and presented at the tables at the end of the line.
Aware of the men standing silently around them, Francisco leaned closer to Sancho and said, “La Grande said these handouts are horse dung, but she’ll repair them for us free of charge, unless it’s Saracen armor. Stay away from those. And she can’t make anything from scratch except swords, so—”
Sancho kept looking behind him and around with head bowed and furtive glances.
Francisco rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop it. It’s been months. There’s been no word about the Key’ari.”
Head still bowed, Sancho asked, “And your genies?”
“I should have kept my mouth shut about them.”
“I couldn’t sleep at all,” Sancho grumbled. “No more late-night stories.”
“I made it all up.” Francisco put his hand on Sancho’s shoulder. “What’s more important now is that we get good gear, something La Grande can work with or send out for repairs. You have a way with merchants, work your magic.”
Sancho pulled his shoulders back, and a touch of color brightened his face. “What would you like more than anything from them?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” He motioned with his hands over his head and back around his neck. “Something to guard my neck. A hauberk with a hood or something. I would be willing to go stark naked into battle with a hooded hauberk and—” He turned. The man behind them was listening with a bemused grin. Francisco turned back to Sancho and said, “And my boots.”
Sancho’s eyes widened. He whispered, “Will it heal you if they chop off your—” He slid his finger across his neck.
“How would I know? I’m not going to try it.”
“Yes, well, if you die,” Sancho said, “then can I have it?”
“My head?” Francisco asked, louder than he intended. “You want my head?”
“No, fool! I desire not your stinking head. I want it.”
Before Francisco could answer, an assistant, wrinkled and wizened with age, stepped up to him and prodded Francisco’s arms with a measuring stick. “Arms up,” he said and flashed a toothless grin.
“A little old for an apprentice, aren’t you?” Francisco asked.
“I’m a master candle maker by trade, boy. I do this as service for God and king. I done battle at Alarcos. Now up with your arms. The line is long.”
Francisco held up his arms, and Sancho asked, “Can we get hauberks with hoods?”
The old candle maker continued measuring as he spoke. “You’ll get what we give you. A militiaman as yourself could make a request of the master at arms, but ... arms up a little higher.” He turned towards the counter and yelled, “Sixty-seven and a half by twenty-nine.” Moving on to Sancho he continued, “But you’re better off saving your breath.” He nudged Sancho’s arms, “Arms up young man. Good.” He measured. “The master is nothing but annoyed this morning. He has no time for complaints, requests, or trade-ins from petty militia, only from petty nobles.” He yelled over his shoulder, “Sixty-one and a half by thirty-two.”
Sancho curled his nose. “Sixty-one? Only sixty-one. You said Francisco was sixty-seven. Your stick must be wrong.”
“Be not vexed with me young man. You did not drink enough goat’s milk.” The wizened candle maker returned to the table on their right.
Sancho let out a long breath. “Life mirrors that new game I taught you,” he said. “We are pawns in the king’s service.”
“Ah,” Francisco said, holding up his index finger, “but in chess even a pawn can put a king in checkmate.”
“I am not a king killer.”
“You’re right,” Francisco said, “you’re too short.”
The line moved up.
The master at arms stepped forward and pointed at the men behind Francisco, “You, you, and you three, come with me.” The men behind followed him to another table in front of Francisco to his left for measurement.
Sancho’s eyes widened. He had been looking over Francisco’s shoulder. Francisco half expected to see a Key’ari scout or a genie—whatever they were supposed to look like. He turned and saw instead the red-headed Castigo giant step up in line directly behind them. The giant gazed down on them with no expression, his arms folded over his chest. He wore the leather apron of a tanner, and his meaty hands were stained with dark dyes. The stench of urine and dung used in tanning almost made Francisco retch.
Francisco shifted his heel to make sure the stone was in contact. He felt it. He searched for clever words or words that belied his unease, but he found himself saying something stupid. “What are you looking at, Goliath?”
Sancho gasped. He turned to Goliath and held up his hands in supplication. “Uh, my friend here, sir, has been hit hard in the head. He means to say that he is glad we are all now on the same side.”
Goliath nodded. “So am I. Francisco sc
ares me.”
Francisco blinked. “I scare you?”
The line moved forward.
“I never got a chance to thank you,” Goliath said. He pointed at his face with a salchicha sausage-sized finger. “For my nose and for getting me out of the Castigos.”23
After a long moment, Francisco said, “You’re welcome.”
Goliath stuck out his hand. Hesitantly, Francisco placed his into it. He felt like a little boy. Goliath shook it and said, not letting go, “My name is Llorenç de San Esteban de Gormaz, but you can call me Goliath. I swear to protect you in battle and be your right arm.”
Francisco wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it sounded good, and Goliath seemed sincere. The giant released Francisco’s hand, which was damp with sweat.
“Very well,” Francisco said, sticking out his chest, “I accept, and if you’re not using your left arm, then give it to my friend Sancho.”
The line moved forward, and Francisco had a better view of the supply table. Bundles of gear wrapped in brown burlap had been placed on shields. The armorer24 stood behind the table next to the master at arms and handed out javelins and swords with each pack according to measurements taken.
The line moved again, and they stepped up to the table. The armorer asked, “Sixty-six, sixty-one, and seventy?” Francisco, Sancho, and Goliath stepped up. The armorer slid three bundles of gear forward and plopped down the weapons. To Sancho he said, “Sixty-one, you sixty-one? Lord protect you. I could not find anything your size in the stocks.”
“Why not?” Sancho asked.
The armorer shrugged. “You are at the end of the line.”
Francisco looked back down the line. They were in the middle.
“Ah, well.” The armorer demurred. “In truth, we have no more your size.”
“He means,” Francisco said, “short and stocky.”
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 11