The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  “Ah, truly you are a learned man, but remember, we Muslims do not act like parasites. We have established peace and order wherever we go. We have planned and set up new cities, schools, agriculture, and, ehm, commerce. Tell your kings that we have conquered this land and made it a place of poets and scholars for the entire civilized world. Here, men study geography, history, Islamic law, philosophy, and architecture. Can your kings claim the same? We are the masters of trade, especially the slave trade. You must admit that we have brought fortune and abundance to Al-Andalus while the rest of Europe flounders. Did you not ride through the streets of Cordoba and, ehm, marvel at the beauty of the Mosques? Oh, but if we had more time, my friend, we would visit the splendors of Al-Andalus together, and you would see paradise on Earth as much as Allah would allow. And perhaps,” he waggled his finger,” one day we shall. Inshallah! It is said the—”

  With the warm day, a full meal, and Sidi Abbad barely taking time for a breath between words, Francisco found it hard to keep his eyes open. He forced himself to shift in his seat and take note of the room to refresh his mind. Tapestries decorated in Arabic script hung in the arched alcoves on either side. The chess board on which Sidi Abbad and Sir Angelo played often rested on a round table to his left with the pieces set up for the next game. Four imposing guards stood at each corner of the room. How did they keep from falling asleep?

  A boy rushed into the hall and with a curt bow, presented a letter to the prince.

  “Ah,” Sidi Abbad beamed. “Here it is at last.” As he read it, his expression soured. Lines deepened on his forehead and shadows grew under his eyes such that it seemed he aged ten years. He peered up at Sir Angelo and asked, “So, your lineage is drawn from which line?”

  Sir Angelo cleared his throat, but didn’t take is eyes off their host. “It is an ancient line.”

  “I am sure. And you owe allegiance to which infidel king?”

  Francisco, suddenly awake, didn’t like where this was going. He glanced between the knight and the prince and the guards.

  “In truth, I owe allegiance to no king, but King Alfonso the VIII from Castile is my friend. Is he not the one to whom you addressed your correspondence?”

  “He is.” Sidi Abbad ben Ali stood up and smoothed his robe. He stuck his chin out and, with a grave expression, approached Sir Angelo. Abruptly, he slapped the knight hard across the face.

  Francisco saw it coming and was sure Sir Angelo did too, but he did nothing to stop it. He took the blow full across the face without expression. Francisco knew it stung even for someone with internal healing stones.

  Sidi Abbad ben Ali said slowly with each word distinct, “It is well you did not lie to my face. I know now that you are a, ehm, we do not use this word here often, a pretender. No ransom has come for you, nor will it ever come.” The prince tilted his head. “You have slept under my roof, you have enjoyed my best hospitality, you have eaten at my table because I believed you to be of noble birth and worthy of a great ransom.” His hand grasped his dagger hilt.

  Sir Angelo didn’t flinch.

  Sidi Abbad’s fingers clenched around the gold-embossed hilt and unclenched. He sneered. “You are a vagabond and a liar. The blade is too good for you.”

  Despite the pressure of courtly manner and prudence, Francisco exploded without thinking. “But sire, I myself saw him summoned by King Alfonso.”

  “Silence, dog,” the prince snapped. “You likely saw this criminal being arrested.” He thrust the letter in Francisco’s face. “Here it is, if you can read. Your own king has said that he can, but will not help. In your king’s very words, ‘all this man is to me is … a sword.’”

  Francisco sat dumbfounded, wounded by betrayal and confused. Did Sir Angelo lie? He said it himself that he owes allegiance to no king. Then he cannot be a knight. What else has he lied about?

  Sidi Abbad ben Ali walked over to the round table with the chess game. With his fingers, he flicked the top of Angelo’s king piece. It fell. The sound of it hitting the board echoed in the stone hall. “You and your dog shall be shipped from the port of Tarifa and sold as slaves in Tangier. Perhaps, if Allah wills, it shall be enough to cover the expense of this one meal.”

  Chapter 38

  Ceolwulf

  Cordoba

  Local Date: 21 Safar 609

  CEOLWULF LAY ON THE PLEXUS training table, his hands and feet held firmly in shackles and his mind locked into the training bed’s simulation. After he had lain down, closed his eyes, and let his mind slip into the dream, he heard the Key’ari marching music and saw their flag with the white circle map on yellow, green, and red stripes. Beneath the flag, words from the Key’ari motto appeared: duty, loyalty, service, valor, obedience, and courage.

  The image faded and he found himself in a spacious room with wooden pillars, large sliding doors, a reed mat, and the familiar, short, old man, wearing a black tunic and baggy black pants. The old man never smiled. He stood with his hands behind his back and said, “Today you begin your first training session. I am Master Frew, your instructor. We will begin with Key’ari military history and the overhand blocking move. The history of the Key’ari begins in Avar—”

  Ceolwulf had taken the Four-Year Cycle training at least six times, first for training and then five times as punishment. Basic military history and martial arts was the first class. Others included infiltration techniques using a verisuit and an oc-lok, weapons, tactics, Key’ari protocol, use of Avar-Tek in theater, and fieldstone use with basic first aid. The ever-present Key’ari motto was repeated in every class. The courses were more than a simulation; in some classes, the plexus imprinted thought patterns directly into his mind as if he relived the life of someone else, usually the master in the field of study.

  I would rather hang for another month than go through this again. Now is the best time for the key.

  Using Eden’s encryption key, he logged in to the nexus51 as a maintenance ghost while Master Frew reviewed the early years of the temporal wars. Ceolwulf swapped the identification number of his plexus bed with another one in the room and had the other bed play through the basic training simulation. He pulled his old records and found the ones for this course. To make it look like he was taking the course, he had the other bed play back his old record. He wasn’t sure he did it right at first. Commander Eden had kept him ignorant of Avar-Tek, but after the simulation ran through the first course, he looked at the log. It showed he had just taken the course. The risk paid off.

  Ceolwulf set up the next two classes to play through his old record. This allowed Ceolwulf to use his plexus bed for something else. He started the cyber-security basic and intermediate courses under the ghost login. He should have three hours in real time before the guards came to give him a water break. Since time in the simulation seemed to go a lot faster than regular time, three hours gave him eighteen days in the simulation.

  After his water break, Ceolwulf realized he had made a mistake. Someone might look at the log and realize he was getting the same results he got years ago. He decided the best way to fool the security system was to turn it inside out. If the security system was looking for performance that was similar to his past records, then he should use the security system’s expectations to create the new performance record. Having now passed the cyber security courses, this was easy.

  Before the first day of training was complete, Ceolwulf had taken programming courses and had written a new program that made it look like he was taking the Four-Year Cycle over again with random but expected results. He called the program Hunwald, named after his childhood friend. You could always get Hunwald to do something foolish, but he never took offense and always laughed with you.

  At the end of the month, Ceolwulf knew his time was short. He had read it in Eden’s secondary thoughts and had seen that Eden was planning on releasing him soon with a new assignment. Ceolwulf could be gone for weeks and not have another chance at this clandestine training. Knowledge was intoxicating: everything
from physics to psychology; from engineering to medicine. His mind seemed to open as if he saw the world for the first time. The hardest part would be to continue to appear ignorant when he spoke or cast to Eden. Continue to play the fool.

  Daily, he modified his Hunwald program to make it more lifelike and more secure. He used an artificial intelligence security core and added subroutines to make it delve deeper into the nexus and store intelligence data for later retrieval. He often chastised himself for going too far and taking too many risks. I may screw up. Keep it simple and keep the options open.

  Ceolwulf was still locked into the plexus simulation when Commander Eden entered, but the simulator switched over into the basic training program that he was supposed to be running. In the simulation, Master Frew and he were locked in martial art combat, hands and feet snapping and blocking. Even in the simulation, Ceolwulf could hear Eden’s thoughts, though he couldn’t hear his footsteps. Eden’s thoughts seemed painfully slow compared with the speed of the simulation. It wasn’t until the sparring with Master Frew had ended and they were sipping tea together that Eden turned off the simulation. Suddenly Master Frew, his teacup, the reed mats, and the rest of the room faded. Commander Eden stared down at Ceolwulf almost nose to nose.

  “Commander Eden,” Ceolwulf said, his voice craggy with lack of use.

  Eden held his hands over the shackles for a moment. His perceptive eyes studied Ceolwulf.

  Ceolwulf felt his fear of failing rise to the surface. His face tensed and flushed. Did Eden know? Did I leave a trail in the security system? It doesn’t matter. He sees it in my face. He remembered his training in psychology, and instead of trying to cover up his insecurities, he used them. “I’ve served you longer than anyone else. I deserve a chance to earn back my rank.”

  “Longer than anyone else? Jumping a few hundred years ahead in a pod does not count toward seniority.” Eden sniffed. “The shadows have warned me about you, but I see promise. I will give you one more chance.” Eden snapped his fingers over the shackles. They opened with a metallic click, and Ceolwulf felt the fresh tingle of air on skin that had been covered for weeks. He sat up and rubbed his wrists. Eden said, “There is a great opportunity before us. Events are moving quickly and I need strong people, people I can trust in positions of power. If you do well, it will erase all past failures.” Eden reached out and gently touched Ceolwulf’s cheeks.

  Ceolwulf had to keep himself from reeling back in disgust at the contradiction between Eden’s affectionate actions and his venomous secondary thoughts. He forced a smile.

  Eden said, “If you succeed, I will double the standard payment in gold and reinstate your old rank. We have found Angelo and his recruit Francisco. Turn the recruit.” He stepped back and cleared his throat. “The shadows have had their feast. It is time for us to remake the world.”

  When Eden mentioned the shadows, Ceolwulf heard the intentions behind his secondary thoughts: Eden wanted to claim another Key’ari region. Eden had been preparing to take Region 1 in Africa, but he had to do it legally. History was replete with Key’ari commanders who had tried to take another region by force and failed, set upon by the other commanders. A tenuous balance of power existed between all regions. Through Eden’s secondary thoughts, Ceolwulf saw a glimpse of the strategy, material, and recruits he had organized. Ceolwulf realized that his advanced training was not nearly enough to break Eden. He had no choice but to obey, for now. “I eagerly accept the proffered assignment,” he said and immediately wished he had used simpler words.

  “Download the details from the nexus. We want this Francisco, but we may have to kill him,” Eden said. “If we can’t have him, then neither can the Sittiri. If all goes well, you will have more than gold. You shall have revenge.”

  “Revenge? Angelo? But that would break the treaty.”

  “War between the Key’ari and Sittiri is upon us. You may strike Angelo down but only on my word.”

  “Chanzoe gave us permission?”

  “No, fool, the shadows have.”

  Ceolwulf saw another thread of Eden’s hidden agenda. He could not hear all of it. Eden wouldn’t bring the thought into focus and other thoughts drowned it out—thoughts of trying to convince Ceolwulf of his value. But Ceolwulf was sure of this: Eden intended to start an Avar war so that when it was close to exhausting the Key’ari and Sittiri, Eden would take them both.

  Chapter 39

  Francisco

  Tangier, North Africa

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  45 Days in Captivity

  WHEN THE SLAVE TRADERS herded Francisco, Angelo, and the two dozen other slaves off the ship from Tarifa, Francisco was too seasick from the journey to remember much more than the chains, the stench of their new dungeon, and the feeling that this land of Africa rocked back and forth like the accursed ship. If ever he needed the healing stone, it was on that ship.

  Barefoot, filthy, and with a heavy chain shackled to their right ankles, Francisco and Angelo were thrown into a matamore, an underground cell for forty or so slaves and twice as many vermin.

  Francisco sat hunched against the wall on a dry rise of ground. He could never remember such a deep feeling of despair, neither with his uncle nor on the streets of Toledo. Nothing seemed to be going right. All was hopeless, a dark abyss. His only motivation was anger, the deep, snapping, senseless kind that, when given in to, could only be looked back upon with regret. This had become the life of Francisco: a one-time curer of ills, now wracked with pain; a forgotten hero of the streets, now chained in the sewers; heir to the stone of healing … the stone. Gone. And then there’s Angelo. No longer Sir Angelo. No longer a genie or a knight. And as for his so-called Sittiri. What a fool I am for believing his fables. What kind of a madman or demon is he for taking joy in telling these lies, and I am bound to him by a vow before God. What a fool I am.

  Francisco couldn’t dwell on it, nor give in to self-pity’s siren call. He looked up and saw Angelo the never-was-a-knight speaking quietly to three captives, ones that weren’t on their ship. Probably been here a while. When the conversation ended, Francisco asked, “What’s going on now? Hoping for a knight’s ransom again?”

  “We’re not staying here,” Angelo said. He stepped passed Francisco.

  “Too bad,” Francisco said. His tone showed he had resigned himself the dark mood. “I have grown rather fond of the place.” Compelled more by curiosity than loyalty, he picked up the end of his chain and followed Angelo across the matamore to a frail old man curled up in the corner. The afternoon light from the grate above had shifted so that two slivers fell upon the old man and the wall behind him. He wore only rags, his skin pulled tightly against sinew, and his color was the white of death: a dreary canvas of flesh on sticks. In an act that must have taken great effort, the old man turned his head upon his neck to see who encroached on his solitude.

  Angelo knelt down and said, “Lope, tell me about the auction. Who is the honest buyer?”

  Lope held up a hand and gingerly touched his cheek, which Francisco noticed was swollen. Lope opened his mouth and in words thick with pain, he said, “Can’t talk. Can’t.”

  Angelo sighed. It was a deep sigh that reflected Francisco’s feelings. Angelo stood up and said, “That’s a pity. I was certain Lope would be our way out together.”

  “What?” Francisco asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The next slave auction is in six days. We will likely be bought by different bidders unless we can make ourselves sound desirable to the best buyer and undesirable to everyone else. Lope has been passed over in the last seven auctions. He knows which buyer is best and what the buyer wants ... except Lope can’t tell us.” Angelo furrowed his brows. “Now if only I had some bones.”

  “Bones?”

  “Yes, or better yet calcium phosphate.”

  “Cows? You’re not going to find any cows down here,” Francisco said. “I know that much. But if bones are what you’re looking for, there are some in that corn
er.”

  Angelo brightened and grabbed Francisco by the shoulders. “Wonderful.”

  “Can’t tell what they came from,” Francisco said. “Could be rat bones. Could be ... oh, mercy, don’t touch them, you’ll ... oh, Lord forgive you. What are you doing?”

  Angelo had dashed over to the corner, and in a few moments, had started crushing the bones into dust on a slab of stone with a slight depression. He added a little water to the powder to make a paste thick enough to roll into a little grape-sized ball. Angelo was brimming with more excitement than a child on a feast day.

  He is insane. I can’t follow him. In frustration, Francisco said, “This is serious.”

  “Serious? Of course, it’s serious.”

  “But what about these poor wretches?”

  “You mean to give them sympathetic company? They’ve had that for weeks. They wallow in it. My sympathy won’t make a bit of difference, but what I can give them is hope.” With that, he mumbled a few words over the bone ball and put it onto a sunlit outcropping on the wall above Lope.

  “There,” Angelo said, hands on his hips, satisfied.

  “What is that? Does it feed hungry marks?”

  “Hungry marks?” Angelo asked.

  “Yes, on the healing stone.”

  “Ah, low fuel indicators. Well yes, this is a kind of fuel wad.” Noting the look of confusion in Francisco’s face, he added, “Never mind. We can continue your training now.”

  “Training?” Francisco gaped. This was unbelievable. “Training? You’re a fraud.”

  “I am not a knight, but I am a Sittiri.”

  “Not a knight? But you had ‘sir’ in your name.”

  “I never claimed to be a knight. I said others called me Sir Angelo.”