The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  “Two slaves were beaten yesterday, and three are sick. No rest for them this day. They work like all of us.”

  Angelo took his sandal off and smacked a cockroach that hadn’t moved like the others. He turned over his sandal, switched on his oc-lok, and examined the remains. Avar-Tek. A recorder, and it’s not of Sittiri make. Time is short. He stood up and brushed off his jellaba. “Remember to keep your eyes on the goal and forget the situation.”

  Sébastien watched him. A sneer tugged at his cheek and his jaw tightened. “It’s best to get in line, outside with the others,” he said. He turned and walked out the door.

  Francisco looked around. “So where do we train?”

  “We may have a few minutes before we go out to the fields. Stretch first, then basic blocking moves with a Catalon sweep.” I need to do this quickly. Not sure what he needs to be trained in, but we can’t stay here long. The threat of the Key’ari is near at hand. As he stretched and completed his breathing exercises, he listened for the Voice and his onyo. Both were silent, indicating that this was the correct course of action. But how can this be? There probably isn’t enough time between slave work and sleep to do any real training, and sparring is probably forbidden for slaves, but I have little choice. He looked up at Francisco and asked, “Ready?”

  They both took a fighting stance: hands up with elbows in - legs spread shoulder width apart. Francisco came from the right in an unexpected high kick. Angelo dropped and swept Francisco’s leg. Francisco went down but landed well and recovered to deliver a kick to Angelo’s ribs. He didn’t follow through, and Angelo backed up, smiling. “Good one.”

  “Stop!”

  Angelo turned to see Jabir and Kaid rushing them. Steady. This is not an attack. We have violated their rules. Angelo dropped to his knees with his hands in the air. “Down on your knees,” he told Francisco.

  Seeing their submission, Jabir checked his pace.

  “Please forgive us, master,” Angelo said in Arabic. “He was my student and we—”

  Whack! The all too familiar sharp pain of a broken bone shot through Angelo’s cheek. Even though Jabir’s cudgel was quick, Angelo could have avoided it, but ducking would only serve to make Jabir’s next blow worse. Angelo held his scream until his healing implant numbed the pain and started repairing the break.

  “I will spare the boy, this time,” Jabir said. “I care not what you used to do. What you do now, you only do with my bidding.”

  “Of course,” Angelo said with a nod.

  “Up and outside with the others. When you have finished your dirty business, line up with them. If I must speak to you again this day, it will be with the whip.”

  Angelo rose to his feet and Francisco followed. After they exited the building and lined up with the rest, Angelo had to keep his voice low. The sun had just risen, and its glare over the hazy horizon threatened to bear down on them soon. The remaining moisture of the night’s dew had retreated and left a dry tang in his throat. Three water carriers, all young women, walked down the line, making sure each field slave had a draft before work. Jabir listened to Ibrahim’s instructions as they stood side by side on the porch of the main residence. The slaves stood with the ends of their ankle chains draped over their shoulders or in the crook of their arms. They shifted their feet and mumbled in low conversations about the weather or the sickness going through the pen. No one spoke of escape or hopes of redemption.

  “I will not submit to slavery,” Francisco said. “With every step, healing and justice fade away.”

  He’s such a poet. “Patience,” Angelo said. “There is more to training than combat.”

  “There will be no time for training if I’m a slave.” Francisco’s eyes flared and his voice rose above the murmur of the others. “We shall be worked to death.”

  Angelo glanced over at Jabir. His eyes were still on Ibrahim in conversation.

  Francisco nodded towards Ibrahim and Jabir, “It is the likes of them that I would never heal. They deserve these chains and—”

  “Careful,” Angelo snapped. “Temper justice with mercy. This is the danger that besets you, young Francisco. A polar shift.”

  “A what?”

  “A polar shift. A knight’s courage is necessary, but if left unchecked, it can grow like a tumor until he turns cruel. A priest’s gift of insight can be bent so that he becomes a charlatan. A healer’s compassion can be twisted so that she cares only for herself and uses her arts to create poisons.”

  “Which one am I supposed to be?” He sneered. “The woman? Are you saying I’m a woman? You said ‘she’ when you talked about the healer.”

  Angelo placed his hand on Francisco’s shoulder. “You are not a woman. Listen to the polar shifts. You could be any one of these or you may have another vice. That is for you to discover. Two ships can set off to sea side by side. They are the same vessels in every way except with different heading. Their directions at launch may vary by only one degree, yet they will arrive in different lands. The differences between the Sittiri and the Key’ari are great, but their headings vary by only a degree.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Both groups want what’s best for this world. The Key’ari want to build a perfect kingdom, and in their rush for perfection, they will stop at nothing. It is that one degree of blindness which becomes the great evil. They are like a prince, so intent on the affairs of state that he fails to see the child in the road before his chariot. He is so convinced his work is all-important that he fails to stop the chariot and he rides over her, killing her.”

  “That’s cruel.”

  “The Key’ari are so intent on creating the perfect world, that they destroy the beautiful world in which they live. In an age long ago, the Key’ari and Sittiri were one people, one group from Avar. They called themselves Avarians. They tried making this perfect kingdom together. They tried to force the plebs … eh, the natives to move faster. They gave them the technology and taught them the math and science. They helped them build the industries ... eh, merchants and systems necessary to support what the Avarians needed.”

  “What happened?”

  “Chaos. Crime. It was too fast. It destroyed their culture and without tradition, people have no common expectations for behavior. The Avarians got most of the technology they wanted, but millions perished in subsequent wars. Dark ages followed. This was not here in our history. This was on another history called Epi. The Key’ari are convinced this method still works if they change it but a little. Even if they foster a culture in which the plebs can achieve Avar-Tek status, the Key’ari forget one thing that will make it all fail.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Their own human nature. Can they—or anyone—be dictators without becoming corrupt? I’ve seen enough human history to know this isn’t possible.”

  “Wait. Human nature. If the Avarians are from another world called Avar, can they really be humans?”

  Angelo smirked. “Avar is Earth.” He stomped his foot, lifting a little dust. “It is the same planet—if you know what a planet is—only a different history.”

  Jabir stepped off the porch and yelled in Arabic, “Move.” The line shuffled towards the field; chains clanked with the rise of dust. As they passed the porch, Ibrahim beckoned for Angelo. “You,” he said in Arabic, “the dishonored knight, come here.”

  Angelo glanced at Francisco and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring look. He followed Jabir to the porch steps where Ibrahim stood.

  Ibrahim squinted and looked Angelo up and down. “Do you know of astronomy and the ancient Greek writings?” he asked in Arabic.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm. Tell me, what is the name of the star I use to find north?”

  “It has many names. The Greeks called it Cynosura. In Latin, Stella Polaris. In Arabic, Mismar the needle or al-kutb al-shamaliyy the northern axle. In Sanskrit—”

  Ibrahim raised his hand, “Enough. Now you boast.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “
You are excused from labor best fit for younger bodies,” he waved his hand dismissively towards the line of slaves headed into the fields.

  Younger bodies? Angelo glanced at the line of slaves and noted Lope, barely able to carry his own chain, trudge towards the fields. Lope was not smiling.

  “Come and join me for tea,” Ibrahim said. “If you handle yourself well with my guest, you may be permitted to serve in the house instead of in the fields.”

  Angelo followed Ibrahim onto the porch. Perhaps this is what I’ve waited for. If I do well, I could ask for time to train Francisco in private. Or if not, maybe I can persuade Ibrahim to let me train his guards and have Francisco as my assistant. As soon as that thought entered his mind, a taste of bile worked its way up his throat. He recognized it as his onyo reacting to a chosen course of actions that would create more temporal rifts instead of mending them. No, I will not train his guards. They are cruel men and I don’t need to have an onyo tell me it is a terrible idea. As Angelo followed Ibrahim to his home, he thought of Miyuki and cast, Francisco will work without me in the fields and I am not permitted to train him. Will you be near him?

  Yes, sensei.

  Watch over him. We cannot take the Key’ari’s silence to mean they do not know we’re here. I smashed a Key’ari recorder that was crawling around in the pen. Contact me as soon as you sense trouble. Even the smallest thing out of place could bode an attack.

  Angelo would have followed Ibrahim’s custom of removing his sandals before entering, except Angelo was barefoot. The rear entrance of the house led into the central hall, an open expanse two stories high with a balcony all the way around on the second floor. A large domed ceiling above allowed shafts of light through intricate geometric patterns. The décor was simple and clean. No tapestries hung from the walls, but the rugs were as ornate as the ones in Almodovar Castle. Ibrahim led Angelo through the central hall and into a library. His home was as opulent as the slave pen was filthy. No dust lay on the bookshelves, which were filled with classical volumes of Greek astronomy and philosophy written in Arabic, commentaries on the Koran, and volumes of history and science. In the center of the library was a low table surrounded by couches covered with overstuffed pillows. On the table was a bowl filled with figs and dates, and on the couch facing them, reclined a man as plump as one of the pillows. He smiled as Ibrahim entered, and beckoned him in with a half-eaten fig in his hand and the other half in his mouth. He wore a bright green robe trimmed in gold over his white jallaba. “Ah,” the plump man said, “is this the one you spoke of, my friend?”

  “Indeed, his name is—” Ibrahim looked to Angelo.

  Angelo bowed. “I am called Angelo de Toulouse.”

  Ibrahim sat opposite of his guest and indicated a place on the floor between them. “This is ʾAbu l-Walid Bajjah bin ʾAhmad,” Ibrahim said. “Sit.” Angelo sat cross-legged on the floor between them.

  “Call me Bajjah,” the guest said as he leaned forward and patted Angelo on the head. “Here, have a fig.” He handed one to Angelo, who nibbled at it.

  Sweet and succulent, Angelo thought, but embittered by the guilt of leaving Francisco in bonds without guidance.

  “I have asked your master,” Bajjah said, wiping his chin, “to bring you in to help us answer a question.”

  Ibrahim chuckled and made a slight circular gesture two fingers extended. “Take care, my friend. This slave is more than he seems.”

  “Gah.” Bajjah waved him off. “Do you know Aristotle?”

  Angelo considered the question. Know him? Yes, I saw him twice, but where is this going? Was this Bajjah a Key’ari infiltrator? Dread shot through him. Is this a distraction? Are they drawing me away from Francisco to capture or kill him? He remembered the attempted abduction of militiamen at Las Navas de Tolosa. Angelo used his oc-lok to scan for Avar-Tek. None, as he suspected. He cast to Miyuki, Any sign of an attack?

  No, she cast.

  He relaxed. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Ah, good,” Bajjah said. “Perhaps you can shed some light on his thoughts that all humans at the basic level share one and the same intellect.”

  Is this a trick? Angelo glanced between Ibrahim and Bajjah. No, their eyes are eager, not bemused. I had long debates with Aristotle, but none of those discussions touched on this subject. Using his oc-lok, he blinked through several databases and downloaded the files for Aristotelian philosophy concerning shared-universal intelligence and responses to it. It took a few seconds for his memory to integrate the new data, and he mulled over the concepts.

  Ibrahim fiddled with his prayer beads and Bajjah leaned forward with bright, eager eyes. The moment languished in awkward silence. Angelo closed his eyes and was about to turn on his froneesis enhanced intelligence implant, when that bile taste rose in his throat. Don’t answer. Besides the urging of the onyo, if he allowed himself this intellectual indulgence, he could become enraptured in conversation and forget himself, revealing too much. It had happened before. A word could slip concerning the natural sciences beyond their understanding or even a mention of Avar and Epi.52 He closed his eyes and inhaled, listening to the Voice. It is clear. Silence is best.

  Bajjah sat back and grunted. “Your educated slave seems to be lacking in thought.” In his left hand, he rubbed his thumb through a string of large wooden beads—prayer beads.

  Angelo opened his eyes to see him frowning, apparently thinking this slave too dumb to answer or even understand the question.

  Ibrahim grimaced and said, “Please accept my apologies, Bajjah.”

  Bajjah cleared his throat and brushed crumbs off his robes. “Abu'l Fida, I know not why you keep such fools in your house. Your money is better spent on the pretty women.”

  It was then Angelo heard Miyuki cast, Sensei, please excuse the interruption, but they are beating Francisco.

  Angelo almost jumped to his feet. The Key’ari?

  No, the guards.

  Chapter 43

  Francisco

  Fez, North Africa

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  63 Days in Captivity

  SÉBASTIEN, WITH A THICK ROPE slung under his arms and around his back, stood next to Francisco under the shade of a tall date palm. Other slaves worked in pairs on the rows of trees, taking turns: one climbing while the other gathered sacks of dates that were cut from the tree and lowered to the ground. Each pair of slaves had a narrow wagon to load and take back to the house. Sébastien kicked off his sandals and said in his thick French accent, “So, here we are. I will train you, my friend, how to climb in the dates to get the fruits from there.” He gestured high in the tree: an impossible task.

  “Barefoot?” Francisco asked.

  “Yes, yes. It is for a better grip. You see.”

  With his arms embracing the tree, Sébastien flicked the rope high around the trunk with one hand, caught it with the other, and with a quick twist and pull, he tied the rope ends around his back. He stepped on the side of the tree with the tender arch of his foot against the rough trunk and lifted himself up. He scrambled up the tree by flipping the rope up higher and pulling himself up with each step until he was at the top where the palm fronds offered meager shade over the clumps of dates beneath them. “See? It is easy, no?” He reached around to his waist where a short saw, another rope, and several sacks dangled.

  Francisco stepped to the side, just in case Sébastien dropped the saw.

  Sébastien flipped a bag around a large bunch of dates, tied it off with the other rope, and sawed through the clump. Having lowered the sack to Francisco, he shimmied down, almost walking against the trunk. He handed the rope and gear to Francisco. “Now you try.”

  The thick rope felt heavy in Francisco’s untrained hands, and it took what seemed to be an hour for Francisco to clamber only half way up.

  Sébastien, the patient palm-master, guided him with words, “Lean in towards the tree and flip the rope loop up. You will not fall, and if you do, then you can sit in the shade all day pick
ing out the bad dates.”

  “Fall?” Francisco asked. “This is higher than the walls of Toledo.” The wind—it felt brisk this high up—whistled in his ears and blew the sweet scent of ripe dates in his face. Shadows from the palm fronds above moved in a disorienting crisscross pattern. Angelo’s probably sipping tea with Ibrahim right now, laughing about how many slaves fell to their deaths last week. “Oh, I’m so happy we got some new ones,” Ibrahim would say. “So many die out there.” God, I want my healing stone. He looked down and his gut suddenly heaved. So high. I’m with the angels and destined to fall straight into hell. His hands wrapped around the rope in a sweaty grip, seized with demonic paralysis.

  “You are only half way,” Sébastien urged. “Move. If we have too few dates by mid-day, we will feel the sting of Jabir’s cudgel. Lean in. Flick up the rope.”

  Forcing himself to forget the height, Francisco pulled himself up. The sacks and short saw dangled from his belt.

  “Take two steps up … no, no. Bigger steps.”

  How is this training me to become a Sittiri? Is this what the Sittiri do all day? Maybe it’s climbing skills I need, or courage to climb high mountains. Or maybe Angelo just likes to eat dates. Francisco looked up. The date stalks, orange and violet clusters about the length of a sword, hung against the pale blue sky and green palm fronds, so far out of reach.

  “That’s good,” Sébastien said. “You are almost there, my friend. Now—”

  “I can see my house from here. I am in heaven. Do you want me to ask God anything?”

  “Do not be an imbecile. Take the sack and wrap a stalk. It keeps the fruit from falling when you cut it. That stalk there. See? They are dark in color, how do you say, eh, violet. It is the same word, no?”

  “I’m not letting go of the rope.” Francisco wanted to cross himself, but couldn’t even do that. Dear God, how much farther can I get away from my father’s dying wish. Stuck in a tree, who can I heal? How can I bring justice? I am on a fool’s errand.

  “Francisco,” Sébastien said, “I can do it for you, but if you work with someone else, they will expect you to do your share. Let go of the rope and grab … oh, never the mind. Come down. I do it for you. You learn later, no? The water girl, she comes.”