Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy

by Cas Peace

  Dyler shot him a look. “How should I know? We didn’t wait to see. I hope our lads massacred the lot of ’em.”

  On hearing he’d been stunned, Rienne took a closer look at the silent Jaspen. A worried look in her eye, she asked Paulus to give the two men beds for the night.

  “You can’t expect them to make their way home after this,” she said. “Come on, someone help me get them upstairs. They need peace and quiet, not all these questions. And bring that brandy bottle.”

  A couple of villagers came forward to help the two men stand. Taran would have helped, too, but Rienne flashed him a deterring glance.

  He and Cal went back to their table. The evening had been drawing to a close before the two farmers burst in. Now Paulus shooed the rest of his customers out. Once they had gone, he sat down next to Taran and took a healthy swallow of his own brandy.

  “That’s a bit close for my liking,” he said. “We’ll have to start sleeping with scythes by our beds if this carries on. Kingsmen won’t always be there to chase the demons off.”

  When neither Cal nor Taran commented, he shot them a narrow-eyed look. “Please tell me this has nothing to do with what you wanted to talk to me about.”

  Rienne came back down the stairs and Taran glanced at her questioningly. “They’re both sleeping,” she said. “They should be alright by morning.”

  He turned back to the barkeep. “I don’t know for sure, Paulus, but it’s a very strong coincidence if not.”

  He told his tale and Paulus listened quietly, sipping his brandy until Taran had finished. Then he shook his head.

  “I really don’t like the sound of this. I never heard the like from your father, that’s for sure. A dead noble, a dangerous weapon you can’t return, and now these raids? This is serious stuff, my boy. If you’re prepared to admit you’re out of your depth, then you need help.”

  “Well, yes, I know that,” agreed Taran, “but where can I go? You know the trouble my father and I had trying to find other Artesans. There aren’t any, at least not in Loxton province. Who could I turn to about something as serious as this?”

  Paulus hesitated before replying and eyed Taran oddly. “I told Rienne today that I’d heard rumors about a witch being in command of the garrison near the Downs.”

  “And I told you what we think of tales like that,” snorted Rienne.

  “But what if it’s true?” Before any of them could respond, he stared pointedly at Taran. “What if it’s someone like you?”

  Taran shook his head. “It can’t be. After all these years of searching, don’t you think I’d know if there were other Artesans nearby? And even if I’d failed to find them, my father would have known. He’d have told me.”

  Paulus wagged a finger. “Amanus didn’t know everything, my boy. Too many swordsmen have come through here saying the same thing for me to discount it completely. But even if it’s not true, isn’t this Staff a military matter? If the demons are looking for it, there are likely to be more raids. The garrison ought to know.”

  “I suppose so,” said Taran. “But even if you’re right, we can hardly go marching up to a garrison of Kingsmen and say, ‘Hey, does anyone here know anything about Andaryan weapons?’ You know what they’re like, they would laugh in our faces. We’d either be locked up as troublemakers or thrown out before we got a chance to explain.”

  “Well, now,” said Paulus, “I just might be able to help you there. I’ve never told you this because I was asked to keep it quiet, but I happen to know a young chap in that garrison. His name’s Captain Tamsen. From what he told me, his commanding officer is quite interested in outlanders. Since you’ve asked me, my advice is to go there and ask to see Major Sullyan. Tell them I sent you; that should get you in. After that, it’s up to you.”

  Taran held Paulus’ gaze. He felt sure the barkeep was holding something back, but he couldn’t think what or why. After a short pause, and because he lacked any other plan, he said, “Where is this garrison?”

  “Only a couple of days’ ride away,” said Paulus. “Take the north road to Canstown then the Tolk turning. Someone up there can tell you exactly where it is, I’m told it’s well known.”

  Thanking Paulus, they left and hurried home. The news of a raid so close to Hyecombe had made them all nervous and Taran bolted the door securely. He was feeling confused and uncomfortable and wanted to think through Paulus’ advice. Leaving Cal and Rienne to their fellan, he went to bed.

  Early the next morning, Taran was joined in the cellar by Cal. Together, they stared at the damage to the walls and ceiling. The Staff still lay innocently on the floor, gleaming in the light of the lamp.

  “Have you thought any more about what Paulus said?” asked Cal.

  “Of course,” snorted Taran. “Haven’t you?”

  “If we go to the garrison, we’ll have to take Rienne with us. I’m not leaving her here with the Staff.”

  “Would you leave her if we took it with us?”

  “Perhaps. Do you think we can?”

  Taran shrugged. “I suppose we’ll have to try. I can’t say I’m keen to handle it, but maybe we can rig up some kind of pack to carry it and use the wash tongs to lift it. That might work.”

  “Have you made up your mind to go?”

  Taran glanced at him. “Yes, I suppose I have. It can’t do any harm and last night’s shock has made it more urgent than ever. Has Rienne left on her rounds yet?”

  “She went about ten minutes ago. She’ll be out ’til noon, I think. She asked me to go to Shenton for some medical supplies. The mail coach should be here in an hour.”

  “We’d better get on with it, then.”

  It was Cal’s suggestion to fetch the wash tongs from the scullery before finding a pack to hold the Staff. As he sensibly pointed out, if the thing resisted being moved, they would be wasting their time on a pack. Taran took a thick pair of leather gloves with the tongs.

  “Do you really think you’ll need those?” Cal asked.

  “How should I know? I just remember what it felt like to hold the Staff the first time and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  After locking the cottage door against casual visitors, they went back into the cellar. Not that visitors were likely, but Rienne might return early and Taran didn’t want her around while they experimented with the Staff.

  He positioned himself at the side of the depression in the floor. Once he had donned the leather gloves, he took the tongs from Cal. They looked not half long enough. He decided to poke the Staff with them first to test for a reaction. He glanced up at his Apprentice, who was watching from the opposite wall.

  “I think we’d better be shielded,” he said.

  Cal nodded and Taran sensed him reaching for his psyche, calling a protective flow of metaforce around him. Taran did the same.

  “I’m ready,” said Cal.

  Taking a deep breath, Taran leaned carefully over the pit, tongs extended.

  As the tongs neared the Staff, it began to glow. Taran frowned; he hadn’t expected it to react. Tentatively, he extended his arm and the closer he got to the Staff, the brighter it glowed.

  Suddenly, he lost his nerve and withdrew his arm. The glow faded.

  “That didn’t look promising,” said Cal.

  His pessimism goaded Taran. He decided to take a chance and just pick the thing up. Maybe it was meant to glow? The memories of his ordeal in Andaryon were hazy at best and he couldn’t remember if the Staff had been glowing the first time he’d held it.

  “I’m going to pick it up,” he said, reaching out again. Swiftly he rolled the Staff into the tong’s wooden jaws and picked it up.

  When the lurching, spinning darkness began to lift, Taran’s first impression was that he was too close to the fire. His skin was burning and he tried to move away from the heat. He felt hands on him, holding him down, and he struggled, because he really was too close to that fire.

  Abruptly, he heard loud voices. Someone was yelling in his ear
. He tried to shout, “Shut up,” but his throat wouldn’t open. Dispassionately, he thought he sounded like a strangled pig.

  Then a large quantity of icy water dumped over him and the shock made him yell. He opened his eyes and found both Rienne and Cal staring down at him, she with an empty bucket in her hands.

  “That’s better,” he heard Cal say. “I think he’s coming back.”

  Rienne said, “Thank the gods. I really didn’t know what else to do.”

  The words had no impact on Taran. His head was ringing and his ears were full of water. He tried to rise and felt Rienne holding him up.

  “Taran, can you hear me?” he heard her ask. He considered that, not really sure what it meant.

  “He’s not fully conscious,” she said, her voice sounding oddly muffled. “Get him into bed, Cal, and get these wet things off him. I’ll give him something to help him sleep and perhaps he’ll be better when he wakes.”

  Taran was aware of being carried to his room and couldn’t help wondering why Cal had turned white. His skin, hair, clothes, even his eyelashes were white. Considering how dark the young man’s skin usually was, this struck Taran as irresistibly funny. He tried to laugh, the strangled pig sounding even worse. But the effort was too much and he slipped into darkness.

  Cal helped Rienne strip Taran’s clothing. The healer wrapped Taran in the coverlet and gathered his sodden clothes, which were as smothered in white plaster dust as Cal was.

  “Here,” she said, wrinkling her nose, “take these to the scullery.”

  Cal took the sopping bundle and walked unsteadily out of the room. Rienne stayed a moment, looking down at Taran. She was genuinely fond of him and hated seeing him like this.

  Sighing, she left him and made her way to the scullery. The last thing she wanted to do today was wash a load of chalky clothes, but it seemed she had little choice. On the way, she passed the door to the collapsed and ruined cellar where Cal and Taran had been trapped for two hours. Her lips pursed as she thought how fortunate the two men had been in their escape.

  When she entered the tiny scullery, she saw Cal slumped in a heap on the floor, tears welling from his eyes.

  “Oh, Cal.” She flew to his side, holding him quietly until the tears subsided. She took his face in her hands and made him look at her.

  “This has gone far enough, do you hear? If the Hodgekisses next door hadn’t heard that ceiling come down, I don’t know what might have happened to you. Paulus had to break the door down. The cellar’s a ruin and the floor up here’s none too safe, either. What on Earth did you think you were doing?”

  “Trying to move the Staff,” mumbled Cal. “We were going to take it to the garrison.”

  “Oh, you’re going then, are you? Well, for one thing, that damned Staff isn’t going anywhere, it’s totally buried. And for another, the two of you are going nowhere without me. Not that either of you is fit to travel at the moment. Look at you, you’re covered in plaster dust. I’d better heat some water for a bath.”

  She bustled off, leaving Cal in a heap. How, she wondered in exasperation, had they gotten themselves into this?

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, Taran woke from his drugged sleep. As he came to, it struck him that these disasters were happening far too frequently. Enveloped in shame, he decided enough was enough.

  Tears formed in his eyes—he had put his friends in terrible danger. Before, he’d been a fool and failure. Now he was also a murderer, and his remorse over the noble’s killing was becoming inextricably linked to how he felt about his powers. It seemed that every time he tried to increase his knowledge, he made more disastrous mistakes. Break his heart though it might, those around him would be better off if he renounced his Artesan powers altogether.

  And there was still the frightening and very real possibility that he was personally responsible for the resurgence of outlander raids, whether in retaliation for the noble’s death or in response to the theft of the Staff. Probably both. Taran’s heart raced in fear as images of dreadful repercussions crashed around his aching skull.

  He was still wallowing in the depths of self-pity when Rienne came softly into the room, carrying a bowl of something hot and savory. She saw the look in his eyes and gave a low cry.

  “Oh, Taran, are you in pain?”

  “It’s only my pride that hurts,” he muttered, his voice still scratchy with dust. He coughed and she brought the bowl of soup to him. She helped him sit up and passed him the bowl and spoon.

  Cal followed her in and sat with him while he ate. “We’ve got to go to the military now, Taran.”

  The Journeyman nodded, although he had no hope of finding help.

  “I’m sorry I got you both into this,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted nothing more to do with me after that last little fiasco.”

  “Little?” snorted Rienne. “You call a collapsed cellar little?”

  Taran stared at her. “Collapsed? What, completely? What about the Staff?”

  “Buried under feet of rubble,” said Cal. “It took me ages to dig you out and then we were trapped until Rienne came home and let the ladder down. The stairs are gone.”

  Taran groaned—it was getting worse. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, a catch in his voice. “What a mess.”

  Rienne chose to take him literally. “Nothing a bolted cellar door and a good broom won’t take care of. But that’ll have to wait ’til morning. You never got my supplies either, did you Cal?”

  In spite of himself, Taran chuckled. “Oh, Rienne, I can see why he loves you so much.”

  She blushed. “Get away with you.” She removed the empty soup bowl. “I’ll get you some drinks.”

  They spent the rest of the evening discussing their next move. Taran decided the cellar should be made as safe as possible and left locked up. It wasn’t as if the Staff was going anywhere, buried under all that rubble, and he was fairly sure the Andaryans couldn’t know exactly where it was. If he was right, the village was as safe as anywhere else at the moment.

  Rienne adamantly refused to stay behind and Taran’s suggestion that she move in with a neighbor was met with a sour response. She said she would make arrangements for her patients to see one of the healers in Shenton; she had no cases that needed continuous attention.

  “Besides,” she added darkly, “the way you two have been behaving lately, you’ll need me.”

  Taran couldn’t dispute it and Cal’s relief was obvious.

  He decided they would leave the day after next, as horses had to be purchased for Cal and Rienne. Taran had his father’s gelding stabled at the livery and it was a good beast, but it couldn’t carry all three of them. Rienne still wanted to make the trip to Shenton, both to restock her supplies and also to arrange medical coverage for the village. Cal elected to go with her, leaving Taran to organize supplies.

  The Journeyman felt so much better for making a positive decision. That had always been his father’s domain and Taran missed his confident, commanding ways. Amanus hadn’t thought much of his son’s abilities—and had pointedly said so on many occasions—but he had always been there. Taran had been deeply affected by the recent disastrous events, and the mere thought of finding someone to advise him lightened his mood.

  He was still apprehensive about the garrison’s reaction to his tale, but he wouldn’t look that far ahead just yet.

  Despite his unease, Taran felt a certain excitement the following day. He hadn’t traveled since he met Cal a year and a half ago.