The Land of the Undying Lord

by J. T. Wright

  Trent nodded, not really understanding but not really caring either. “If my Master asks, I will have to tell her.”

  Michael snorted gently. Kirstin was the last person he wanted to know. Not only was secret keeping a skill with which she was unfamiliar, but she would promptly snatch back her Summons if she had any inkling of his value. Fortunately, the odds of her seeking out Trent for any purpose whatsoever was incredibly low.

  Michael also caught the unspoken statement within Trent’s words. If she asked, he would tell her, but he wouldn’t offer the information. His Loyalty Rating was already that low.

  “Of course, she is your...” Michael was interrupted by a knock at the infirmary door. He flinched and was ashamed of himself for it. He had asked the medics to leave him alone with the Summons, so only one person could be knocking. Secrets could make a man jumpy. “Come in, Lieutenant.”

  The door burst open, and his Lieutenant swept in, followed by a servant holding a meal tray and a small neat-looking older man carrying a rather large satchel.

  “At your command, so have I appeared, dearest Captain,” Lieutenant Ranchell Ross announced loudly and saluted, fist to heart, while clicking her heels together. Stepping to the side, she gestured the servant and older man into the room.

  Trent’s eyes took in the Lieutenant, the servant with her tray and the older man with his burden, then settled his full attention on the meal tray that was filling the room with a promise of deliciousness. Noticing Trent’s fascination, Michael directed the servant to set the tray on the bed and dismissed her. He encouraged Trent to dig into a substantial meal of potatoes, eggs, and bacon, before turning his attention to the others.

  Michael’s first action upon being named Captain of the Guard was to make Ranchell Ross his Lieutenant, and he almost never regretted it. A tall, slim, and well-muscled woman with a severe warrior’s face and short black hair, Ranchell was very good at her job. A distant cousin of the Al’dross family, Ranchell was “fallen” or “country” nobility. Her family had no real lands or titles, but their children still had at least one slot in both class and profession, which, along with lineage, made them very suitable for service. Ranchell was a valued member of the Guard, but her tendency towards bubbliness with her Captain, did make him grind his teeth sometimes. She was handsome enough, but with her severe looks and weather tanned skin, you expected a more solemn woman.

  “And about time, Lieutenant.” Michael said, and then ignored her, and the pout she threw him, completely, giving the small older man his undivided attention. “Master Taylor, I’m pleasantly surprised to see you. I was expecting one of your apprentices. I’m afraid the job, while important to me, is beneath you.”

  Master Taylor was, in fact, a master tailor and the personal tailor and cobbler for the Duke’s family. A small man, balding and slightly stooped, he, nonetheless, radiated confidence. His clothing, simple but incredibly well-made, advertised his craft. His hair, grey but neatly combed, cut short and never touching his collar or ear, displayed his pride, as much as the carefully groomed lines in his shirt and trousers did. His was not the livery of the Keep’s servants, but a simple white shirt tucked into black pants, and he wore it well enough to make the Head of Butlers envious.

  Master Taylor gave a short, polished bow and cleared his throat. “I admit to curiosity, young Captain. I heard your charge’s shoes fell apart while he ran, most disgraceful, and yet he kept running. A reward is in order, I think, if I may be so bold as to describe my humble craft as such.”

  From anyone else, Michael might have frowned at these words. He disapproved of the way his sister had treated her Summons, but as Captain of the Guard, he wouldn’t allow gossip about the Duke’s family in his presence. Master Taylor, however, had probably gotten word straight from the Duke. Tailor, cobbler, and confidant, Master Taylor had served for many years and his loyalty was unquestioned.

  “Thank you for your consideration, sir.” Michael said simply. “I would appreciate your thoughts on how to dress the lad. He’s not technically in service.”

  “Not technically in service, but you’d like to give the impression that he is,” Taylor said, setting his satchel on the ground near the bed. Trent regretfully stopped eating and started to stand, but Taylor waved him back. “I will start at the bottom lad. Keep your feet still, and you can focus on your meal.”

  Smiling at Trent’s willingness to obey his command, Taylor knelt to look at the boy’s feet.

  “Hmmm, I’m used to new shoes, but rarely do I see new feet,” he mused, a soft elderly hand lifting one foot and then the next in examination, “Barely broken in, but I think that will change quickly enough. These are feet meant to be used.”

  Trent frowned around a mouthful of bacon. The phrase sounded like it had meaning, but it clearly didn’t. Was he being teased? He was nearly certain he was. He decided he liked Master Taylor. Though if pressed, he wouldn’t be able to say why.

  “I think I could be helpful at setting these feet to running.... once you have them under you, at least, lad.” Taylor continued to muse. “If you have the time, you should visit my workshop.”

  Trent was pleased by these words. Someone found him potentially useful.

  Michael, on the other hand, was pleased but on guard. Master Taylor often saw the man beneath the clothes, and his opinion and training could be useful, but how much had he seen that Michael would rather keep hidden? The Captain reminded himself that Taylor was a trusted member of the Keep, nearly family, and responsible for much of Michael’s own training. The Captain forced himself to relax. Trent’s secrets would be safe with Taylor.

  “Boots, I think, soft leather ones with room to grow.” Taylor smiled at Trent’s questioning frown and pretended not to notice Michael tense. “Much room to grow, I think, but no enchantments or enhancements. These feet have not found a road to walk yet. A simple job, easily done.

  “As for the clothes,” his experienced eye scanned the boy who chewed slower and slower as he listened and watched, “also simple, I think. Black and silver for the Duke and blue for his daughter? Red for his Captain? Green for the boy, green is often the color of growth, you know. Though I do not care to match it with black and silver. Ah, for now, simple is best.”

  Now Trent was happily listening to the old man’s prattle, while Michael was sure he was the one being teased. Most of Taylor’s words were to remind Michael that the older man knew as much and more than the young Captain. Ranchell was also enjoying Taylor’s treatment of her Captain and was slowly edging into Michael’s view so he could see her grin.

  “Black and silver,” Taylor continued, “but not linen or silk. You have some growing before you can carry anything heavy enough to be called armor, but perhaps a shirt with a dueling sleeve! That would set tongues to wagging.” He winked at Trent, who grinned in response. “Though you’d have to carry one of my needles as a sword with those arms.”

  This earned him a guffaw from Ranchell and a stuck-out tongue from Trent. That childish action was oddly pleasing to Michael and seemed to be what Taylor was trying to provoke, “Ah, well, a needle duels in its own way, but perhaps not for you just yet. I think pants and a shirt of cotton and minotaur hide should do, for your first set of clothing, at least. I may find more clever combinations once I’ve thought on it some.”

  Now, Michael was frowning openly, so much so, that his Lieutenant schooled her own expression to seriousness. Just what was the tailor thinking? The man obviously had information and plans that Michael was unaware of. Most would see it as wasteful to put a newly Awakened in such clothing.

  But it was appropriate for a Summons, gifted to an Adventurer for defeating a minotaur, to wear minotaur hide. While such a hide would normally be used to make armor, at a Level 57, Master Taylor was certainly capable of making a simpler cloth from the material. Taylor was a generous man, but this he would only do if the Duke approved. It seemed that while Michael was making plans for Trent, the Duke was slowly stirring the pot as w
ell.

  Taylor turned his attention from the boy and opened his satchel. Trent watched in wide-eyed amazement as bolts of cloth bigger than the bag appeared. He’d never seen a Storage device before. He hadn’t even known they existed. His breakfast was forgotten as the leather for boots, knives, and needles were laid out, and Taylor began to cut and sew without taking a single measurement. It didn’t appear as if a measuring device could even be found in the bag. Those were tools needed by lesser craftsmen.

  Michael sighed at the sight. Taylor had obviously come prepared, which meant he had known what to expect. Some things were beyond the control of even a Captain.

  Michael eyed Ranchell dubiously. Her eyes were twinkling, though she kept her mouth still without a hint of a grin. This was an expression he knew well. She was laughing at him and wanted him to know she was laughing, but in such a way that he couldn’t reprimand her for it.

  Why did I ever want an intelligent Lieutenant? Michael sighed to himself before saying out loud, “You might as well make your morning report while we wait, Nell.”

  Now Ranchell did grin. She hated having her name shortened, but the fact that he did so proved that she was winning whatever the mind-game was that they played. “Grandest of all Captains! It is shocking, but it appears the walls are still standing, and none of us were murdered in our beds. I’ve questioned the men, but they claim no beast horde or bandit army attacked in the night. I think they’re liars all, but brave liars. It saddens me that I have neither honor nor cowardice to relay to you!”

  Her eyes fell to her feet as if in shame. “Also, I have received the oddest orders from the Duke. I am to take over your duties for the day, Captain, and possibly for the foreseeable future. I will, of course, demonstrate my loyalty by fighting this promotion and I swear, even if I must throw you in prison and hold you there for the rest of your life. I will personally ensure that your bread is never more than three days old, and your water never hotter than room temperature.” A fist to heart to show her sincerity.

  God save me from intelligent Lieutenants who think they’re funny. Michael wondered if he could demote her to Guardsman and send her to city patrol without his father noticing. Unfortunately, she was the soul of dedication with the Duke, and he approved of her. If Michael replaced her, it would be noticed and commented on. So, no demotions, or clapping her in iron. And arranging a quiet beating would be difficult. He could manage it. He didn’t mind taking a lick or two himself, but there were few others under Michael’s command that could manage the feat. Maybe he could borrow someone from his brother Aaron.

  “Your loyalty and consideration are noted, Nell,” Michael said, rolling his eyes. “I promise I won’t kill you too much when you come to arrest me.”

  Ranchell snorted, but Michael knew it wasn’t in appreciation of his jest. She’d scored the round and decided she’d won. As the more gracious senior officer, Michael did not point out her error, and the two discussed the things Ranchell would need to pay attention to while he dealt with the Trent issue.

  Trent didn’t hear a word between the two Guardsmen; his attention was fully focused on Master Taylor. In his defense, he was less than a full day old, and even Michael would find the old tailor’s work fascinating if he didn’t have other things on his mind.

  Skills and magic were a part of all Classes and Professions. Many would say that a Combat Class was preferable to a Profession. Combat Classes were more glamorous. When songs were sung, most often they would be sung of the warrior or Mage. But if a Bard had been present, they might have found a few words to string together for the Master Tailor.

  Taylor’s hands flew as material was cut and folded. Knives flashed as hide, far too thick and unwieldy for a mere shirt or set of pants, was thinned and trimmed. Awls pierced, needles danced, and somehow leather and cloth came together in a rushed marriage, no less perfect for its unconventionality.

  Trent was hypnotized by the process. Master Taylor didn’t look strong, but Trent was beginning to wonder how the world measured Strength. If it was simply a number in a Status, then Taylor might be weak. Not nearly as weak as Trent assumed, but next to a trained warrior? It was hard to say. If Strength was measured by skill, then no one he’d met so far was as strong as this elderly craftsman.

  Taylor was aware of his captive audience and kept up a steady flow of explanation as he worked. Trent didn’t really understand the significance of it but listened intently.

  “Not too thick, of course, or it will just weigh you down.

  “The thread is more important than people realize. Many will ruin the product with cheap bindings. Night weaver silk may be costly, but so little goes so far.

  “The enchantment is in the stitch, ha, quite literally. This is where some get hung up. It isn’t humble of me to say, but without mastering the art of enchanted stitch, there is no way to perfect the craft. Not that I have perfected it mind you, there’s always more to learn lad, perfection is a dream for the uninspired.”

  Such lovely nonsense filled Trent’s ears. Only a tiny bit stuck on its way in and back out. So much was beyond him, but some made its way in and stayed. He could have listened and watched forever. He was completely surprised, so much so that he flinched when a notification jolted him out of his stupor.

  Special action performed. Wisdom +1.

  Trent hurriedly pulled up his Status.

  Sure, enough his wisdom had gone up. It didn’t have any noticeable effect as far as Trent could tell. But it had to be good.

  Name: Trent

  Age: 12

  Race: Human

  Level: 0

  Class: None (7 slots available)

  Profession: None (7 slots available)

  Health: 50

  Stamina: 50

  Mana: 50

  Strength: 4

  Agility: 5

  Dexterity: 5

  Constitution: 5

  Intelligence: 5

  Wisdom: 4

  Free Skill Points: 0

  Loyalty: 38

  Taylor noticed his audience’s attention had wandered and paused. “Attribute gain, lad?”

  Trent nodded and opened his mouth to explain, but Taylor talked over him.

  No, none of my business. Some things are best kept to yourself, even if you think someone else already knows about them.”

  With that, he went back to cutting, sewing, and prattling. Trent shook his head, almost like a dog drying itself, and focused on the tailor again.

  Nearby, Michael and his Lieutenant heard the exchange and paused in their hushed conversation. After a moment, Ranchell clicked her tongue, “An Attribute gain just from the old man’s rambling? Is that possible? Are the boy’s stats that low?”

  A stern look speared her, and she had the grace to grimace.

  “Talent, Lieutenant, both the Master’s, and the boy’s. A fool might not see the worth in a masterwork after years of study. You, for instance, would probably never benefit from Master Taylor’s instruction. But the Master can see talent, and his own talent will foster the boy’s,” Michael whispered seriously. “And you will watch how you speak of a Master Craftsman in the Duke’s employ. I may not be able to raise your Attributes, but I think I can find a way to teach you this lesson if you find it difficult to learn.”

  “Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir,” Ranchell apologized sincerely. The Captain allowed her a great deal of slack when she addressed him, but that license only extended so far, and never included other senior members of the Keep. Master Taylor was certainly senior.

  The two officers wrapped up their discussion, and Michael dismissed the chastened Lieutenant. He settled in to watch the tailor at his work. It was a long shot, but maybe he’d learn something as well.

  Chapter 6

  Kirsten’s morning was unsettling. She couldn’t put her finger on anything specific, she just felt preoccupied. She tried to blame it on her brother’s unfair treatment of her the day before. It was none of his business how she treated her damned Summons! It’s n
ot like it was a real child.

  However, the more rational side of her knew that she was at fault in this situation. Yes, the Summons was her property and hers to deal with as she chose, but when that property looked like a young human boy, you couldn’t run it into the ground in full view of the whole Keep.

  She knew that! She ignored the voice that told her a Summons should be able to run for an hour or two without stopping. What kind of a weakling couldn’t? That wasn’t the issue. Her father would say that a weakling needed protection and should be supported until they grew stronger. He wouldn’t say, “weakling,” of course. He’d say... She didn’t know what he’d say, but it would sound more polite than that!

  So, it wasn’t the public rebuke that she deserved, and could accept, that was bothering her. It also wasn’t the fact that her father had denied her permission to enter the sixth floor, even though she and her party had cleared the fifth without slowing down and with only scratches to show for it. The fact was she could enter the sixth floor anytime she chose.

  All she had to do was move out of her chambers and provide entirely for herself. That meant no more free equipment repairs or supplies, and no free meals or monthly allowance. She was going to become self-sufficient eventually, but Level 25 was the goal. Once she, and at least two other members of her party, reached Level 25, they’d be able to earn enough to keep them in a comfortable lifestyle much the same as what they had now. But if things kept going the way they did today, Level 25 was a long way away.

  They were the first group to enter the Trial that morning. They’d cleared the first floor easily, if you used the word cleared loosely. They headed straight for the floor guardian, dispatching the occasional Level 10 goblin warrior here and there, and hastily defeated the two goblin warriors and the goblin archer that acted as the first floor’s guardians. Not much money to be made here, and no equipment or supply drops to be had. The party’s Level was too high. The Trials were called Trials for a reason; they rewarded risk. The less danger, the less you could expect to earn.