The Outsorcerer's Apprentice

by Tom Holt

  He looked so happy and bouncy that she caught herself looking round for a ball to throw for him. “Really? You think you could do that?”

  “Absolutely. Everybody hates him. Well, maybe not the people who work for him, the miners and the woodcutters and all the other people who get money from him. But everybody else, the commentators and columnists and people on committees, the overwhelming majority of right-thinking people everywhere, they hate his guts. That’s what matters.” His smile broadened so much it was in danger of unzipping his face. “I’m so glad you happened to stop by, Ms Yglaine, because this is the start of something truly wonderful.” He clasped his hands together with a damp smack. “It’s going to be such an adventure, you’ll see.”

  She could feel it, too. It was almost as though music was playing.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “We’re off to sue the wizard. What could possibly be better than that?”

  “No offence,” Mordak said, “but you don’t look much like mercenaries.”

  The old man didn’t look offended; far from it. He grinned, revealing a wide space where teeth had once been. “ ’Scuse me,” he said, “but that’s a laugh. If my old platoon heard that, they’d bust a gut.”

  The young man, his companion, was eating a slice of Simnel cake. “Your old platoon,” Mordak said. “Isn’t that the point?”

  “Forty years we was together,” the old man went on, “and never a cross word. They were good lads, bless ’em. Forty years in the trade, Your Highness, sir. You can’t put a price on experience.”

  “Mm,” Mordak said. “What about him?”

  The old man smiled happily. “Young Art, you mean, sir? He’s a good boy. Learning the business, just like me at his age. Very promising, though I do say so myself. He’s got the feel for it, see, the bloodlust. If you ain’t got the bloodlust, I always say, you might as well not bother.”

  The young man swallowed the last of the cake and started to unwrap an individual pork pie. “Does he ever stop eating?” Mordak said.

  “Got to keep his strength up,” the old man said. “Very important, at his age. Strong as an ox, he is, mind. Worth ten men in a tight spot.”

  Well, Mordak thought, there’s enough of him, at least in the y axis. Even sitting down, he had his head practically on his chest, to keep from bashing it on the ceiling. Impressive, but maybe not the physique for agility in confined spaces. Or (he considered the young man’s twiglike arms) anything involving heavy lifting. “Well,” Mordak said, “I’ve got to admit, these references couldn’t be better. King Rience of Gath calls you his twin gods of war.”

  The old man beamed. “Good old King Rience,” he said. “Proper gentleman, he was. We put down a rebellion for him, in the southern provinces.”

  Mordak raised all three eyebrows. “Is that right?” he said. “You and whose army?”

  “Oh, no army, sir. Just us.”

  Well, Mordak thought, rubbing his chin-spikes with his claw-tips, you shouldn’t judge by appearances. Even so. “And the Dark Lord of the Snif reckons you two are, and I quote, Death, the destroyer of worlds, unquote. That’s—”

  “He’s too kind,” said the old man, wiping away a tear. “But that’s so like him, bless him. We helped him out with storming the impregnable citadel of Karttun. Five-minute job, nothing to it really, but he was so pleased.”

  “The impregnable—”

  “Oh, they had to call it that, because of the insurance, you see. Turned out it was dead pregnable once you set your mind to it. We do a lot of jobs like that.”

  “No army?”

  “No, sir, just us. Why keep a dog and bark yourself, I always say.”

  Then the old man must’ve breathed in the wrong way, because he broke into a fit of coughing, which shook him like a rag doll until Mordak gave him a skull of water. “Thank you so much,” the old man said, “very good of you, sorry to be a bother. I get like that sometimes, but it’s perfectly all right. Now then, how can we oblige?”

  “What?”

  “What would you like us to do for you, sir?”

  Mordak looked at him, then down at the four-inch-thick wad of references, then back at young Art, who was eating an egg mayonnaise sandwich. Appearances, he told himself. “Well,” he said, “you may have heard, I’ve recently made peace with King Drain and the dwarves.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. We like to keep up with current affairs, Art and me.”

  “You may be wondering,” Mordak went on, “why someone who’s just signed a peace treaty needs the best hired swords money can buy.”

  “Oh, we never wonder, bless you, sir. None of our business.”

  “Make an exception,” Mordak growled. The old man shrank back a little, and young Art stopped chewing, for a second.

  “Well, let’s see,” the old man said. “Pound to a penny, I’ll bet you’re thinking that maybe the wizard won’t like you making peace with King Drain, on account of so long as there was a war, he could play you two off against each other and force down prices on them glowing rocks he has off you. But if you and the dwarves are at peace, you can present what’s known as a united front and force the price up. Would that be sort of in the right area, Your Majesty?”

  “Not bad,” Mordak said. “So?”

  “So you realise, no disrespect, that your goblins and Drain’s dwarves, wonderful fighters, sir, nothing but the deepest admiration, you wouldn’t last five minutes if you was up against magic. So if the wizard got it into his head to break up the peace, like, there’s not a lot you could do about it.”

  “Go on.”

  The old man nodded, and the peak of his ancient cap flopped down over his eyes. He thumbed it back into position and went on, “But then I guess you heard about how we got a certain reputation in certain circles, if I can put it that way, specially with us not being from around here originally, don’t know if you knew that, sir, but it’s true. And you thought, if anyone can turn the tide and hold the line against the growing darkness from the east, it’d be W & A Military Services. That’s me and the boy, sir. I’m W and he’s A. Is that what you was thinking, Your Majesty?”

  Mordak closed his mouth, which had dropped open. “Close enough for manslaughter,” he said. “Yes, that’s more or less it. So, you think you can handle the wizard.”

  The old man pursed his lips, while Art bit into an Eccles cake. “Don’t see why not, sir,” the old man said, and Mordak realised he’d been holding his breath while he waited for the answer. “We got a few tricks up our sleeves, Art and me, like, you pick up a wrinkle or two when you been in the business as long as I have. Not saying it’ll be easy, mind, but we could have a stab at it, if you’d like us to.”

  “That’s—” Mordak’s head was beginning to hurt. Also, watching young Art had made him feel so very hungry. “You really think you can defend my kingdom against magic. Only—” He stopped, and peered down at young Art’s shoes. He’d never seen anything like them before. Instead of black leather they were made of some sort of white, shiny material, and they had blue and red lines drawn on them, and a label: Dead Man Walking, from Aberzombie & Witch. He lifted his head and, for the first time, really looked at the two strangers sitting opposite.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  The old man looked right back at him, and then Mordak turned away his head, his mouth suddenly dry. “Right you are, then, sir,” said the old man. “When would you like us to start? We can do Tuesday, if that’d suit you.”

  “That’s fine,” Mordak said, in a little tiny voice. “It’s great having you on the, er, team. Just for the record, how do I reach you?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, sir. We’ll contact you. Thank you so much for you time. Come along, Art. Art!”

  The young man sat up suddenly, swallowed the last bit of his Bakewell slice, and rose to his feet. Crumbs dropped from him like the last desolate leaves of autumn. He nodded vaguely at Mordak, and followed the old man out of the room.

  After they’d gone, Mordak sat f
or a long time, waiting, because it wouldn’t do for the goblins to see him like that. It was universally accepted through the goblin kingdom that there wasn’t a single living thing on Earth that King Mordak was afraid of. He had a shrewd, uncomfortable feeling that that was still true. When at last he’d got the shakes under control, he reached under the desk, grabbed a skull and a bottle, and poured himself a drink that would’ve poisoned a large city. It helped, but not much. Then it occurred to him that the one thing they hadn’t got around to discussing was how much his two new helpers expected to be paid, or what form that payment would take. Not, Mordak decided gloomily, that it mattered all that much. There was no doubt in his mind that, when the time came, he’d find out. No doubt whatsoever.

  “You stupid bloody woman,” roared the knight. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  Buttercup gave him a long, steady look, then stooped, picked her hatchet up off the ground, turned on her heel and walked away. She’d gone about five yards when a clanking noise behind her made her stop.

  “I’m talking to you,” yelled an angry voice. “How dare you kill my giant? What in God’s name were you—?”

  It proved to be a deep, mellow sound, like a gong. Probably, she decided later, when she’d had time to think about it, that was because she’d turned the hatchet round and hit him with the flat bit on the back rather than the cutting edge, which would most likely have produced a duller, tinnier noise. “Ow,” the knight yelped, taking two quick steps back and nearly falling over. “Have you gone mad or something?”

  Buttercup wasn’t smiling. “Not yet,” she said. “Give me time.”

  His visor, she noticed, had dropped down over his face when she hit him, but it must’ve got twisted or something during the fight with the giant, because it didn’t close properly. It made him look ridiculous, which calmed her down slightly. It took him several tries to wrench it open again, and even then it stuck halfway.

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  “You what?”

  “For saving your life. When you were about to be squashed flat just now. If you can remember that far back.”

  “What do you mean, saved my life? I had the situation completely under − no, don’t do that.”

  Now she smiled. “Why not?”

  “You’ll dent my bloody helmet is why not. You know how much it costs raising dents in carbon steel? You can’t just whack ’em out over a sandbag, the whole thing’s got to be annealed and then re-heat-treated, it’s specialist work.” He stopped, and glared at her. “You just don’t care, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Look, will you put that thing away, you stupid girl. You could do someone an injury.”

  “Gosh, do you really think so?”

  He was breathing hard through his nose, and she didn’t really want to have to hit him again, so she decided to forgive him. “Look,” she said, “I’m sorry I bashed you just for being an ungrateful pig, and I’m sorry I humiliated you by rescuing you instead of leaving you to be squashed like you deserve, and I promise faithfully I won’t make the same mistake again. All right? And if you want your stupid helmet fixed, try John Smith down the bottom of the valley, third farmhouse on the left after the old mill. He’s not very good but he’s cheap. Say Buttercup sent you.”

  He peered at her for a moment. “Old mill?”

  She nodded. “Go back the way you came about a mile, at the crossroads take a left. Carry on about half a mile, past fourteen derelict cottages, you’ll come to a bridge. Follow the river upstream about six hundred yards, that’s the old mill. Have you got that, or would you like me to draw you a map?”

  “Buttercup?”

  “It happens to be my name.”

  “Good heavens.” He took his helmet off and examined the dent. “You would have to go and bash it right on the bloody seam,” he said. “Even if this bloke of yours can fix it, it’s never going to be right. Two shillings I paid for this helmet, and now it’s—”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” She dug furiously in the fold of her sleeve and found two of the coins she’d had from Prince Florizel. “There. There you are, two shillings. Buy yourself a new helmet. Only, for God’s sake, stop whining.”

  He looked at her, then at the coins, then at her again. “Whining?”

  “And stop repeating every damn thing I say. Yes, whining. Well, you were.”

  The knight frowned. Then he extended his hand and turned it palm upwards. The coins fell into it and chinked together. “Thanks,” he said.

  “That’s all right.”

  “My name’s Turquine, by the way. Sir Turquine Le Coeur Hardi of Outremer.”

  “And that’s better than Buttercup how, exactly?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing.” She looked at him. “And I shouldn’t have hit you, even if you did provoke me beyond endurance.”

  His hand closed tight around the coins. “That’s all right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. Truth is, I’m having a really bad day. Was having. Anyhow, that doesn’t excuse bad manners. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. She couldn’t think of anything to say, and that was unfortunate. “The giant.”

  “God, yes. Ain’t that the way? First day off I’ve had in months, and how do I get to spend it? Fighting monsters. For free,” he added bitterly. “Unpaid voluntary work. Not my scene.”

  “He who fights monsters must take care lest he becomes a monster himself,” she said. “And if you stare into the abyss—”

  “You what?”

  “Sorry. Just something I read.”

  He looked startled. “In a book?”

  “Yes.”

  “You read books?”

  “Well, sometimes the wolves have them in their cottages–yes,” she said. “So?”

  He raised both eyebrows, then shrugged. “You get a lot of them around here? Giants.”

  “Not many, no. Wolves, yes. The occasional troll.”

  “Dragons?”

  “One or two.”

  “I kill dragons. It’s what I do.”

  “That must be an interesting job.”

  She’d offended him. “It’s not a job,” he said. “I’m a knight, I don’t have a job. It’s a vocation.”

  “A paid vocation.”

  He shrugged. Rivets creaked. “Used not to be,” he said. “When I was a kid, it was just something you did occasionally, to keep the village sheep from getting eaten. Now, though, there’s dragons everywhere. Just as well there’s money in killing them, or the place would be overrun.”

  She frowned. “Let me guess,” she said. “The wizard.”

  He nodded. “Cash on the nail, I’ll say that for him. Really, it’s transformed my life. I’m making more in a week than I used to get in a year just from rents and tithes and stuff. Of course, I’m saving every penny I can,” he added quickly, and the knuckles of the hand gripping the coins showed white under his tan. “After all, you just don’t know how long this dragon thing’s going to last.”

  “Or wolves,” she said without thinking.

  “Sorry?”

  “Wolves,” she said. “You do dragons, I do wolves.”

  “My God.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother. Of course, I’m not as, well, not as organised as you. I don’t go looking for them, or anything like that. Don’t have to,” she added bitterly. “But when they’re dead, if they’ve got any stuff worth having, well, why not?”

  “Quite. Waste not, I always say.”

  “Like, tea, for example. They’ve all got it, and if there’s people willing to pay silly money, then where’s the harm in that?” She looked down at her hands, for some reason, and wished they weren’t quite so big and red. “Will you be able to get a helmet for two shillings?”

  “Should be able to.”

  She shook her head. “Not round here. Unless you don’t mind second-hand, of course. You could try in the town, Honest John’s House of Plunder. Third on th
e left as you go past the Guildhall, second floor, over the apothecary.”

  “Oh, used is fine, saves you the bother of breaking it in. Beats me why anybody ever buys new, actually. First time you do up the chin strap, that’s ninepence down the pan for a start.”

  And she caught herself asking herself; is it possible to fall in love twice in one day? Not that she had, of course, but still; two men quite unlike anyone else she’d ever met before, both so different from all the foresters and woodcutters that they might as well belong to a different species; both of them so unthinkably similar to herself; one who actually seemed to understand about money, and one who had so much of it. “Like shoes,” she said, in a voice like the breeze in the sycamores.

  “Shoes? Don’t talk to me about shoes,” he replied, and his passion startled her, but in such a good way. “Pair of half-decent boots, steel toecaps, in the market at Beal Regard, one and fourpence.”

  She gazed at him. “You didn’t pay that, did you?”

  “Did I hell as like. See these?” He lifted the hem of his chain-mail chausses. “Goblin government surplus,” he said. “Sixpence. And a damn good boot, if you’re not fussed about the space for the sixth toe. Just pack it out with a bit of old rag, and there you go.”

  Things he’d said a moment ago–I’m saving every penny I can, more in a week than I used to get in a year from tithes and stuff–floated into her mind on a fluffy pink cloud. “Honest John does really good thick winter shirts,” said her voice, seeming to come from far away, “penny-halfpenny, and some of them haven’t got bloodstains.”

  He was looking at her as though she was a two-for-one offer on Holy Grails. “This Honest John,” he said, in a slightly strangled voice. “Does he do a loyalty card?”