A Wizard In Absentia

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Sit ye down, now," Matilda said, jabbing her spoon at the table. "Don't bother about what you're eating, and be quick about it, for you must travel long and far tonight, and you can't manage it on too full a stomach."

  Ian stared at the plate of beef for a moment. Then he shook himself and sat down at the table. He wondered if he would get used to having meat so often.

  He was just finishing when Gar came in, with Master Oswald behind him. He grinned at Ian. "Well, then! Finished, are you?" He sat down at the other side of the table. "Still, take your time. We've quite a bit to tell you before we set out for the north. We must look as though we're only going for a short stroll in the moonlight."

  Ian swallowed and stood up. "I'm ready now, sir."

  "I'm not." Gar tapped the table with a forefinger. "I've much to tell you, as I said. Matilda! Some tea, if you have it!"

  "If I have it?" The old cook snorted in indignation. "When was the day that there wasn't a simmering kettle on the stove in this house, and a pot of tea ready to brew! If I have it, indeed!" And in very short order, there were mugs of tea before each of them. There was a third cup at the side of the table where Master Oswald was just sitting down. "Now, then, Matilda!" he chuckled. "I do imagine the captain had no idea."

  "Live like animals, that's what," Matilda snorted.

  "Now don't bother me, silly menfolk! We've dishes to wash and pots to scour, and a kitchen to get in order."

  Ian sipped at his hot, strong tea, marvelling at its flavor while Gar explained their journey. "A lord in the north has need of troops, Ian, for he is beset by his rival noblemen. They haven't marched on him yet, but they will soon, or I mistake the news completely."

  "He is a most worthy lord," Master Oswald rumbled. "He treats his serfs well. They say that when one of them dies, he weeps as though at the death of a kinsman."

  Or a favorite dog, Ian thought—but he didn't say so.

  "They die mostly of old age, or disease," Gar put in.

  "Only diseases that can't be cured," Master Oswald said, nodding. "He keeps three doctors on his estates, besides his own personal physician. If one of his serfs falls sick, he—or his lady, while she lived—goes out to look after that one, themselves."

  "So they die on his estates only rarely," Gar said. "You may have heard of him—Lord Aran."

  He caught Ian with tea in his mouth; he swallowed convulsively, and almost choked on it. He coughed; Master Oswald leaned over and thumped him on the back, grinning. "Ah, yes—I'd say you've heard of him, lad."

  Ian looked up, wiping his streaming eyes, and nodded. He had heard tales of Count Aran's estates—was there a serf in his village who hadn't? They said he treated his serfs as though they were free men, with respect and honor. "They say," he said, "that serfs are whipped on his estates only rarely—and then only for harsh offenses, such as striking another man who is weaker than he, or stealing."

  "But stealing from another serf." Master Oswald nodded. "He doubles the number of strokes if they steal from a gentleman, and triples it for a nobleman—but the punishment is the same. It is the crime he punishes, not its object."

  "But even so, they are never flogged more than forty lashes," Gar said. "Ten for a serf, twenty for a gentleman or a serf woman, thirty for a nobleman or a gentlewoman, forty for a noblewoman. That is his code. Beyond that, it is death for murder or rape."

  Master Oswald nodded. "His justice is famous. He treats his serfs as men, not as animals who are his property."

  "He is a man I could fight for with a good conscience." Gar winked at Oswald and sipped from his cup.

  Ian wondered about the wink.

  Master Oswald said, with sarcasm, "Good conscience—and I understand he pays well, too."

  "Aye, that is one thing about good treatment of serfs." Gar leaned forward, suddenly serious. "His land produces much more than that of his neighbors."

  Master Oswald spread his hands. "What can you expect? He gives each serf a plot of land and says, 'This is your own, for as long as I am lord here. You must give me half of your harvest, but the rest is yours to do with as you will. Keep it, or sell it—and if you sell it, the money is yours.' Will not the serfs, then, labor harder on the land, to produce more?"

  Gar nodded. "Yet they are still there to labor together on one another's fields, and on his. Of course they produce more—and his neighbor lords are jealous."

  "Certainly, certainly! No man likes to see his equal get ahead of him. But will they follow his methods, and mimic his ways of dealing with his serfs, so that they may produce more on their own land?"

  "No, of course not. They will band together to tell him he must cease to treat his serfs so well."

  "You cannot blame them." Master Oswald grinned. "If his ways caught on, their serfs might begin to think they have rights as human beings, too—that they are humans, not animals. They might even begin to show some evidence of self-respect. Thus does he breed discontent."

  Ian followed the conversation, looking from man to man, wide-eyed. "Rights?" What were those? "Yes, the rights of men," Gar agreed, "and what happens then, to the privileges and the tyranny of the lords?"

  A whole new world was opening within Ian's mind. That serfs might consider themselves men—poor and uncultured, but just as good inside as gentlemen, or even lords! Even more, though—that the power of the lords was not absolute, that it could be resisted, perhaps even lessened! He almost gasped out loud—it was an amazing thought, and the possibilities it opened were limitless! Whole companies of serfs might go to places like Castlerock, or bury themselves in the fastnesses of the forest, and farm for themselves, and be free in their own right, be their own lords! As far as he could tell, Count Aran ruled his people, but did not oppress them—his serfs did not think to disobey, but they dared to stand in his presence, and even disagree with him! What could they do, he wondered, if Count Aran became like all the others, like Lord Murthren? Would his serfs submit, as his fellows had? Or would they oust Count Aran, and choose another lord?

  His brain reeled, and he shut off the speculations; they were too confusing, he could not deal with them. What manner of men were Master Oswald and Master Gar, that they could speak of such things so casually and with no sign of fear? That one fragment of conversation he had overheard last night, still lingered in his mind. Castlerock . . .

  "Enough of talk." Gar rose to his feet, clapping a hand to the sword hilt at his hip. "I must be off to action. I would see this paragon of governance with my own eyes, and how he manages his estates. Rumor is interesting, but it also has a way of being only halftrue."

  "Still," Master Oswald demurred, "there is always a grain of truth at the bottom of it."

  Gar smiled sourly. "Not always. I have known men to start campaigns with rumors, Master Oswald. If they could discredit the leaders they hated, their men would fight with less verve." He grinned. "Thus have I come to have a taste for seeing with my own eyes." He cocked an eyebrow at the boy. "Haven't you, Ian?"

  "Aye, most assuredly," Ian gasped, pulling himself together and jumping to his feet. "Whenever you go, Master Gar, I will ride wherever you wish!"

  Gar's face twisted into a sardonic smile, and Ian's heart stopped for a moment, afraid that he had offended his protector. But Gar looked at Master Oswald and said, "How quick to obey. My wish is his law."

  "It is not good," Master Oswald agreed heavily, "but I do not doubt that, under your tutelage, he will develop some belief in himself, Gar Pike. You will make a man of him."

  "I will indeed." Gar eyed Ian, measuring him. "He will have the strength of the serfs when he's grown, but will combine it with the hardness and toughness of a warrior—and from such iron, we can forge a stalwart blade." He came around the table, clapping Ian on the back. "Come, lad! Horse and hattock! Ho, and away! "

  Ten minutes later they were mounted, Gar on a tall roan stallion and Ian, still not quite believing it was happening, on a pony.

  "Stay well, Oswald," Gar said, raising a hand in f
arewell to his friend. "May the world prosper for you."

  "Make it prosper, Gar," Master Oswald returned. "There's little enough I can do here, with my buying and selling; it is you who must go out into the field and make the great things happen."

  Gar answered with a flat laugh. "I have more knowledge than to believe that, Oswald," he said. "I don't underestimate my own part, mind you—I can visit the noblemen in their courts, and give things a shake here and there around the country. But you are the one who sees the points of weakness and sends us out to make the changes happen, whether I will it or not."

  "Oh, I can find the right place to push," Master Oswald growled, "but those tremors might yield a harvest of bloodshed and suffering. It is you and your kind who will keep the cost down." His voice grew wistful. "Good luck to you—and farewell."

  Gar waved in return, knocked his heels into his horse's sides, and rode off at a trot. The pony lurched into motion, and Ian hung on in a panic, barely managing to keep his seat. Gar looked back, grinning, then stared in surprise, and stopped his own mount. "I see," he said. "You haven't ridden before. Well, hold the reins above the saddlebow, lad, and keep to a walk until you get the knack of it."

  Gar started up again, his horse at a walk. "And, Ian—slap his back with your reins." Ian did, and the pony began to walk forward after Gar's great roan.

  So, walking their mounts, they passed out of Master Oswald's stableyard, and set off on their journey to Lord Aran's castle.

  CHAPTER 9

  They moved through the town without talking, Gar humming softly. It wasn't a long ride; houses and shops lined the street for only a hundred yards. They rode out past its limits and up a grade to the road. Gar turned right, to the north. Ian turned as well—but his mount did not.

  Gar heard him calling to the pony, and looked back with a grin. "Pull on the right rein, and he'll turn." Ian pulled, but too hard; the pony tossed his head, neighing in protest. "Gently, gently," Gar cautioned. "The bit rubs against the soft corners of his mouth. He'll answer to a gentle tug, mind you."

  "I'm sorry." Ian stroked the pony's neck, hoping it wasn't angry with him.

  "We're going to trot now," Gar said. "There's a trick to it—when the pony trots, he'll move up and down a great deal, and you don't want to be going down as he's going up, or you'll meet in the middle with a smack that will jar your spine all the way up to your skull. You must rise in your stirrups as he goes up, then let yourself back into the saddle as he goes down. So set your feet well, lad—that's what the high heels on your boots are for. Put your weight on them—have no fear, the straps won't break. Stand in your stirrups halfway as his back comes up, sit down as his back goes down, and you'll have a comfortable ride. Enough talking—are you ready?"

  Ian swallowed. "Aye, sir."

  "Try it, then." Gar knocked his heels gently into his horse's sides, and the roan began to trot. Ian took a deep breath, braced himself, kicked with his heels tentatively—and the pony began to trot! He remembered what Gar had said and rose in his stirrups, but not fast enough, and the saddle spanked him soundly; then, as he was letting himself down, he was too fast, and the saddle kicked him up again. He pushed up and down frantically, but the saddle kept spanking him. He almost thought the pony was getting even for that tug on the mouth.

  "Try for the rhythm, lad!" Gar called out. "Like a country dance!"

  Ian tried.

  It took a while, but he finally caught the knack of it, with Gar calling encouragement. Ian began to actually enjoy it—but his legs began to ache, and he decided that there was more to riding than there looked to be.

  Gar took mercy on him and slowed his horse to a walk. "Pull back on the reins, and he'll slow—but remember the tenderness of his mouth, and be gentle!"

  Ian did as Gar bade him, and the pony slowed to a walk. Gar nodded in approval. "You catch it quickly, lad."

  Quickly! Ian's bottom was already so sore that he wondered if he'd be able to walk when he dismounted—and he wasn't at all sure he'd ever want to ride again. But, "You'll be a decent horseman, by the time we reach Lord Aran's castle," Gar assured him. "It will take a year or more for you to learn it fully, though, even if you are a quick study."

  "So long, sir?" Ian bleated in dismay.

  "Oh, you'll be able to ride by the time we reach the castle," Gar said, lounging in his saddle. "That's two nights' ride. You take to the saddle so well, lad, that it will be like walking for you—or running. But to begin to think like a part of the horse? No, that takes time." He grinned down at Ian. "Don't let it bother you, lad. You've much else to learn, betimes. There're the dagger and the sword, for instance, and you must learn three different styles: saber, rapier, and straight sword. Then there's archery, as soon as we get you a bow. Never touched one, I gather?"

  "Never." Ian shook his head. "Such things are only for serfs who are appointed soldiers by their lords—and for gentlemen like yourself."

  "Of course." Gar nodded. "Serfs are allowed no weapons at all. I have seen it."

  Ian wondered at the last phrase. Had the free-lance not grown up knowing that serfs were forbidden weapons? Again, he wondered: what manner of man was Gar?

  "Then, too, you must learn to play the harp," Gar said, turning back to look at the road ahead. "A song may take you places where swordplay cannot. War does not always stride through this land; a mercenary should be able to turn his hand to a peaceful occupation, as well as a warlike one."

  " 'Mercenary'?" Ian looked up. "What is that, sir?"

  "Why, bless you, boy, that is you!" Gar grinned. "You and myself! A mercenary is a free-lance—a soldier who fights for money, rather than for friendship, or loyalty, or land. A mercenary is a soldier like me, Ian."

  "Then that is what I wish to be." Ian nodded, sure that this much, at least, he would remember forever. "I shall learn quickly and well, sir!"

  "I am certain of it." Gar leaned down to clap him on the shoulder. "But you must become a gentleman, Ian, and it will help if you know something of it, and therefore must I question you. To begin with, know you nothing of fighting?"

  "With my fists, a little," Ian answered. "We boys were always fighting amongst ourselves in the village, though the men were not allowed to—and wrestling, of course."

  Gar nodded. "Better than nothing, certainly. And, of course, the quarterstaff?"

  "Oh, yes," Ian said. "The bailiff and soldiers encouraged us to learn that. Lord Murthren said that it was so that he could call us to fight for him as soldiers, if he needed us."

  Gar frowned. "Strange." Ian looked up. "Why, sir?"

  Gar was slow in answering. "I should think your lord would not let you learn any skills that would allow you to fight against his soldiers, if it came into your head to do so."

  "But it would not," Ian said, surprised. "What quarterstaff could hold against a sword, or even a halberd, my lord?"

  "Any," Gar said flatly, and the answer jolted Ian. "If they never tell you that, though, you would never think of it. But there is a way a quarterstaff can best a sword—and be sure I'll teach you that. And, if you know a quarterstaff, you can learn a blade easily—well, not easily," he amended, "but you'll catch the knack of it more quickly."

  "But Master Gar, it is against the law for a serf to touch weapons! If I am caught, they will hang me!" Gar smiled, amused. "You are already a fugitive, lad. If they catch you, they'll flog you within an inch of your life, then make you walk home, and you'll probably die on the way. Which way would you rather pass?"

  Ian swallowed, and was silent.

  The free-lance was as good as his word; by the time they reached the castle of Lord Aran two days later, Ian had already learned how to care for the horses, saddle and bridle his own mount, pluck a few chords on the harp, and thrust and parry with his sword. Of course, Gar would not let him use the real blade, when the two of them dueled in practice, nor would he himself—he insisted they use willow wands. Then, after the practice, he demanded that Ian stand still, holding his sword a
cross his palms at arm's length for a minute, then two, then three, then four, then five . . . Ian was amazed at how quickly his arms began to ache, but found he could bear it.

  They chatted as they rode, Gar telling Ian amusing stories of his travels, and exciting tales of battle. Between them, he asked Ian about himself, even though the boy protested he had never done anything interesting, only lived in a little village and done his chores. But Gar pressed him for details anyway, and seemed fascinated by the homely accounts of Ian's boyhood friendships and conflicts, of his games and fights, of the holy day celebrations and the winters' tales against the darkness and the blizzards. Ian was reticent at first, but talked more and more easily as the sincerity of Gar's interest became apparent, until he was chattering away, warming to Gar's attention as a flower opens to the sun, until he found himself telling of his father's flogging and his own escape. Here Gar reined in the horses and dismounted to walk a while with his arm around the boy, saying little, but comforting him by his mere presence. When the tears had dried, Gar said gently, "What I can't understand is how you lasted through the first night, until I found you. Did you spend it all in the Stone Egg?"

  "No, sir. I hid with the Little People."

  "The Little People?" Gar looked up, startled. "Are they real, then?"

  "Oh yes, sir!" Ian looked up at him, wondering again how Gar could have lived all his life in this land and not known so simple a thing. "They hid me in their hall, but only for the one night—they feared Lord Murthren's searchers would lead him to me, and they would be discovered."

  "So they fear the soldiers, eh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How is it I haven't seen them?"

  Ian shrugged. "Because of that fear, sir. They hide in their halls, and none see them unless the dwarves themselves wish it."

  "Well." Gar paced a moment in silence, then said, "if you should chance to see them again, tell them I said they have suceeded far better than they know."

  Ian wondered at that, but knew better than to ask. They mounted again, and rode on their way through the night.