B00B15Z1P2 EBOK Page 6

  “You can hear about something, but sometimes you have to see it to understand.” The voice behind him spoke softly but with a touch of humor.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mik, turning to look at his mentor, Bailar the Blue. “Even Exidy seemed big, when I first saw it. But this…” He waved at Queensport, sprawling on both sides of the Wide River. “It’s hard to take in.”

  Bailar caught the railing and held on. “Queensport is a great city, perhaps the greatest of our time. But it is a shadow of Camac That Was or even Old Koyr, from before the Age of Heroes.”

  “Have you ever seen them?”

  “No, but I have spoken with travelers. Camac is now a sprawling ruin, inhabited mostly by those who still quarry the great stonework left by the original inhabitants. Koyr was partly rebuilt by those who rule from the acropolis above the city.” Bailar shook his head. “Now there is a proud and prickly people. Ak’koyr was the chief city during the Age of Heroes, and they haven’t forgotten. You’ll meet some of them at the Conclave.”

  “Easterners too?”

  Bailar chuckled. “Quite likely. But have no fear, they will not be rogue enchanters like Ahm Kereb. Or if they are, they will take pains to hide it. All put aside their differences at the Gathering, for the good of all.”

  Mik nodded and looked around. “Where’s Sura?”

  “She’s making ready for us to debark. Oh, don’t worry. She has always done it, and she knew you would have to see Queensport.” Bailar paused, watching the city glide by for a moment. “The first year she traveled with me, she did this too. The barge captain said she made a fine figurehead.”

  “Beg pardon,” said a poleman. “The cap’n says we’re nearin’ the canal and ya need to rejoin the other passengers. If ya please.”

  “Yes,” said Bailar. “It would not do to interfere. Let’s go see if Sura left anything for you to pack.”

  The barge captain stalked up and down the length of his vessel, shouting orders and curses at his crew in his Low Speech argot. Under his direction, the barge slowed, the stern canting port-side, drifting downriver at an angle close to the west bank. “Now! Heave to, boys! Ram it home!” Twenty polemen to port, ten to starboard, strained at their poles; the Wide Lady changed course, slipping through an open gate and into the canal.

  “Job well done!” the captain barked; behind them, the gate swung closed and they drifted down the canal. “Now straight ya turn her, and for home we make! Rest ya can, when tied we are!”

  “Thanks for taking care of all this,” said Mik, sitting with Sura atop their small pile of luggage.

  She laughed. “It’s not that much. Besides, it’s your turn when we get back home!”

  “Fair enough!”

  Sura watched Mik watching the city for a while. “You think this is something,” she said, “wait until you’re in the middle of it. Where we’re going is… well, you’ll see.” She grinned and stood. “We’ll be busy, but we’ll have a little free time.”

  “Good.” Mik sounded distant, distracted by all the sights. “What happens when we get off this barge?”

  “Father will hire a cart to take us and our baggage to the Conclave. It’s at the Great Keep, along the seacoast.”

  “Huh. Why couldn’t we just take another boat, then?”

  “The coast is rocky, and the keep has no docks,” said Bailar. “It was positioned for defense, not trade. As Sura said, you’ll see.”

  Mik had little time to wonder about the keep at first, trying to see everything, a sweaty hand gripping Sura’s in the hired wagon. Bailar rode up front with the driver, leaving the apprentices to keep each other company with the baggage in back. Sura watched Mik, stifling laughter at his grunted exclamations and jerky movements, as he tried to take in each new wonder. The air was muggy and hot, but Mik barely noticed.

  After many starts and stops, they turned onto the Royal Highway. Through Queensport, the road was a grand boulevard, lined with stately buildings and gnarled old trees. Their wagon joined a throng of other traffic, often slowing to a stop. Drivers shouted greetings, friendly and otherwise, at each other during the stops. Pedestrians walked between the stopped vehicles, leaving Mik wondering if walking would be faster. This one stretch of road had more horses than his aunt had cattle; Mik was amazed that there were this many horses in the world. In Lacota, or even Exidy, a horse was a sign of wealth. Many folk used oxen or donkeys to pull their carts, but some shouldered their own burdens.

  The keep that housed the Conclave loomed in the distance, growing larger as they approached. The city and its traffic thinned out and kept its distance from the keep, leaving them to cross a great clearing in the last mile. Towers leapt into the sky, above walls that seemed nearly as high as the river bank below their home. Now Mik had eyes only for the keep; he turned kneeling in the luggage to watch it rise before them.

  Sura giggled at Mik’s gaping regard. For her, this had been a part of her life, every High Summer, as long as she could remember. For the daughter of a sorcerer, many things that were normal to her were wondrous or frightening to folk. What if I’d grown up among folk? she thought, then tried to see the keep through Mik’s eyes.

  “It’s a marvel,” she said.

  He looked at her, wide-eyed. “And we’ll be living in it for two weeks. What will it be like?”

  “I’m not sure. I was an attendant before. We played together, and helped in the kitchen.” She laughed. “All the cooks wanted me to help them!”

  Bailar turned. “In my youth, it was a fine thing to be an apprentice at the Gathering. There was work to do, of course, but there were also games, pranks, and rivalries. And lasting friendships. It is much the same now. There are other things, but as first-year apprentices you won’t have to worry about those.”

  Mik looked at Sura. “If someone told me a year ago that I’d be ‘prenticed to a sorcerer, and all this—and you… sometimes, I wonder if it’s all a dream. Ow! What was that for?” He rubbed his arm where Sura pinched him.

  “You’re still here, so you’re not dreaming. Right?”

  Mik did not answer. He was gaping at the massive portal, looking up and around as they passed through the thick wall.

  • • •

  “Bailar the Blue, of Exidy. Two apprentices: Sura sam Bailar, Mik sim Mikhile—Mik Dragonrider.”

  The scribe looked up. “Two? Fortune has smiled upon you, Bailar.” He looked at the nervous apprentices. “Both first-year?”

  “Yes, both. Sura was my attendant all these years. But now she is my apprentice.”

  “This is the—ah. Come forward, apprentices.” The scribe straightened as Bailar ushered his charges forward. “Apprentices: you are charged this day to comport yourselves in such a manner, that you may be a credit to both your mentor and the Conclave. Make a serious study of all that is put to you during this time, and you shall leave this place as better sorcerers. Will you do this?”

  “We will,” they both said.

  “Even as apprentices, you are now members of the Conclave of Sorcerers. As such, you are charged to put the greater good before both self and nation. You wear the sash of your mentor, until such time as you are tested and earn your own sash. Enter this place, knowing that even now you have a welcome and a home here at any time.” He offered a fist, and Mik and Sura each bumped it in acknowledgement.

  Mik and Sura were separated, as expected, and taken to the dormitories they would share with the other apprentices. Sura stepped into the girls’ room, and was swept up in a gleeful embrace.

  “Sura! I got your letter last summer, I’m sorry I didn’t write back, but I got so busy when Father apprenticed me to Tonima! It’s so wonderful, we won’t have to spend all that time in the kitchen this year! We’ll have our studies together…”

  “Isa! Hello!” Sura disengaged herself and looked at the chattering girl who had always been her best friend at the Gatherings. Isa hailed from Ugar, one of a loose alliance of city-states along the coast, east of Queensport. To be ho
nest, Sura had been too busy herself to wonder why Isa had never written back. “It’s good to see you too! The year’s been good to you.” That was true; Isa’s childhood softness had ripened into a more mature kind. She wore the brown sash of Earth magic.

  “So how’s your apprenticeship?” Isa asked her. “Anything exciting?”

  “Oh, Isa, you would not believe…” She gave her friend a lopsided smile. “Father got a second apprentice over the winter, and he’s… well, we…”

  Isa squealed. “Oh, you must introduce him to me! So… are you two—” She squeezed her thumb and forefinger together, and Sura blushed. “I knew it! You’ve got so pretty since last year, of course the boys would notice you. I won’t try to steal him, I promise!”

  “Two apprentices? Must be nice,” said one of the older girls from her bed; several others voiced agreement. “And he’s your boyfriend too?” The others gathered around Sura and Isa. “Tell us all about it. Sounds like the most exciting thing we’ve heard so far.”

  Mik looked around the boys’ room. The arrangement reminded him of the bunkhouse at his aunt’s ranch outside Lacota—except that all the beds were on the floor, and a bunkhouse did not feature ornate stonework and mosaics. Other boys, most older than Mik, from all points of the compass, chatted near the large window or stowed their baggage in drawers under their beds. Most were Western, like Mik: ruddy complexion, dark hair that often waved or curled. But there were many Northerners, tall and blonde, and even a few from the East and South. He shrugged and dropped his pack on a bed near the window.

  Two of the older apprentices turned to face him. “Is this bed taken?” Mik asked.

  “Over by the door, boy,” the taller one sneered—his accent, pale skin, and thin yellow hair marked him as a Northerner. “This side is for the senior apprentices.”

  After facing rogue mages and river pirates, let alone an ice dragon, a supercilious apprentice intimidated Mik not at all. “I was told I could take any open bed. Who are you to say different?”

  The blonde scowled; to Mik’s surprise, the other one grinned. “You should know me, boy. You certainly will in time to come. I am Hen sim Miran, descended from the Age of Heroes and the brave men of Ak’koyr. And who are you?”

  “Mik sim Mikhile. My mentor named me Mik Dragonrider.”

  The older boy barked laughter. “Dragonrider? Because you sat on a skink?”

  Mik felt a touch on his arm and heard a low voice: “There’s plenty of bunks over by mine.” Mik turned to find a Western boy, closer to his age, wearing a friendly smile. “I’ll be better company than them, for sure.”

  Mik returned the smile, and gave the newcomer a nod. He hefted his pack and looked at Hen. “What you believe does not concern me in the least.” He turned away, this time to a laugh and stifled snickers from Hen’s counterparts.

  “I’m Charn sim Bas,” the new boy said. “You’re a brave’un, facing down that braggart.”

  “Eh,” said Mik, “I’ve seen scarier things than him.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  Mik grinned. “My aunt. She’d have cuffed me if I let a tater intimidate me.”

  “A tater?”

  Mik pitched his voice higher and rougher, mimicking his aunt’s voice and Low Speech dialect: “Yar, a tater, about his ancestors goin’ on. Best part of him’s buried, it is!”

  Charn whooped with laughter, rocking back on his bed. “Oh, that’s one to remember! I’ll have to tell my mentor that, she has to deal with taters all the time!” They bumped fists, and Mik had a new friend.

  “Are you first-year too?” Mik asked.

  “Second,” said Charn. “But that’s all right. We’ll have a fine time.”

  Several other younger apprentices gathered to see what the commotion was about. The older ones ignored them, except for a brief glare from sim Miran. Only the latest comers missed the confrontation, and even they were drawn to an animated low-voiced conversation. “Why did your mentor name you Dragonrider?” one of them asked.

  “It’s a long story,” said Mik.

  “Good, you can tell it tonight,” said a brown-sashed Eastern boy. “After His Imperial Highness over there goes looking for a girl to impress.” He held out a fist with the pinky drooping away, an insulting gesture that he made sure Hen sim Miran could not see, and was rewarded with a chorus of snickers and stifled laughter.

  • • •

  “The First Gathering,” Bailar told his apprentices over breakfast, “includes the Resolution of Grievances. If any has a grievance against a sorcerer, then this is the time to bring it forward.”

  “How long does that last?” asked Sura, spooning the last of her eggs into a biscuit. “This is nice. A meal I didn’t have to cook.”

  “I thought you’d been here before?” Mik gave her a puzzled look.

  “Only as an attendant. They sent us to help in the kitchen right away. Now I don’t have to cook!” She leaned into Mik’s shoulder for a moment. “So how long will it last?”

  “Most years, it’s very brief.” Bailar looked amused. “Most grievances are petty enough that the accuser feels ashamed to bring it before the Conclave. One year, though, two fellows contrived a elaborate prank based on an outlandish story. That was most memorable, and we laughed about it for the entire Conclave.

  “One thing.” Bailar’s gaze fell on Mik. “Whatever is said, do not speak unless you have been addressed directly. You are still an apprentice, no matter how directly involved you may be in a dispute.”

  Mik gave his mentor a curious look. Surely a wrong-foot beginning, even with a haughty senior apprentice, would not merit a hearing before the entire Conclave.

  “So when that’s done, what comes next?” Sura asked. “This biscuit is a little dry,” she muttered, and gulped some tea.

  “Then the apprentices are dismissed and sent to learn things that their mentors have not had time or inclination to teach,” said Bailar. “Apprentices are separated by years of service, so you two will see each other often. Meanwhile, your elders will tend to other matters. Updates and corrections to records, and other such tedium.” He laughed. “The things you may look forward to when you earn your own sashes!”

  “It is said, before the Age of Heroes, that the Great Hall would be full to capacity and beyond.” Bailar led his charges down an aisle, lined with endless rows of seats, occasionally catching himself on a chair. “Apprentices sat in the aisles and lined the walls, and spilled out the doors. Today, we will need no more than a tenth part of this place.”

  “Where do we sit, then?” Sura asked, as Mik tried to take in the entire vastness of the hall.

  “Anywhere,” said Bailar. “We should find seats near the aisle though.” He looked ahead of them. “There.” He pointed at a place a dozen rows from the front. They took seats; the apprentices fidgeted and looked around the hall. Mik’s hand found Sura’s, and they looked only at each other for a moment. Then Hen sim Miran and a Northern woman, likely his mentor, brushed past. They wore the red sashes of Fire magic. The apprentice had his nose in the air, but did glance down at Sura as he brushed by. The woman gave them both an appraising look as she passed, then glanced back at Bailar.

  “Is that the one you told me about?” Sura whispered, and Mik nodded. “I think he’s worse than you described.” She squeezed his hand, making Mik smile.

  The murmurs of many conversations faded and died as a grizzled old man in a red sash and matching cape took to the dais above them. Mik thought he must be the First Protector, the leader of the Conclave. Taking his place at the podium, he struck the floor with his staff; the sound echoed through the Great Hall.

  “Let the Gathering of the Conclave begin,” he said. “All who are not sorcerers or apprentices, leave this place now.” A few attendants, mostly children, dashed up the aisles and ran through empty rows, clustering together as they reached the exits. Sura smiled, remembering all the years that she’d been one of them. After a quiet moment, the man in red continued. “We o
pen the Gathering, as always, by remembering those who have passed into the next life during the year gone by. May Heaven welcome them and smile upon them.” He read a list of names, punctuated only by the sighs of friends who remained behind.

  “And now,” said the old man, “let us honor the living and the life to come. Let all first-year apprentices stand and be recognized.”

  Mik and Sura stood, along with several others, to polite applause. Taking a quick count, Mik found their number two fewer than the list of the departed. Every year, our numbers grow a little smaller, Bailar had once said.

  “Let these, the newest apprentices, be joined by their fellows,” said the First Protector. The other apprentices around the Hall stood. To their right, sim Miran looked as if all the scattered applause was directed at himself. With a nod from the First Protector, the apprentices again took their seats.

  “Next, as tradition and the harmony of the Conclave demands, comes the Resolution of Grievances. Are there any here who would bring their grievance before the Conclave?” Nobody spoke. “And so, conduct yourselves in peace and harmony.

  “Tradition also requires that we allow any man or woman among the folk to bring their grievance against a sorcerer at this time,” he continued. “Let the doors be thrown open, to allow one and all to come as they wish.”

  A murmur grew around them, and people began looking back. Down the aisle came striding a well-fed man, dressed in fine clothes of purple, wearing a conical hat and an iron medallion. The latter was a mark of great wealth, a treasure in itself. He said nothing to those he passed. Mik noticed that Bailar was one of the few who showed no surprise, and his stomach sank. Sura clutched his hand; they looked at each other but neither had any wisdom to offer the other.