The Wheelwright's Apprentice (7 page)

9

Art was much too tired to think of going anywhere but his bed that evening, however, the next morning found him relaxed, refreshed and wearing the only set of non-working clothes he had been issued. They were a lot nicer than anything he had worn before. In fact, he hadn’t owned anything much good before anyway. His outfit of soft boots, clean pants and a jerkin that marked him both as the Count’s apprentice and as a healer-in-training made him feel as if he actually belonged as well as being at least a little bit smart. Grammon had sought him out and told him, “See the sights, learn a little bit about the City, see what things cost and have fun. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that the complexion of the City changes at night.”

Art ventured out and started ambling along, gawking like the country bumpkin that of course he was. This was brought home to him forcibly when he passed a stall in an open square, selling some sort of food. He had no idea what they were selling, even when he asked the man behind the stall what it was. The reply “jottin” was no help at all, and when he showed his ignorance he was asked, “Never been in a City before have you? Jottin is minced lamb with quite a few other things in it. A bowl is three coppers, and you get a heel of bread with it. Now, young man do you want some or not?” Art was happy to try something new and different, so he handed over the coppers and was presented with a bowl and spoon.

His first taste of jottin made his mouth catch fire, and this fire moved up his nose to straight behind his eyes. All the indignities, pain, ignorance, loss and anger of the past month boiled up, and suddenly the vendors cart was exploding in pieces flying all over the place. Almost immediately, the shame of losing his control made him again exert his Will. All the pieces froze in midair, well short ofdth hitting any of the many bystanders whom Art now noticed. He took a bite of the bread and while the frozen tableau amazed the bystanders, he waited for his mouth to recover enough for him to speak.

The vendor was babbling now and going, “P-p-p-please S-s-sir it were a jest.”

Art waited for the situation to sink in to the vendor, and after a long drawn out moment said, “You may keep the jottin; it was not to my taste. You may also keep the coppers. They were a small price for the lesson in controlling my Will.” So saying he gave a theatrical but superfluous wave of his arm, and the stall repaired itself.

A moment later, the vendor suddenly spat, and a big gobbet of jottin came out while the vendor scrabbled for his flask. Art walked away and tried to lose himself in the crowds. As he left the area he realized that he had enjoyed the little encounter as it had allowed his frustrations to have an outlet. He even allowed himself a little chuckle at the memory of the vendor spitting out the jottin. As he went on, he also admitted to himself that his frustrations needed an outlet before they hurt someone by mistake.

Art walked for an hour or two. He saw the river and the docks. He passed hovels and houses so huge they reminded him of the Count’s palace. He passed market places and shops, and ended up at the Truthreaders Court. His walk around the City had been enough to let him relax again and to forget his lapse.

He looked up at the Truthreaders Court. It was another imposing edifice. He entered and no one challenged him. He wondered if wearing the Count’s insignia was it, or perhaps anyone was allowed in. He took the opportunity to sit down on a bench and rest and think. There was another bench back to back to the one he was on, and Art heard two voices talking.

The first said, “Did you hear? A jottin vendor got a spectacular comeuppance this morning when the country bumpkin he played a trick on turned out to be a Will adept. He smashed the cart to bits, froze the pieces in mid-air for a minute or so to allow the vendor to think about it, and then put it all back together. Oh, and he Willed a spoonful of that spiced up jottin into the vendor’s mouth! My sister saw it and says it was the most amazing thing she had ever seen.”

“That vendor is known for giving extra hot jottin to newcomers, and she said seeing his face as he spat it out was just wonderful. She said she laughed and laughed.”

The other voice chimed in with, “So which adept was it? There can only be a dozen in Red City.”

“She said it was a boy, wearing temple clothes and...who looked like the Count of course!”

Art got up quietly and crept out. He really did not want to be reminded of what he had done. He started back towards the Temple, but decided he deserved a decent meal first, so he stopped at a likely inn. He ordered simply, saying, “Bring me anything, as long as it isn’t spicy.”

While he was working his way through a large portion of roast pork with potatoes, vegetables and gravy, he heard a conversation at the next table, “...blew up the vendor’s cart and let all the pieces hang in the air...”

“Must have been a very strong willed adept”

“And a very annoyed one!”

“...would have paid to see that.”

Art quickly finished and left. It was not his day. He went straight back to the Temple and asked to see Grammon.
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After waiting a while, he was ushered into Grammon’s study and said, “The day got off to a bad start...”

Grammon smiled and replied, “I thought you might be back early. Your little impromptu show has had a few people talking, as it got back to us quite a while ago. I am not sure what to say. You lost control spectacularly, but regained it even more spectacularly, so I think we can consider the incident closed.” Grammon paused for attention and went on to say, “The next couple of times you leave the Temple I will be sending someone with you!”

Art turned at the doorway as he was leaving and told Grammon, “I must admit it was fun. I haven’t had much fun lately. I liked the feel of power. I don’t want my fun to hurt people, but I have found that I am not the perfect person my mother wanted me to be.”

Grammon shot back, “But not our dad?”

Art looked Grammon right in the eye and said, “I have no idea what our father wants from me, and I’ll be lucky if I ever do!”

10

A week later, Art was in Grammon’s office, and was introduced to another apprentice.

“This is Faran. He is a native of Red City, and I have asked him to show you around. Please stay with him.” Grammon gave him a serious look. He was a sheepdog to Art’s sheep, someone to keep him in line. Art resolved to do his best as he did not want anything similar to last week’s lapse to happen.

His venture into town this time was a lot more reserved than it had been the week before. There was some sightseeing and pointing out of landmarks, but Faran ordered all their food and drink. He at least knew what it was. The pair drew quite a few stares as they wandered. After a bit, Art asked Faran, “Why do they look at us? Are we unusual?”

Faran gave a quirky smile, and replied, “No we aren’t, but you are. All the Temple apprentices have been attracting stares because of what you did. After last week, it became common knowledge that there was a new young Willed healer at the Temple, who was hard working, dedicated and, how can I put it? Unpredictable. There might be a dozen or so people in the whole city who can wield their Will as effectively as you can, and you’ve only just found it. I’ve watched you work a few times, but you have always been far too busy to notice me. You have been worked like a dog as Grammon badly needed a break. I can see why all this is a bit bewildering for you. You haven’t been given much time to yourself yet.”

Art replied drily, “I am beginning to get the feeling that they want to wear me out so much that I can’t even think!”

A little bit later, as they passed a coffee shop, Faran had an idea and told Art, “A group of my friends often goes to a teashop to talk, meet, and sometimes even drink tea. If we are lucky some of them may be there.” A few minutes later they arrived at a teashop called “The Porcelain Kettle”.

Faran pulled Art in behind him and waved at a large group of boys and girls all about the same age as them. Spaces were made and chairs pushed around to make room for the newcomers. Faran and everyone else in the group all seemed to have the familiarity that came with knowing each other all their lives, something that Art recognized from his own childhood. Nevertheless he was welcomed and made to feel comfortable. Faran just intro Flives, somduced him as “a fellow apprentice” at the Temple of Healing.

There was a good buzz of conversation going on around the group and Art was very happy just to listen to all the sorts of things that city folk his age talked about. It was a lot different to the things that he and his friends in Dane’s Hamlet had talked about when they had had the time. In fact he found out that he couldn’t even follow the conversations when they started talking about the Truthreaders or the market. They all appeared to be apprentices of one sort or another, and all were bound up in their own little concerns.

One of the girls, whose name Art recalled was Amia, and who was sitting next to Faran, asked him, “Do you know the new Willed healer we are hearing about, and what do you know of him?”

Faran paused, leaned over to Art and quietly asked him, “What shall I say?”

Art’s reply was a non-committal wave of his hands and a whispered, “Tell them.”

So Faran looked over at the girl and said, “He is fifteen, like me. He has been working very hard, so much so that we hardly ever see him except when we are helping with the healing.” He turned towards Art and said, “I am sure you will tell Amia more, Art, won’t you?”

Amia became more animated and asked, “Do you know him any better than Faran then?”

Art smiled at her, and replied, “I suppose you could...” Just then there was a resounding crash followed by some choice and very unladylike words pitched in a girlish voice. Everyone stopped talking and looked in the direction of the noise. One of the waitresses had fallen down, breaking a teapot and some of the cups she had been carrying. There was blood coming from a gash in her calf, which had obviously been caused by her falling on a broken piece of teapot. Two men close by were vying to be the one to help her up.

Art stood up followed by Faran. They walked over to the waitress who by now had been seated in a spare chair. Art volunteered, “We are from the Temple, and perhaps I can help.”

The waitress, who was still slightly in shock, asked rather rudely, “Aren’t you a bit young?”

Art put on his best reassuring smile, one he had recently learned, and which he knew to be effective, and replied, “I may be young, but I am quite competent, you’ll see.” He then confidently pulled her leg up, rested it on a stool and had a look. “Can someone pass me a clean cloth and some warm water?” he called out in the direction of the kitchen. These things were readily to hand, as it was a teashop. He dipped the cloth in the water, and slowly washed the gash. He then stroked the cloth up the length of the gash, which was four or more inches long, and said, “All done, you’re fine now.” Her calf was smooth, and there was no sign that there had ever been a gash.

He wanted to get away, as he had no intention of being bombarded with silly requests and questions, but now that they knew that he was Willed, he knew it would be impossible. He hadn’t realized that many of the people in the shop, including a lot of their new companions, had gathered around to watch.

Amia grabbed his arm and pulled him back towards his seat enthusiastically, while she asked, “So you’re the new healer, the one who blew up the jottin seller’s cart. That’s amazing! What else can you do?”

Art had not really wanted to do more than tiptoe around the edges of this group. He definitely did not want to use his Will any more. He was ther K. Ht ree to find things out, not to be found himself and made into an impromptu entertainer. Amia however had different ideas. For her, the excitement of being close to someone who could do exceptional things, things that brought a bit of life into her somewhat dull existence, made her act a bit out of character.

“Oh, come on Art,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him, “Show us something interesting, we know you can.” She smiled widely and hopefully.

Art addressed the whole group and said, “Regardless of what you think, it is not easy to use the Will. Most of my experience using it has been as a healer in the Temple. Two months ago I didn’t even know the Will existed. There is not all that much I can use it for.” This little tirade had the effect of calming them down, and when another girl asked him a question about the Count, he was happy to tell them about some of his experiences.

When he had finished a story about the Count, Amia started on him again. She wheedled, “Oh please come on. We have so little that is interesting happen around here.” It wasn’t only her. A lot of the others wanted a show too, but they were just not quite as forward as Amia. It was enough for them to occasionally echo her sentiments.

Art again repeated, a little more sternly than before, “I’m sorry please don’t ask me again. This is only my second day off in over a month!”

Amia subsided for a while, but when it came down to it, she would not leave well enough alone. She whined until Art had had it. He told Amia somewhat gruffly, “Alright, you want a show, then I’ll give you one. Get some of the boys to push a table up against the wall.” With the furniture soon rearranged, Art clambered onto the table and removed his jerkin. He then sat down with his back against the wall and told the assembly, “Please give me a bit of time. I have to work a couple of preliminary spells. You won’t see anything happen though.”

He had thought at first to use Amia as his subject, but he was not that cruel, and he wasn’t sure he could keep her controlled if she threw a fit. The moment arrived, and he was ready. He called out, “Could someone get me a knife.” A knife was quickly brought by the eager audience. It was blunt, but for Art it was ideal, it was just a prop anyway. “Watch closely, and you might learn a bit!”

Art held the knife and dragged it over his torso three times, once up and down and twice side to side. After this was done he dropped the knife and started pulling his chest apart, opening it up as if he was a corpse on the slab. One of his preparatory spells had been to remove the pain, another was to minimize bleeding and blood loss. He started by talking about his heart, as they could all see it beating away. He then pointed out veins and arteries, showed how they went into the lungs and showed how his liver nestled neatly in its cavity. He kept up a continuous running commentary all the time. He had to keep his head down so he could see what he was showing them. When he pulled out some of his intestines and laid them out on the table, he started hearing some very funny noises from the crowd. That was his cue to look at the audience. All the girls had gone or were going, and there were only a few boys left, Faran and two others, one vomiting in a corner and the other heading for the jakes. Art wasted no time in repairing himself and got off the table, telling Faran, “I need a cup of tea.”

Faran laughed and said, “You were an absolute bastard then. I know you did that because you had had it up to here with them!” He held his hand several inches above his head.

Art replied, “Yes, I di K o here wid exactly that. They wanted a show, and I gave them one to remember. I just hope you don’t lose any friends over this.” They heard the door bang as the last of their former companions lurched out into the street.

A minute or two later, the waitress who had gashed her leg came over with teas for them both. She said, “That was awesome. I mean I really liked what you did, that Amia isn’t too tactful is she?”

“Thank you,” Art said, as he took the cup and warmed his hands with it, “I was a bit mean, but there is really not much more that I can do easily or without a bit of preparation.” He thought for a bit and then continued, “Maybe there is one little thing I could do. Did you sweep up all the pieces of the teapot and cups that were broken?”

The waitress replied, “I think I did.”

Art told her, “Bring them all here, and I will see if I can do something about them.”

She brought a wastebasket and said, “They should all be in here.”

Art had her spread all the pieces on the table top and then did his best to sort them out. He then leaned back and they all flew together. Art picked up the teapot and gave a big grin, turned it around and showed them a fair sized hole, and said, “Look, we’ve lost a piece. Let’s see if it’s in a corner.”

They all got down on their hands and knees and after a minute or so Faran gave a yell, “I’ve got it!” Faran handed the shard to Art who fitted it gently against the pot. It fit smoothly.

Art sat back and had a sip from his teacup and said to the waitress, “Check it out now.” The teapot was whole again. “Doing repairs is the easiest thing for me to do. Healing is repairing, and I do that all the time.”

The waitress picked up the teapot and told Art, “Thank you so very much. That was very kind of you. The owner might have taken it out of my pay if he was in a bad mood.” She took the teapot back behind the counter along with the cups and saucers and then came back. “My name is Sammie. Thank you for the lesson.
After all, it’s not every boy who really shows his heart to a girl, is it?” She gave him a saucy smile and went on, “Do come back again soon now. I’ll treat you next time.”