The Wizard Test Page 7

  Vadeen laughed.

  Endaffi Jeman, who greeted Dayven with politely steepled fingers, did not laugh. Dayven was so grateful for it, he had to crush down an impulse to bow in return. A Guardian did not bow to his enemies. Still, he had to fight a ridiculous desire to cling to Reddick as the wizard introduced him to the Endaffi and departed. And that was ridiculous, for Reddick was as much his enemy as the Cenzar! Though the wizard did seem to have left Dayven in capable hands.

  Perhaps the austere richness of the Endaffi’s office had something to do with this feeling of nervous respect. Who’d have thought people who dressed so gaudily would appreciate unadorned wood? The intricate carving of the shutters and desk surpassed anything Dayven had ever seen. Lord Enar had nothing so fine, and this man was what, a schoolmaster? Perhaps that was the Cenzar equivalent of a bard. For it wasn’t merely the setting, Dayven realized as the Cenzar boy recounted their story; the Endaffi, whose clothing was almost as restrained as a Tharn’s, would command respect in a back alley wearing beggar’s rags. Even that cocksure idiot, Vadeen, seemed a little … quelled. Somewhat to Dayven’s surprise, the boy told the complete truth.

  “So you see, Endaffi,” Vadeen concluded, “the wizard’s apprentice walked into a snare set for another. No one could blame him for his rage, especially when I laughed.” He laughed again, remembering, but soon fell silent under the Endaffi’s cool eyes.

  “Dayven,” Endaffi Jeman turned to him, “do you have anything to add to Vadeen’s account of this lamentable incident.”

  “No, Endaffi. He told you everything.”

  “Vadeen always confesses,” said the Endaffi dryly. “It is only unfortunate that he has to do it so often. But that is nothing to do with you. You have, in fact, been the victim of a grave fault in our hospitality. I offer you profound apologies on the behalf of the zondar and of the Cenzar people. Vadeen, no doubt, will offer his own apologies eventually.” He steepled his fingers again and bowed slightly.

  “He already did.” Dayven found himself bowing in return. He had expected to be punished, not apologized to. The Endaffi must have read his face.

  “In view of the provocation you received, your punishment will be light. For the future I warn you; brawling is not allowed.”

  He turned back to Vadeen.

  “I suppose you, as usual, aren’t the least bit sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I got the wrong one, but aside from that, no, Endaffi.”

  Endaffi Jeman sighed. “Then it must be my job to make you sorry.

  “First, as punishment for your breach of hospitality, you will be Dayven’s companion for as long as he is here. He was a Tharn Watcherlad, but his people rejected him when he chose wizardry. He and his master are my guests in the city. Explain our ways to him, and keep him from trouble.”

  It was, Dayven supposed, the polite way of assigning Vadeen to guard him. He was glad he didn’t need to spy on anyone but Reddick.

  “Next, as punishment for sneaking away from your exercises, you are forbidden to take part in exercises yourself for a week. You are, however, required to attend and help Dayven, who will take your place. You will also spend two hours after dinner each evening assisting the cook.”

  Vadeen grimaced. “Yes, Endaffi.”

  “Finally, as punishment for the trick you planned to play on Rustaf—”

  “But Endaffi, he—”

  The Endaffi held up his hand for silence. “I know you think he misused one of the horses. I also know that to you there is no greater crime and that you felt justified in what you planned. But Vadeen, the decision was not yours. If you see a man misuse a horse you report it to the master-of-horse. You do not humiliate him personally. Nor do you take a switch to him, as you did last time.”

  Vadeen’s eyes fell. “Yes, Endaffi.”

  “As I was saying, your punishment for this is to be banned from the stables until Rustaf returns. He has just left on an errand for me and will not be back for several weeks. If you are not allowed in the stables, perhaps he will find no unpleasant surprises awaiting him when he returns.”

  “But Endaffi, Nikkar is due to foal any day. It’s going to be a difficult birth, too. If I am forbidden the stables, how can I—”

  “Nikkar’s foaling is the master-of-horse’s business, not yours. I’m sure he can handle it without you.

  “And now, Dayven.” The Endaffi turned back to him. “You are permitted to move freely in our city only because Vadeen will accompany you at all times, and because I have taken responsibility for your actions. Don’t thank me, for in return I am shifting the responsibility for Vadeen’s behavior on to you. See that he does as I have said, and keep him out of further trouble. I will hold you accountable, at least in part, for his conduct.

  “Vadeen, since you have missed the exercises, you may spend the rest of the day showing Dayven our city. The cook will expect you in the kitchen tonight.”

  “But Endaffi, Nikkar is—”

  “That is all. You may go.”

  Dayven grabbed Vadeen’s arm and pulled him out the door before his impudent tongue could get them in more trouble.

  “And, Vadeen,” the Endaffi called after them, “start your tour with the public bath. You both need it.”

  Chapter 8

  Damishaff, the city of the Cenzar, amazed and delighted Dayven in spite of himself.

  After he exclaimed over the vaulted ceiling of the bathhouse, Vadeen took him to the Church of the Lady, and then fidgeted while Dayven stared at the stone arches soaring overhead. The low moaning that twined among them was oddly familiar.

  “Wind pipes,” Vadeen told him. “The Lady’s voice.”

  Dayven stared at him, trying to ignore the combination of orange tunic and wine-colored britches. “But if you know it’s just wind … ah, I mean, it doesn’t sound much like a voice to me.”

  Vadeen smiled, but his eyes were serious. “It doesn’t sound like a human voice, but it is made by the Lady’s breath, which all life breathes back to her.”

  “I see,” said Dayven. Actually he didn’t, but the church was even more beautiful than the Bardic Hall back home, and the spooky moaning almost made it seem alive, breathing. Perhaps he did see.

  And were the Tharn and the Cenzar really so different? According to Vadeen, the Lady’s handmaidens used the church to teach about how the Lady gifted the world with life, just as the bards in the Bardic Hall sung the history of the Tharn, and explained the workings of destiny. Of course, the bards also taught that the Cenzar goddess was only a peasant superstition. Still… If the Cenzar, in their gaudy colors, thought the Tharn looked drab, what might they think of the Tharns’ beliefs about destiny?

  As the next four days went by, Dayven found other things he liked about the city: the sweet and spicy fikka tarts they bought in stalls in the bazaar, the shaded gardens behind high walls, the politeness of the people he met. Even the warriors, who tried to teach him Cenzar fighting methods, were courteous — some even friendly.

  Dayven found the Cenzar fighting style very different from his own. Their armor was lighter than the Tharns’ heavy plate and they wore much less of it — sometimes no more than a breastplate and bracers to protect their arms. Dayven thought that was unbelievably reckless, until he saw their exercises. They relied on their ability to dodge and duck to protect themselves. And their horses, which were wonderfully well trained, could easily carry them out of reach of an enemy’s weapon. Dayven was proud to learn that on foot he could usually hold his own with a sword — at least against boys near his own age. But the moment they all mounted horses, the Cenzar had him hopelessly overmatched. Watching those horses twist and spin, and remembering how much all that armor slowed a man down, Dayven became very thoughtful.

  His mission was to spy on Reddick, but the task Reddick had given him, to observe the Cenzars’ fighting methods, was beginning to seem every bit as valuable. Could the wizard be innocent after all? Even if he wasn’t, Dayven couldn’t think of any way to spy o
n him. He’d seen Reddick in the zondar a few times, talking to the teachers, but he didn’t know what they were talking about, and he couldn’t think of any reason to ask.

  There were also Cenzar customs that Dayven didn’t like. At his first dinner, as dish after dish of vegetables and grain passed by, he almost insulted the Cenzar by asking where the meat was. Only a few shreds of fowl were served — this was a poor man’s table! But the Cenzar were not poor; this must be the diet they preferred. At least it accounted for the absence of forks; there was nothing on the table worth spearing. Dayven, having no desire to anger his hosts, kept his comments to himself, but he hungered for a thick slab of beef or lamb or even goat.

  When they were not at lessons, Vadeen showed Dayven different parts of the city. It was in the street of the spice sellers, on his fifth day in Damishaff, that he saw Reddick talking to a richly dressed old man.

  Dayven grabbed Vadeen’s arm and pulled him around a corner.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “My tutor’s out there,” Dayven whispered. He peered around the corner and ducked back. “He’s talking to a man.”

  “Why shouldn’t he? You don’t want him to see you?”

  “I don’t … ah, we had a fight.” He hoped Vadeen wouldn’t ask what the fight was about — or when it had taken place. He hadn’t spoken to Reddick since the wizard left him at the zondar. “Can you tell me who he’s with?”

  Vadeen looked. “That’s Mirin, the apothecary. He was a wizard’s apprentice himself, I heard. But he never became a wizard, or they wouldn’t have let him stay here. Is there some reason he shouldn’t talk to your master?”

  “No, of course not.” Dayven peeked again. Reddick and the apothecary were still there. “Let’s go this way, Vadeen. I want… I want to see the church again.” The Cenzar boy eyed him suspiciously, but allowed himself to be led in the opposite direction without protest.

  “I don’t know why Mirin never became a wizard,” Vadeen commented. “I heard he studied with them for many years. Is it so hard to become a wizard?”

  “He probably couldn’t see the fifth side,” said Dayven absently. He was grateful for Vadeen’s tact. He didn’t want Reddick to catch his apprentice spying on him. Of course, he should have been spying on him for the last five days.

  “Why do wizards wear gray?” asked Vadeen curiously. “I know that your people don’t share the love of color, with which the Lady has gifted us, and I can understand that with their uncertain reputation wizards might not want to wear black, but why not some pleasing color?”

  “Gets dirty too easy,” said Dayven absently. He didn’t even know where Reddick was staying. He should sneak out tonight and try to find him. During the day, despite his casual attitude, Vadeen was careful not to let Dayven wander off alone, but Dayven thought that was as much to keep him safe as to spy on him. They had moved a bed into Vadeen’s room for Dayven, so they slept together, but in the evening, within the zondar’s walls, Vadeen let him do as he pleased. There was a watchman at the zondar’s gates, but that was just an excuse; the truth was that Dayven hadn’t quite dared to go wandering alone in an enemy city. If he waited till after kitchen duty, it would be easy enough for him to escape over the zondar’s wall … because Vadeen trusted him. A Guardian should be worthy of trust — the fifth rule.

  But to be worthy of Vadeen’s trust, he would have to betray Lord Enar’s — and it was to Lord Enar that had promised his loyalty, not to Vadeen. Certainly not to Reddick!

  Vadeen saw that Dayven was troubled and changed the subject with typical Cenzar courtesy. Even though he was an enemy Tharn, everyone treated him hospitably, because he was a guest in their city. Well, almost everyone.

  “The Tharn are superstitious barbarians, without manners or courage. Once we have beaten their army into the mud they will pack up and move on. Tharns never hold anything long. That’s why they never build anything.” The cook scratched his dirty turquoise shirt and glared at Vadeen, who stopped scrubbing bowls and turned to wink sympathetically at Dayven. It had taken only one evening with the cook to turn the two boys into allies.

  “We’ve stayed in the Town-within-the-Walls for three generations,” Dayven, who was drying, declared proudly. “We’ve beaten your army before, and we’ll do it again.”

  “After you stole the land in the first place by a foul trick, inviting our generals to meet and dine with you in peace and then attacking them as they ate.”

  Dayven blushed. The Tharn version of the story referred to this as “the Lordowner’s wise plan,” but no one bragged about it. Soren had once called it a despicable way to win.

  “Well, you’re wrong about us not staying,” he told the cook. “Before, we kept moving because we were looking for this valley. Now it’s found, we’ll never have to move on again.”

  The cook snorted, but Vadeen looked curious. “What do you mean, you were looking for this valley?”

  “It was a prophecy,” Dayven explained. His voice slid into the cadence of the bard as he recited the words that had consoled and motivated so many generations of his ancestors. “Long ago there was a great bard, Geordic, who had the seer’s gift. When our ancestors were driven from their homeland, he foresaw our people’s destiny. He said we would be forced to roam for many generations, but that someday we would come to a valley, even more lovely and fertile than the land we lost, and there we would remain.”

  The cook sniggered. “Did this seer also say you would have to steal the land by treachery and—”

  “It isn’t the treachery he minds,” said Vadeen from his place by the washtub. “It’s that the meal was interrupted. That’s all cooks care about.”

  “You keep scrubbing, dung-shoveler.” The cook aimed a cuff at Vadeen, but the Cenzar boy ducked it easily, being familiar with the cook’s habits.

  “I’m a rashief, a mounted warrior, not a dung-shoveler,” Vadeen protested.

  “Oh, a rashief, are you? What great races have you ridden? What battles have you fought, to deserve that title?”

  “None yet,” said Vadeen. “But I will. Already I know much. Take Nikkar for instance. The master-of-horse, who knows more about horses than any warrior could, says she’s going to foal in two weeks — but it’s going to be much sooner than that. I can tell by the way she acts. That is the knowledge of a true rashief.”

  “But for now you are a dung-shoveler who befriends the enemy that is draining the life from our land.”

  “Dayven is a wizard,” said Vadeen. “Wizards revere life.”

  “That’s all they revere. Not only are they godless infidels, but they serve no lord. Men without faith or loyalty are less than animals.”

  “At least we bathe oftener than animals do,” said Dayven smartly. “Which is more than I can say for some.” His direct glance left no doubt who he meant and Vadeen snickered.

  Actually, most Cenzar bathed more often than the Tharn did. Vadeen had taken him to the baths almost daily. Dayven was sure it couldn’t be good for his skin, but none of the Cenzar seemed to suffer from it.

  Sometimes in the bazaar, Dayven saw a bargainer look straight at someone and pinch their nostrils shut; the gesture’s meaning was so plain he didn’t need to ask Vadeen for a translation. Perhaps it wasn’t considered polite to say it plainly. Dayven thought he was getting a grip on how Cenzar manners worked.

  The cook’s round face turned red. “You are fine ones to speak of cleanliness. You haven’t even started the plates yet.”

  He tipped the towering stack of dishes into the washbasin and a sheet of dirty water drenched both boys. “Yes, you are fine ones to talk of cleanliness. You’d better have those shining when I get back.”

  He strolled out of the kitchen, chuckling at the sharpness of his own wit.

  “Cenzar snake-dung,” muttered Dayven, dabbing at his damp robe with the drying cloth.

  Vadeen was even wetter. He took off his soaked apron, threw it on the floor, and folded his arms.

  “Do
n’t let it bother you,” he said majestically. “That potbellied pot-scrubber is as the dust beneath our feet. We will transcend his insults.”

  “What do you mean? That we should forget it?”

  “Not at all,” said Vadeen. “We should get even.”

  The cook awakened to the sound of Ameen’s whistle. The master-of-the-household used it to summon servants who might be scattered throughout the school. But in his kitchen at this hour of the morning it could mean only one thing: a surprise inspection. The cook yawned. It was a nuisance, but it didn’t matter. He had checked the kitchen before he went to bed. Those lazy boys had done a decent job.

  He rolled out of bed and stepped into his pants. Or tried to. The right leg went on fine, but he couldn’t put his foot through the left one.

  The whistle sounded again, a little louder. Ameen was a busy man. He expected people to come when summoned.

  The cook thrust his foot into his trousers and gasped as he heard the cloth around the ankle rip. He stared at the dangling threads; the ankle had been sewn shut!

  The whistle sounded again.

  The cook grabbed his shirt, pulled it on, and discovered the buttons were missing. Vadeen and the Tharn brat. Wait till he got his hands on them; they’d see who laughed last!

  The whistle again, shrill and impatient.

  Oh well. Ameen never cared how he looked, as long as the kitchen was clean and the food good.

  The cook put on his slippers. He wasn’t surprised when the heels came loose, flapping noisily with every step he took.

  Feeling like he was wading through a nightmare, the cook flapped hurriedly down the stairs.

  Morning sun streamed through the open doorway, silhouetting Ameen’s white-clad figure and lighting the chaos and filth of the kitchen.

  The cook’s jaw dropped. It had been tidy, if not spotless, when he went to bed, but now…

  Every pot was dirty, even those jumbled in the half open cupboards. A broken egg decorated the floor at Ameen’s feet and eggy footprints tracked through spilled flour. Grease and rotting vegetables were everywhere.