Author's Note: I swear, I'm addicted to this ish.
"Who wants to read next?" Alyss asked, looking around.
"I will." Sir Rodney offered, and Alyss passed the book to him with a smile. Rodney glanced at the page and raised his eyes to heaven. "God help us all." He muttered and started reading.
"All right candidates! This way! And look lively!"
The room burst into laughter at Rodney's approximation of Martin - because it was so obviously Martin. Baron Arald in particular was highly amused.
The speaker, or more correctly the shouter, was Martin, secretary to Baron Arald. As his voice echoed around the anteroom, the five wards rose uncertainly from the long wooden benches where they had been seated. Suddenly nervous - "Understatement," muttered Will - now that the day had finally arrived, they began to shuffle forward, each one reluctant to be the first through the great ironbound door that Martin now held open for them.
"Come on, come on!" Martin bellowed impatiently. Alyss finally elected to lead the way, as Will had guessed she would. The others followed the willowy blonde girl. Now that someone had decided to lead, the rest of them were content to follow.
Baron Arald shook his head. He was found of Martin, he really was, but the man could be utterly ridiculous at times.
Will looked around curiously - "That hasn't changed," Crowley interjected dryly - as he entered the Baron's study. He'd never been in this part of the castle before. This tower, containing the administrative section and the Baron's private apartments, was seldom visited by those of low rank - such as castle wards.
"Since when has that stopped you?" Gilan demanded, raising his eyebrows at Will, who had the grace to redden.
The room was huge. The ceiling seemed to tower above him and the walls were constructed of massive stone blocks, fitted together with only the barest lines of mortar between them. On the eastern wall was a huge window space - open to the elements but with massive wooden shutters that could be closed in the event of bad weather. It was the same window he had seen through last night, he realized. Today, sunlight streamed in an fell on the huge oak table that Baron Arald used as a desk.
"Come on now! Stand in line, stand in line!" Martin seemed to be enjoying his moment of authority.
"He gets so few." Halt snarked quietly. Will couldn't help but laugh, unfair as it was. Martin was only trying to help.
The group shuffled slowly into line and he studied them, his mouth twisted in disapproval.
"In size place! Tallest this end!" He indicated the end where he wanted the tallest of the five to stand. Gradually, the group rearranged itself. Horace, of course, was the tallest. After him, Alyss took her position. Then George, half a head shorter than she and painfully thin.
"You see, I'm not the only one!" Will exclaimed, spreading his hands.
"At least he ate." Jenny retorted, and Will pouted. "I eat." He mumbled.
"Not enough!" Jenny complained. "You're made of toothpicks."
He stood in his usual stoop-shouldered posture. Will and Jenny hesitated. Jenny smiled at Will and gestured for him to go before her, even though she was possibly an inch taller than he was.
"More now." Gilan said approvingly, eying Jenny, who blushed.
That was typical of Jenny. She knew how Will agonized over the fact that he was the smallest of all the castle wards. As Will moved into the line, Martin's voice stopped him.
"Not you! The girl's next!"
"And of course, he shouted." Will put in, making Baron Arald and Sir Rodney both roar with laughter.
Jenny shrugged apologetically and moved into the place Martin had indicated. Will took the last place in the line, wishing Martin hadn't made his lack of height so apparent.
"Come on! Smarten up, smarten up! Let's see you at attention there," Martin continued, then broke off as a deep voice interrupted him.
"I don't believe that's totally necessary, Martin."
"Oh thank God." Cassandra groaned, exhaling.
It was Baron Arald, who had entered unobserved, by way of a smaller door behind his massive desk. Now it was Martin who brought himself to what he considered to be a position of attention, with his skinny elbows held out from his sides, his heels forced together so that his unmistakably bowed legs were widely separated at the knees, and his head thrown back.
The table burst out laughing at the book's description of Martin.
Baron Arald raised his eyes to heaven. Sometimes his secretary's zeal on these occasions could be a little overwhelming. The Baron was a big man, broad in shoulder and waist and heavily muscled, as was necessary for a knight of the realm.
Baron Arald puffed up a little at this description of himself. Sir Rodney coughed politely, a slight grin on his face, and Baron Arald's expression turned suspicious as Rodney continued.
It was well known, however, that Baron Arald was fond of his food and drink, so his considerable bulk was not totally attributable to muscle.
Sir Rodney broke down laughing towards the end of the sentence.
"Oh for God's sake man! It's not that funny!" Arald barked irritably at a helplessly laughing Sir Rodney. Well, the entire table really, but especially Sir Rodney. Eventually, Rodney managed to to get himself back under control and continue reading.
He had a short, neatly trimmed black beard that, like his hair, was beginning to show the traces of gray that went with his forty-two years. He had a strong jaw, a large nose and dark, piercing eyes under heavy brows. It was a powerful face, but not an unkind one, Will thought.
"Thank you Will." Baron Arald said wryly. Will beamed at him. "Of course."
There was a surprising hint og humor in those dark eyes. Will had noted it before, on the occasions when Arald had made his infrequent visits to the wards' quarters to see how their lessons and personal development were progressing.
"Sir!" Martin said at top volume, causing the Baron to wince slightly. "The candidates are assembled!"
"You don't say?" King Duncan put in. More laughter.
"I can see that," Baron Arald replied patiently. "Perhaps you might be good enough to ask the Craftmasters to step in as well?"
"Sir!" Martin responded, making an attempt to click his heels together. As he was wearing shoes of a soft, pliable leather, the attempt was doomed to failure.
Chortles ran through the room as the mental image of Martin trying to click the heels of soft, pliable leather shoes together.
He marched toward the main door of the study, all elbows and knees. Will was reminded of a rooster. As Martin laid his hand on the door handle, the Baron stopped him once more.
"Martin?" He said softly. As the secretary turned an inquiring look back at him, he continued in the same quiet tone, "Ask them. Don't bellow at them. Craftmasters don't like that - damn right we don't." Rodney muttered.
"Yes, sir," said Martin, looking somewhat deflated. He opened the door and, making an obvious effort to speak in a lower tone, said, "Craftmasters. The Baron is ready now."
The Craftschool heads entered the room in no particular order of precedence. As a group, they admired and respected on another and so rarely stood on strict ceremonial procedure. Sir Rodney - and now I'm reading about myself, this is strange." Sir Rodney continued, deadpan as ever.
...head of the Battleschool, came first. Tall and broad-shouldered like the Baron, he wore the standard battledress of chain mail shirt under a white surcoat emblazoned with his own crest, a scarley wolfshead. He had earned that crest as a young man, fighting the wolfships of the Skandian sea raiders who constantly harried the kingdom's east coast. He wore a sword belt and sword, of course. No knight would be seen in public without one. He was around the Baron's age, with blue eyes and a face that would have been remarkably handsome - "Why thank you, Will," - if it weren't for the massively broken nose. Sir Rodney mock-glared at Will.
He sported an enormous mustache but, unlike the Baron, he had no beard.
Next came Ulf, the Horsemaster, responsible for the care and training fo the castle's mighty battlehorses. He had keen brown eyes, strong, muscular forearms and heavy wrists. He wore a simple leather vest over his woolen shirt and leggings. Tall riding boots of soft leather reached up past his knees.
Lady Pauline followed Ulf. Slim, gray-haired and elegant, she had been a considerable beauty in her youth and still had the grace and style to turn men's heads.
Halt frowned at this.
Lady Pauline, who had been awarded the title in her own right for her work in foreign policy for the kingdom, was head of the Diplomatic Service in Redmont. Baron Arald regarded her abilities highly and she was one of his close confidants and advisers. Arald often said that girls made the best recruits to the Diplomatic Service. They tended to be more subtle than boys, who gravitated naturally to Battleschool. And while boys constantly looked to physical means as the way of solving problems, girls could be depended on to use their wits.
It was perhaps only natural that Nigel, the Scribemaster, followed close behind Lady Pauline. They had been discussing matters of mutual interest - Halt looked mildly jealous, but did a surprisingly good job of hiding it - while they waited for Martin to summon them. Nigel and Lady Pauline were close friends as well as professional colleagues. It was Nigel's trained scribes who prepared the official documents and communiqués that were so often delivered by Lady Pauline's diplomats. He also advised on the exact wording of such documents, having an extensive background in legal matters. Nigel was a small, wiry man with a quick, inquisitive face that reminded will of a ferret.
Rodney looked up and raised one eyebrow at Will. "A ferret, Will? Truly?" Jenny, Horace, Gilan, and Cassandra were all laughing, and Alyss was smiling in that restrained way she had that Will knew was her way of being polite when she would rather laugh aloud.
His hair was glossy black, his features were thin and his dark eyes never ceased roaming the room.
Master Chubb, the castle cook, came in last of all. Inevitably, he was a fat, round-bellied man, wearing a cook's white jacket and tall hat. He was known to have a terrible temper that would flare as quickly as oil spilled on a fire, and most of the wards treated him with considerable caution. Florid-faced and with red, rapidly receding hair, Master Chubb carried a wooden ladle with him wherever he went. It was an unofficial staff of office.
"May well make it official when I get back to Redmont." Baron Arald muttered.
It was also used quite often as an offensive weapon, landing with a resounding crack on the heads of careless, forgetful or slow-moving kitchen apprentices. Alone among the group, Jenny saw Chubb as something of a hero. It was her avowed intention to work for him and learn his skills, wooden ladle or no wooden ladle.
There were other Craftmasters, of course. The Armorer and the Blacksmith were two. But only those Craftmasters who currently had vacancies for new apprentices would be represented today.
"The Craftmasters are assembled, sir!" Martin said, his voice rising in volume. Martin seemed to equate volume and the importance of the occasion in direct proportion.
"That's certainly true." Halt put in emphatically.
Once again, the Baron raised his eyes to heaven.
"So I see," he said quietly, then added, in a more formal tone, "Good morning, Lady Pauline. Good morning, gentlemen."
They replied and the Baron turned to Martin once more. "Perhaps we might proceed?"
"Here we go." Duncan said resignedly.
Martin nodded several times, consulted a sheaf of notes he held in one hand and marched to confront the lne of candidates.
"Right, the Baron's waiting! The Baron's waiting! Who's first?"
Will, eyes down, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, suddenly had the strange sensation that someone was watching him. He looked up and actually started with surprise as he met the dark, unfathomable gaze of Halt, the Ranger.
"Everybody run." Gilan deadpanned, and the room - with the notable exception of Halt - laughed aloud. Halt glared at Gilan, but the younger man was unfazed...as per the usual lately, it seemed.
Will hadn't seen him come into the room. He realized that the mysterious figure must have slipped in through a side door while everyone's attention was on the Craftmasters as they made their entrance. Now he stood behind the Baron's chair and slightly to one side, dressed in his usual brown and gray clothes and wrapped in his long , mottled gray and green Ranger's cloak. Halt was an unnerving person.
"Really, what was your first clue?" Jenny put in. Gilan laughed quietly, joined by Will and Alyss. Halt frowned at them all.
He had a habit of coming up on you when you least expected it - and you never heard his approach. The superstitious villagers believed that Rangers practiced a form of magic that made them invisible to ordinary people. Will wasn't sure if he believed that - but he wasn't sure he disbelieved it either. He wondered why Halt was here today.
"Admiring the stonework, Will, why do you think?" Halt interjected. Will grinned.
He wasn't recognized as one of the Craftmasters and, as far as Will knew, he hadn't attended a Choosing session prior to this one.
Abruptly, Halt's gaze cut away from him and it was as if a light had been turned off. Will realized that Martin was talking once more. He noticed that the secretary had a habit of repeating statements, as if he were followed by his own personal echo.
Baron Arald, who had found most of this chapter highly amusing, was once again roaring with mirth.
"Now then, who's first? Who's first?"
The Baron sighed audibly. "Why don't we take the first in line?" he suggested in a reasonable tone, and Martin nodded several times.
"Of course, my lord. Of course. First in line, step forward and face the Baron."
After a moment's hesitation, Horace stepped forward out of the line and stood at attention. The Baron studied him for a few seconds.
"Name?" He said, and Horace answered, stumbling slightly over the correct method of address for the Baron.
"Horace Altman, sir...my lord."
"And do you have a preference, Horace?" the Baron asked, with the air of one who knows what the answer is going to be before hearing it.
"It was slightly obvious." Will put in, and Horace grinned unashamedly.
"Just a little." Sir Rodney agreed and continued.
"Battleschool, sir!" Horace said firmly.
The Baron nodded. He'd expected as much. He glanced at Rodney, who was studying the boy thoughtfully, assessing his suitability.
"Battlemaster?" the Baron said. Normally he would address Rodney by his first name, not his title. But this was a formal occasion. By the same token, Rodney would usually address the Baron as "sir". But on a day like today, "my lord" was the proper form.
The big knight stepped forward, his chain mail and spurs chinking slightly as he moved closer to Horace. He eyed the boy up and down, then moved behind him. Horace's head started to turn with him.
"Still." Sir Rodney said, and the boy ceased his movement, staring straight ahead.
"Looks strong enough, my lord, and I can always use new trainees." He rubbed one hand over his chin. "You ride, Horace Altman?"
A look of uncertainty crossed Horace's face as he realized this might be a hurdle to his selection. "Well...no, sir. I..."
He was about to add that castle wards had little chance to learn to ride, but Sir Rodney interrupted him.
"No matter. That can be taught." The big knight looked at the Baron and nodded. "Very well, my lord. I'll take him for Battleschool, subject to the usual three-month probationary period."
"Oh yay." Horace mock-whispered to Cassandra. "Probationary period sounds wonderful."
Lady Pauline shot them both a pained look, with just enough amusement shining through that the two young people knew she didn't mean it. "You know, we almost made it through an entire page without any interruptions..."
The Baron made a note on a sheet of paper before him and smiled briefly at the delighted, and very relieved, youth before him.
"Congratulations, Horace. Report to Battleschool tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock sharp."
"Yes, sir!" Horace replied, grinning widely. He turned to Sir Rodney and bowed slightly - "What happened to bowing, Horace?" Sir Rodney asked. Horace went a little red, then noticed that Redmont's Battlemaster was grinning and realized his leg was being pulled.
"Thank you, sir!"
"Don't thank me yet," the knight replied cryptically. "You don't know what you're in for."
"Understatement of the century." Horace said firmly.
Egh. So, this was later than I would have liked...hopefully the time between chapters won't stretch to insane levels, as they have been known to before. Then again, nothing I've written before as been half as successful as this!
