Ten Apprentices, Page 2

  I thought about what I had been. A boy. Ignorant, uncouth. A farmer’s son brought to court where he could not belong. And then bound.

  Slowly, I had grown to be more a part of the court. Slowly, I had become more and more the fool’s apprentice.

  But I was just growing older. Any boy my age would have done the same if he was set in court day in and day out, as I was.

  Well, not the pages. Or the servants.

  But they saw less of the court than I did. Less of the king.

  And less of the fool.

  Oh.

  My eyes widened.

  The magician nodded. “Now you know,” he said.

  I shook my head. “No. It is nothing. Just a thought.”

  “A treasonous thought,” said the magician. “But no less true for that. We cannot speak of what we know, but the three of us are not fools.” His last word was heavily emphasized.

  I could hear his breathing, heavy and powerful in the small room.

  Or was it mine?

  He was here, day in and day out. He never left this tower. What did he know of what went on outside of it? Of me? Of the king and the fool?

  It could not be true.

  “You did not realize it before now?” asked the magician.

  My teeth chattered and I began a convulsion. It laid me back on the floor. This time it took me away from myself, and for that I was grateful. Until I woke again, and there was a terrible throbbing on the back of my head. I could feel a cool wetness behind my ears.

  I reached a shortened hand, but could not get back far enough.

  The magician was at my side. Kneeling next to me, but not touching. He handed me a cloth that looked clean.

  I studied it suspiciously.

  “I would not try to kill you,” he said. “After all the work I’ve put into you, why should I do that?”

  I still could not reach the cloth to my head, but I lifted myself up enough that I could see the blood behind me, shining and dark in the tower.

  I used the cloth to wipe at the blood that dribbled down my neck and would have gone down my back.

  My fancy collar was ruined.

  Ah, well, the king could afford another. One thing I had plenty of was outfits for a fool.

  “The binding stunts your physical growth, it is true. But that is merely a side benefit. It is truly meant only to grow your mind. Make you think faster, better, more widely.”

  The magician shrugged. “Of course, if it had not made you ugly or undesirable in some way, I would have had to add that effect, for it is important that you be invisible. Part of the court, but never accepted by it. Seen, but unnoticed.”

  “For who would think a fool could be a king?” I whispered.

  “Exactly,” said the magician.

  “I wanted him to marry Lucy,” I blurted out, overwhelmed. “That was all I wanted. That was why I did what I did with the others.”

  The magician was silent for a time. He moved away from me, and the blood on the back of my head slowly stopped dripping down. The ache there was the same, however. And I had to deal with the binding pain, as well.

  There had never been such a miserable day.

  Yet outside, it was spring. The sun would be out, and beautiful. The knights would be in the courtyard, dueling. Lucy would be washing dishes, her gown wet to her navel . . .

  “Who is this Lucy?” asked the magician.

  I clamped my lips together. I saw no reason to embarrass myself further.

  “Oh, yes, I remember now. The kitchen wench. Amusing,” he said. But he did not sound amused. He sounded thoughtful. “She is a pretty thing, isn’t she? And not entirely without a mind of her own. Yet not too intelligent. Hmmm.”

  “No. Leave her out of this,” I said. “Better for her to—” Did I truly think it was better for her to marry the dark-haired page?

  “Think about it selfishly,” said the magician. “The king’s wife may get lonely, in those times when he is away. Or is simply busy with the dealings of his court. If she is seen by others to be a misfit, there is all the more reason for her to leave early.”

  What was he telling me? That I could cuckold the king? With Lucy?

  My ears stung.

  And I knew it was not true. Because whatever she became, I would still be the fool.

  “Not Lucy,” I said.

  “But she is a perfect choice. I never would have considered her myself. But you see, your brilliance proves itself. My binding power has not been for nothing, after all.”

  “She would hate being queen,” I said, one last protest.

  “Ah, she would in some ways. But every woman likes being flattered, admired, and dressed well. Every woman likes to be on the arm of the man who seems to be the most powerful in the kingdom. Are you so sure of her that you would turn the chance away from her? And from her children?”

  And so I became at last the king’s fool in truth. I pulled the strings that I could pull and Lucy became queen and had seven children, five of them sons. And I am at last the old fool myself, looking for another to take my place. The magician looks with me, but it is my choice, in the end.

  PI

  A perfect circle.

  A ring.

  A bracelet.

  A necklace.

  All will work. Made of gold or silver or brass or tin. Doesn’t matter. A precious stone set in the middle, or not. It’s the circle that matters. The magic of pi.

  The number goes on infinitely, and so the power never stops. The universe is made of numbers, though most do not see it. Sun, moon, stars, earth, all held in their place by numbers. The turn of the seasons. The fall of rain. Thunderstorms, earthquakes, droughts and famines. The ratio of predator to prey.

  But that is too complex for most. They are content to know that a circle is all that they need. They try to make a circle of their own, in the dirt with a stick, or on a pottery wheel with clay. And when it does not work, when the magic goes wrong, they come to me.

  As if I can change the value of pi just by commanding it to be so.

  I, Costanzo Angelo Bello, son of Costanzo Angelo Bello, think well of myself, but I at least know my own limitations.

  You will see for yourself if it is true.

  One morning, I was in my home, beginning my day with my chanting. No religious nonsense, simply the digits of pi. I had in my mind 16,000 digits pi memorized. It took me most of two hours to get through them all, but it cleared the mind and it made me look good when the customers come to call.

  No, I did not live in a circular home. That would have been ridiculous. All that power shooting out all the time.

  But there were circles aplenty.

  I had one circle displayed over the front doorway, just for show. It actually had one deviation on the left side, though it was very slight. This circle calls magic to itself, but the power flows right out as soon as it comes. Which is just as well, since I would not wish to be blamed for magic another grabbed from it and used for their own sake. It merely marks my house as one of a mathematician.

  Another circle was drawn faintly around my sitting chair. It helped me concentrate, to see the future that would come from this action or that one, and had generally kept me safe—and alone.

  The circle that no ever one saw is the one that came to me from my father. It is rather ornate, and it embarrasses me, which is why I keep it hidden away. I left my father’s house when I was fourteen years old, and took this circle with me, my only inheritance. It is a gawdy piece, but with less power than it seems.

  It is made in white gold, with one large sapphire at each of four points, and diamonds studded throughout. It looks at first glance like a necklace made by a superior goldsmith, but then you must notice that there is no clasp, and it is too small to fit over any head but a child’s. Or perhaps if it were meant to be a crown, it could set atop a ruler’s temples. Too flashy for any real ruler, though, I think. A prince who must wear his power on his head like that has none of the real kind and it woul
d be all the better if it were taken from him.

  The circle rests in the chest in my workroom. At the very bottom of it. I have never used it, though I will admit that I have sometimes take it out, only to let my hands feel the smoothness of the gold and feel the magic that emanates from it. Tempting, yes. But it is my father’s circle, not mine. His pi.

  My mother died at my birth, and I had never known love from him or from anyone. I had known only his cruel teaching of the magic.

  I had learned, oh I had learned very well.

  I knew that it was his circle he cared about more than me. He could see no power in me, for I had no beauty. He thought to gain all he wished through his circle, and so I took it from him to prove his weakness. I ran far from home and never returned.

  I set myself up with my own magic. I prided myself on that.

  But as I said before, I knew my own limitations.

  I understood the magic of pi, but the art of love between a father and son? I had no knack for that. I had no patience, and so I was glad that I had never sired a son.

  I had married a woman once, when I was newly established as a mathematician and believed myself wealthy enough to have a wife. Even then, I had made sure to tell her in advance I had no interest in children. She agreed to it readily enough, but in a few months, was determined that she could change my mind. She had her friends with new babes come over, as if the smell of them would make me change my mind. She asked me if I loved her and told me that this was the only thing she would ever ask for.

  And when that did not persuade me, she asked me if I wanted my magic to die with me.

  I thought it more likely it would die sooner rather than later if I stayed married to her, so she got a generous settlement, and no one need feel sorry for her. She married again, and I think she has five children now. She looks a fright, wide as a cow, and with a face like a sausage. But she is happy, for all she has none of my magic.

  I was well rid of her, and she of me.

  Yet I thought of her sometimes, too much. She haunted my thoughts, she and the child she might have had with me, a ghostly, homely face peeking out from above her shoulders.

  No, better for the child, as well, that it had never been born to me.

  Or so I believed until the day there was an imperious knock at my door.

  I heaved myself out of my chair, and away from the never-ending stream of soft power that came from my circle there. I walked ponderously to the door and opened it.

  I looked down.

  There was a child there, perhaps seven years old.

  I could not tell if it was a boy or a girl. It was dressed in a strange combination of clothing. I could see clean undergarments showing through at the top of the over-sized trousers which were held up with a crude bit of twine. The hands were filthy, but not the arms, nor the legs, as if it had washed its hands in mud.

  It smelled like dried flowers combined with perfumed wax and figs, this last no doubt what it had eaten for breakfast.

  “Get out,” I said harshly. “I do not allow beggars at my door.” I raised a hand.

  “I am not a beggar, Maestro,” it said, in a voice so strong and sure that I looked up and lost my concentration.

  Damnation!

  All the magic I had been balling up to send out to push her away dissipated into nothingness. A few donkeys who passed by would probably be the only beneficiaries of it, and they would not even notice.

  “Who are you, then?”

  The child ducked its head and then pointed inside. “If I may come in—”

  “You most certainly may not. Tell me who you are or get out.”

  There was a long hesitation. I could see the child was not used to being spoken to in this manner. Of course, I knew already it was no street urchin, but now it was becoming more obvious it was not a merchant’s child come to play some joke on me, either. Not that I cared, particularly.

  The child looked around itself one way, then the other way. It leaned into me, and said, “Maestro Bello, my name is Liliana Elisabetta Josephina Tarasco,” she said, and then put her arms to her hips, waiting for my response.

  Clearly, she expected that I would recognize her name. I did not.

  “Yes?” I said. I was not merely pretending to humiliate her. That was a pleasant side benefit.

  Her face clouded, and her mouth pinched. “I am the daughter of the Lord Joseph Frederico Tarasco. The cousin of the prince.”

  “Oh,” I said. “The fool.” I’d met him, once, years ago, and had needed to see no more than the gawdy ring he wore on each of his fingers. All set with a different gemstone, in a different metal. Gold, copper, silver, platinum, tungsten, and on and on.

  Oh, there was magic in them, sure enough. But not nearly so much as the man thought there was. Or let others think there was.

  I had had no idea he had a child.

  “And?” I asked again.

  “And I want you to teach me,” she said. Hands back on hips again.

  I stared at her and decided I’d guessed her age wrong. She had to be nearly a woman to have that much vitriol in her.

  “Thank you for asking, but no. I decline the honor,” I said. I turned back into the house.

  “You can’t do that!” she cried out.

  I stopped. Turned back to her. I have no idea why. Not out of sympathy, that is for certain. Or warmth. I don’t have any, for anyone.

  “What are you going to do if I don’t?” I said. “Tell your father on me?” I deliberately treated her like a child, expecting her to stomp her foot and act like one.

  Instead she brought out the tears. A woman’s weapon. “No,” she whispered. Her face was suddenly dripping.

  It took me a moment to realize she was using magic for it.

  She had a necklace hidden underneath her shirt. A crude necklace, made of tin and with no ornamentation that I could see. No doubt the only thing her father would spare her, the selfish bastard.

  “Please,” she went on. “Please, I’m desperate.”

  “Obviously,” I said drily. I stood there, thinking that I really did not want to have this conversation with her on the street. Nor did I want to invite her into my home. I did not want her to think I was making any promises, and I did not teach anyone about magic.

  “You are angry at your father?” I asked quietly.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Because he will not teach you magic?”

  “Because he sees no value in me,” she said. She turned to the side and I noticed that there was a livid bruise on her shoulder.

  Her father was a brute, as well as a fool, it seemed.

  But still, I shook my head. “No. I do not teach magic.” I knew myself to be moody, unpredictable, and utterly unable to sustain a relationship with even a dog. She would be better off with anyone else, perhaps even her father.

  “Why not?” she demanded. Then softened it with “Maestro,” and a slight nod of the head.

  As if her father’s court flattery would work on me.

  “I do not have to explain myself to you,” I said, glowering.

  “No,” she agreed. “You do not.”

  And still, she did not leave.

  And I did not go back into the house.

  We stood there, we two, staring not into each other’s eyes, but beyond. I looked into the street she had walked past. I lived in a small house on one of the nicer streets in the city. The river was not far away, which made it easy for shipments of my supplies to come to me. I never went out to get them myself. And the cathedral with its gold, shining dome was there, as well. A dome that was a perfect circle and had enough power to make people believe in religion who did not know much about anything else.

  She, I must assumed, saw the signs of neglect in my house. I was not a slothful man, but I did not reserve any time each time to clean each day, and so there were things that simply waited until I could stand them no longer to be taken care of. The filth on the walls. Done with a flick of magic, if I notic
ed them, and was willing to accept the cost. The broken tile on the step. The stench of unwashed flesh—mine—that now wafted around both of us.

  “I could help you,” she offered.

  “No,” I said.

  “I could do any work you wanted. I would be your slave.”

  “Ha!” I said. The thought of a child of her temperament and upbringing being a slave to anyone was ridiculous. And against the law.

  “I would be very quiet,” she wheedled.

  “You have talked non-stop since you got here,” I pointed out.

  She opened her mouth to contradict me, then a gleam came into her eyes and she pressed her lips together. She looked down at the ground and shifted her feet, then seemed to notice that made noise, as well, and held them together.

  It took immense effort on her part, but I simply waited. I wanted to see how long it would last.

  My magic counted the minutes.

  Ten had passed by, and she had not made another noise.

  Well, then. I was willing to admit that she had greater patience than I did. But that did not mean I would teach her magic.

  “Oh,” she said then. Her eyes were narrowed and her head was tilted up.

  I realized she was looking at the circle on the door.

  “What?”

  “I guess you can’t help me, after all,” she said. And shoulder slumping, she began to walk away.

  I do not know why I did not let her. It did not matter the reason she had finally decided to leave. This was what I wanted. I had won.

  But I hurried after her, my stomach flopping at me as it has not in many years. I grabbed hold of her and turned her to face me. “Tell me what you saw,” I demanded.

  “Your magic,” she said. ‘It’s not what I thought it was.”

  Was this her idea of being kind? She looked like someone who had swallowed a lemon whole and was trying not to allow it to come back up.

  “The circle on the door,” I said.

  “It isn’t perfect,” she said. She cringed, ready for me to strike her.

  I bit my lip. She made me angry, but hitting her would only release more of my magic than I had already lost because of her visit today. And besides, I did not want to be simply another color on the canvas of her body of bruises. I did not want to be like her father.