Three : Stirring the Pot

It's never the technical stuff that gets you in trouble. It's the personalties and the politics.   

—programmer's saying

Presumptuous puppy! Ebrion fumed as he made his way down the stairs and out into the main courtyard.

He did not return to his tower or to any of his other usual haunts. Instead he crossed the yard and made for the main gate of the keep. Just inside the gate was a much less plushly appointed day room used by off-duty guardsmen, minor merchants, castle servants, apprentices and others.

The big, low-ceilinged room was several steps down from the yard. Light flooded in through the windows up next to the whitewashed ceiling and reflected down onto the worn plank tables and rough benches and stools.

Heads turned as he came in and then turned back. This was hardly a place for the Mighty, much less a member of the Council, but Ebrion was known for his common touch. Two or three times in every turning of the moon he could be expected to drop by and exchange a few words with the habitués.

It was a time when apprentices should be at their studies or serving their masters. Still, Ebrion expected to find the one he sought here and he was not disappointed. Sitting by himself in a corner was a lank man with smoldering brown eyes and bowl-cut brown hair. Arms flat on the table and legs thrust straight out into the aisle, he was scowling into a mug of small beer as if he expected it to rise up and challenge him.

"Well met, Pryddian," Ebrion said pleasantly.

The young man looked up and nodded, but he did not rise as befitted an apprentice in the presence of one of the Mighty.

"My Lord."

Ebrion eased himself down upon the bench and studied the man. Pryddian was the oldest of the Keep's apprentices and now he was an apprentice without a master.

Pryddian seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. He kept his eyes fixed on his mug.

"I would speak with you on a matter of some import," Ebrion said. He made a show of looking around the room and lowered his voice. "What I say must stay between us."

Pryddian looked at him narrowly and nodded. Ebrion did not ask for a binding oath and the apprentice did not offer one.

"I had heard that Juvian released you."

"Arrogant old fool," Pryddian muttered. That earned him a sharp look from the wizard.

"I am sorry, Lord," he said sullenly. "But you know my story. I started my training here in the Capital instead of in some hedge witch's hovel. I am widely acknowledged to have more talent than any of the other apprentices." Ebrion nodded, acknowledging a plain fact and Pryddian took another swallow of beer.

"Yet after two years I am turned off over a trifle. Juvian assured me I would have no trouble finding another master. But no other wizard will take me on and no one will tell me honestly why."

Ebrion nodded sympathetically. That was not the story Juvian told, but it did not serve his purpose to say so.

"I know. I sought you out because I thought you should know there was more to the matter than a disagreement between you and Juvian." He paused, picking his words.

"Naturally I cannot violate the confidences of my fellow wizards, but I can tell you that today there is more to being a successful apprentice than magical talent and a willingness to work hard. It is also necessary to master the Sparrow's new magic."

Pryddian snorted. He had attended one or two classes and had not done well. Ever since he had made no secret of his contempt for Wiz's method's.

"I know. And between the two of us, I agree." He shrugged and spread his hands. "But who am I? The Sparrow sits on the Council of the North and has Bal-Simba's ear. He can see to it that apprentices either learn the new magic or are no longer apprentices."

"How is this? I thought apprenticeship was a matter between the wizard and pupil alone."

"And so it is," Ebrion assured him. "But a wizard must consider relations with his fellows. You understand these things, surely."

Pryddian nodded. "I suspected there was a favor involved, in spite of what everyone says."

"Oh, not favor," Ebrion said hurriedly. "We prefer to think of it as maintaining harmonious relations."

"Call it what you will, I am blackballed by the Sparrow."

"Well," the wizard admitted, "it would be—hmm—difficult for any wizard to take you as an apprentice."

"And my ability counts for nothing?"

"Times have changed. It seems the Sparrow's new magic is more important than talent for the old."

"So I am forever barred from becoming a wizard. Unless you . . . ?" He trailed off hopefully.

"The Sparrow knows how I feel about him and his new magic. I would do you little good, I fear."

Pryddian nodded knowingly. "And doubtless it would do you little good to have me."

Ebrion shrugged.

Pryddian finished his beer in a single long pull. "This Sparrow rises above himself," he said darkly.

"Perhaps, but he is of the Mighty." The wizard rose. "In any event, I felt you should know. I cannot speak openly, of course."

"Of course." The would-be apprentice looked up. "I thank you for the information, Lord. And as to this Sparrow, perhaps he needs his feathers plucked." He dropped his eyes to scowl at the now-empty mug as Ebrion left.

Outside the door of the day room, Ebrion allowed himself a smile.

Under any circumstances Pryddian would never have become a wizard. Talent he had, and stubbornness to persist in the face of gentle hints and not-so-gentle discouragement, but he was undisciplined and he had a vindictive streak that ran both broad and deep. If he had started his training in the villages he probably never would have been sent to the Capital. But Ebrion was very glad he was here. His combination of talent, frustration and a viperish tongue made him ideal. Yes, the wizard thought, he is the perfect choice to bait the Sparrow into some heedless action.