Scholars and Other Undesirables
By Ben Stiebel
Prologue
There was no road between Tom’s cottage and the creek, just a track trampled down by the comings and goings of people to and from the cottage. Most of the trampling was done by Joff. He was neither the youngest nor the eldest. He was the most imaginative. Tom said that Joff had so much imagination that there was no room left in his head for anything else.
Putting Joff to any task guaranteed that it got done in an absent minded kind of way that left neighbors and relatives asking such awkward questions as, “How do you churn butter wrong?” and “Why did you plow the cow pasture?” He was not a lazy or mischievous boy. His mind and body simply failed to be in the same place most of the time. So he was given jobs like fetching water from the creek because it was hard to mess that up . . . much.
Today Joff had followed a strange, green bird away from the track and toward the road. It was smallish, about the size of a winged mouse, and flitted from tree branch to tree branch. Joff did not wish to catch the bird, just to get a closer look. Unfortunately the bird did not care for being looked at. If something looked at it too closely then that something might decide that it looked good to eat.
The bird led Joff to the road that went past the cottage. A leatherbound book lay in the road and made Joff forget all about the bird. Noble lairds and the augurs who talked to gods and spirits for them sometimes passed this way. One of them must have dropped the book. Joff picked it up and slapped the dust away. A picture of a dragon was bossed into the cover. One word was written above it. “Dragon,” Joff read. He had never learned to read, but it was not too hard to guess what the word said when it had a picture to go with it. Joff opened the book. It had more pictures and words.
The book was his companion for the next few weeks. He made out words from the pictures and guessed at the words he did not know. Tom and Lily watched him with concern. Neither of them could read. Neither of them understood why anyone would want to. But it did keep Joff too busy to do any damage around the farm. When he was not reading, Joff worked more diligently. Something about the book focused him. After a week with the book he had stopped trying to milk the chickens. Tom and Lily were grateful for the change, as were the chickens.
That winter Joff started dropping things and even short walks took away his breath. At first the family thought he had taken some common germ, but when Joff could not longer get out of bed they knew it was time to summon a healer.
The healer they found was a tall, lean man named Torman who traveled in a wagon pulled by a pair of small horses. He mournfully agreed to do what he could for Joff for the few meager coins the family could provide. Joff’s weakness and ghe fact that he had stopped growing identified the disease, a rare ailment known as the Wasting. The cause was not known. The disease weakened the patient’s muscles until the heart, itself just another muscle, stopped beating. Torman treated Joff with a variety of medicinal herbs and with incantations meant to invoke the gods and other supernatural beings. After a week of treatment Torman sat down with Tom and Lily to discuss Joff’s condition. They did this when all of the children had gone to bed and they had as much privacy as a one room peasant cottage could offer.
“What kind of life did you want for your son?” Torman asked.
“I had hoped to find a way to get him some land,” Tom said. “He’s not the eldest, you see, so he won’t inherit this place.”
“We also thought we might apprentice him,” Lily added. “The money we gave you . . .” She trailed off. Tom put his hand around her shoulders. They both had to struggle not to cry.
Torman nodded. “He will survive. My herbs and my magic have assured that.” The couple both started to smile but Torman raised his hand, forestalling them. “But, he will not regain his strength. He will never be a farmer, nor a craftsman, nor a soldier.”
“An invalid?” Lily asked. She raised her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes tight.
“Not as such,” Torman replied. “He will be able to walk and talk and so forth. He will never be strong and he certainly won’t be capable of working a field or any such labor.” Torman looked down at the table and took a deep breath, already regretting what he was about to offer. “He is a smart enough lad and he seems keen to reading.”
“I told him not to let on about that,” Tom said, making a disapproving face. “Still don’t know just how he picked it up. No offense to you, sir. It’s just not a farmer’s lot to trouble about books and such like.”
Torman raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Normally children of farmers are not allowed to enter the Academy. Your son is a special case. As far as I can tell he taught himself to read. He must be exceptionally bright. He also has nowhere else to go. I will recommend him.”
Lily’s expression went from grief stricken to confused. “An augur?”
“No, no,” Torman replied. “Magic requires almost as much physical exertion as farming or fighting. Your son will not be able to do that. But he does have a talent for words and letters. The Academy always needs translators.”
“What’s that?” Tom asked, now looking as confused as his wife.
Torman sighed. These peasants had probably never heard a language other than their own and written words meant nothing to them. He might as well explain the concept of running to a fish. “You call the thing we’re sitting at a ‘table.’ In High Genasi, it’s a ‘roke.’ I just translated from one language to the other. Do you understand?”
Tom started nodding, then shook his head. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Different people from different places have different words for things,” Torman explained patiently. “So if we get a book written in High Genasi, we need someone who can read that language and translate it into our own. Else a great deal of knowledge is lost.”
“Can he earn a living doing this?” Lily asked. She did not really know what the healer was talking about, but it did not much matter. The important thing was that her son would have a livelihood.
“Yes,” Torman replied, appreciating her pragmatism.
Tom opened his mouth to speak, but Lily cut him off. “Can he earn a living doing anything else?”
Torman shook his head. “Not that I’m aware. His disability will be such that most trades will be closed to him.”
Tom and Lily looked at each other. “I guess that settles it, then,” Tom said. “My son is going to be a trans . . .”
“Translater,” Torman said helpfully. He silently wondered how a boy raised by people such as these would ever find his way among the nobility, clergy, and gentry who populated the academy.