Free The Brave Apprentice by P. W. Catanese Page A

mud
And he makes his happy sound
Bark, bark, bark bark bark,
Bark, bark, bark bark bark!”
    As Simon’s song grew in volume and strayed further and further from any detectable melody, Patch noticed the soldier’s jaw working from side to side and a thick vein emerging on the side of his neck.
    “Listen to the cat
As she prowls around the house
Till she catches master mouse
And she leaves him on the mat
Mew, mew, mew mew mew
Mew, mew, mew mew—”
    Suddenly Simon snapped his mouth shut like a trap door. The soldier was holding a gloved fist an inch away from the fool’s long nose. Simon’s eyes crossed as he stared at it.
    The soldier curled his lip high on one side. “Listen, friend. That’s an awful song. And nobody asked you to come along, anyway. So why don’t you just shut up and leave us alone?”
    Simon threw his long arms straight up in the air. When the soldier backed away, he remained in that position, as if frozen.
    The soldier and Patch walked on. The tiny flecks of snow blossomed into broad, complicated flakes, and a soft new carpet of white collected under their feet.
    “Look, can’t you let me go? Why does the king want me back, anyway?” Patch said.
    “The king? Who said anything about the king?”

stood in front of the gatehouse in the cold afternoon light. The outer portcullis was up, poised above them like fangs ready to strike, and the heavy doors stood open. “Found him, constable,” the soldier called up.
    A man with a round red face and a mustache that drooped past his chin looked down from the parapet above the gatehouse. “Be right down.”
    The constable appeared on the other side of the open gate, holding a small leather pouch and a bundle of brown material under his arm. He gave the pouch to the soldier, who shook it to hear the metallic jingle, grinned, and strode away with a happy bounce in his step.
    The constable turned to Patch and unfolded the cloth. It was a hooded cape. “Put this on, young fellow. And draw the hood close around your face. Someone around here has pledged to kill you on sight.”
    Patch followed the constable into the courtyard. He breathed easier when they turned right, away from theKnights’ barracks and past the main entrance that led to the great hall. They walked around the frozen fishpond and circled a low stone building that sat next to the keep, with smoke puffing from a chimney in the tiled roof. Someone was waiting at the door. It was a small figure, also hooded, and as they drew close Patch saw the face of a girl. He turned to look at the constable, but the man was already ambling back across the courtyard to the gatehouse, looking casually to his left and right to see if he’d been watched.
    “What … who …,” Patch blathered, but the girl shushed him and pulled him behind her into the building.
    This was the kitchen of Dartham, as warm as a summer day and filled with smells that made Patch’s mouth water. A baker was thrusting bread into a wide-mouthed brick oven with an inferno deep inside, a cook tossed vegetables into a cauldron hanging over an open fire, and another woman was plucking the feathers off a fat headless goose. They stole a glance at Patch and the girl and quickly looked away, as if they’d been instructed not to notice any strange visitors who passed by. The girl led Patch briskly through the room. When they reached the door at the far end, she turned to give him a closer look, her eyes flickering from his face to his feet and back. Then she pushed the door open, and they were out in the cold air again, under a covered walkway that led to a door in the side of the keep. Now Patch could see why he’d been taken this way: It was the most concealed approach.
    Directly before them was an archway that led into the great hall. The girl turned down a parallel corridor instead. She took a torch from a bracket in the wall. Patch followed her up a tightly spiraling windowless staircase, where frost clung to the stone walls and