Soother's Boy

By Mat Coward

Rill is sent to the city to serve his apprenticeship as a soother's boy, one who calms the animals known as ravings after their powerful magic has been taken from them by the beastmasters. But the magic factory is full of mystery and danger, with rituals and rules that often seem to Rill not only pointless but cruel. As his confusion mounts and his troubles multiply, the soother's boy can trust just one person - his fellow apprentice Challi, a young girl who is his only friend in the entire city. Together, Rill and Challi are about to uncover the last, terrible secret of the Beasthole.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mat Coward
• Release date: Nov 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301476725

Mat Coward

Mat Coward is a British writer of crime fiction, SF, humour and children's fiction. He is also gardening columnist on the Morning Star newspaper. His short stories have been nominated for the Edgar and shortlisted for the Dagger, published on four continents, translated into several languages, and broadcast on BBC Radio. Over the years he has also published novels, books about radio comedy, and collections of funny press cuttings, and written columns for dozens of magazines and newspapers.

Book preview

Soother's Boy

by Mat Coward

Published by Alia Mondo Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Mat Coward

Cover by Dean Harkness

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

About the author

Other books by Mat Coward

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CHAPTER ONE

On his first day at the factory, Rill saw a monster die. But first, he lost his illusions about the manufacture of magic.

I didn't realise making magic would be quite so ...

Quite so what? said Picul, the second-year apprentice assigned to show the new boy around - and who, judging by his sour face and his sharp tone, reckoned that acting as a guide to a yokel was beneath his dignity.

Rill didn't know how to reply. Ever since he'd entered the factory through its great gates, he'd been trying to put into words, in his head, the strangeness of the place. But the word he needed didn't exist in his language. So noisy, he said. So smelly, so busy, so -

Picul laughed. He was slightly taller than Rill, and of slimmer build. His sandy hair, pale complexion and small, round nose made him look like a lanky ghost next to Rill's sun-browned skin, thick black hair, and full features. "I don't suppose you've ever seen a factory before, have you, bumpkin? Let alone a magic factory. Tell me, have they invented fire where you come from?"

Rill didn't bother answering. He hadn't ever seen a factory before - he'd never heard the word until the scout had come to his village the previous month, and told his parents of the splendid future that awaited him as an apprentice soother. Of course, he knew that magic existed in the great cities - but he'd always pictured it as being somehow more ... well, more magical.

Instead, looking around this immense complex of buildings, all he could see were mighty furnaces, vast machines of unimaginable purpose, and people everywhere - men, women and children - hurrying from one part of the factory to another, all looking alike in their heavy caps and aprons.

And above all, there was the smell. He was used to the scents of the countryside: pollen and hay, dung and rain. He'd never have dreamt that such a burning, unnatural stench as this could exist.

Come on, boy, keep up, said Picul, heaving open a metal-studded wooden door - one of many such doors they'd been through that morning, all of which seemed identical to Rill. They entered a huge, echoing room, full of stone objects the size and shape of beer barrels. At one end, where the room opened into a walled yard, some of the barrels were being loaded onto a cart. A team of four sturdy horses stood patiently, awaiting their burden.

This is the barrellers' yard, said Picul. This is where -

You boys! What are you doing in here?

A short man, with a moustache wider than his face, was marching towards them. Picul ducked his head, and kept his eyes low as he answered. Sir, this is a new boy. I've been told to show him the -

We don't want soothers snooping around in here, the man interrupted. "Soothers or their scrawny boys. Go on, get out."

Back in the corridor, Picul said: Let that be a lesson to you, as if the visit to the barrel depot had been Rill's idea. One craft doesn't pry into another's work. We keep to ourselves. You know the old saying?

Of course I don't, thought Rill: I' m a new boy!

Keep your mysteries, quoted Picul, his eyes half-closed and his voice devout, keep your craft.

Rill couldn't see what purpose secrecy might serve, but he did feel he was beginning to get a rough idea of how the factory worked. The magic force was tapped, somehow, from the creatures known as 'ravings' - and then stored in the stone barrels, before being carted off to the houses and offices of the rich and powerful. It was all, to him, a new world; certainly no magic barrel had ever been seen in his village!

Picul - when will I meet my master?

Picul cuffed him around the shoulder. Don't be so cheeky, boy! Why should a master want to meet a half-grown bumpkin like you?

But I thought -

"You'll work under apprentice-seers, until you're in your final year. Only then will you work alongside a master soother. If your master has reason to even notice your existence before then, look out - it means you've done something wrong. Meanwhile, you don't need to know anything, except how to hurry, and how to keep your mouth shut."

***

At last they came to their own workplace, the home of their craft: the soothery. Their department was next to a door much sturdier than those he'd seen so far, outside which stood two sentries, armed with fearsome pikes.

What's in there?

Picul shook his head. That's not us - that's the beasthole. He offered no further explanation.

As they entered the soothery, Rill only had time to note that he was in a cavernous, windowless space, painted an intense green, and mostly divided into wooden stalls of the sort found in stables, when a shout went up of Beasts in!, and an iron gate lifted long enough to admit three animals.

The ravings! He'd heard of these magic creatures - heard of them all his life - but he'd never known anyone who claimed to have seen one. His first thought now was that in the flesh, they were a little disappointing. Smaller than horses, covered in short, greyish fur, the four-legged ravings bore no obvious signs to mark them out as special. They even looked a little comical, with their long, flexible necks.

As each animal was led to a separate stall, Rill could clearly see - and hear, and above all, smell - that the ravings were in distress. Their eyes rolled, their large, fleshy mouths hung open, drooling, as they panted with fear, now and then emitting low, tuneless growls. And their sweat, the reek of which now filled the room, was bitter and smoky.

Two of the beasts began to quieten almost as soon as the soothers set to work on them, and were eventually led away through another door. But Rill kept his eyes on the third, the one nearest to where he and Picul stood, which was rocking backwards and forwards on its stubby legs, and tossing its head as if trying to bite its own tail. It was becoming wilder, not calmer, and Rill wasn't alone in spotting this; all over the department, silence fell and heads turned towards the noise.

Can't anyone help? Rill whispered.

Picul shook his head. More people near it will just make it worse. The soother and his boy are on their own. He looked at Rill for a moment, and grinned. We always are.

From where he stood, Rill couldn't see the apprentice's face - but he saw the master soother's, and it was as white as milk. The raving reared up without warning, kicking its front legs towards the apprentice, who only escaped its hooves by a split second - then it opened its mouth wide and let out something between a bellow and a screech which went on and on. Rill covered his ears; he couldn't believe any animal could produce a noise so loud and so sustained. Now he saw why so many referred to the ravings as 'monsters'. The blare only ended when the raving made an 'O' shape with its long neck, clamped its jaws around its own throat ... and began to rip.

It died quickly, though not before a good deal of blood had spattered the walls and floor of the stall, and the clothes and faces of all those nearby.

Hardly had the echoes of that rageful scream faded, when two newcomers entered the soothery - a white-haired man, moving stiffly through the crowd of sickened onlookers, and, racing ahead of him, a girl of Rill's age.

They answer a call quick enough, those vultures, Picul muttered.

Who are they?

Luggers. They get rid of the bodies.

The girl was in the stall now, unpacking her master's equipment from a bag nearly as tall as she was. It was made of canvas, softened and stained by long use, reinforced with hoops of thick leather. Rill watched as the red-headed girl laid out two grappling hooks, a length of rope, and a mighty saw. He clenched his teeth against a rising feeling of nausea, and looked away - but averting his eyes didn't save his ears from the sounds of rending flesh and of metal biting into bone.

Does this happen often? he asked, hoping conversation might distract him from feeling sick.

Oh, right, said Picul, a sneer on his face and in his voice. Happens every day.

The lugger's apprentice evidently overheard this remark, for she looked up long enough to give Rill a reassuring smile. She was a couple of inches shorter than Rill, but she looked strong. Take no notice, she said. It's not common - these beasts are worth their weight in gold, many times over. Can't afford to lose too many.

Visibly annoyed at being contradicted by a kid from another craft, Picul nudged Rill and pointed towards the soother whose raving had died. The man sat slumped against a wall, trembling violently, and staring straight ahead at nothing. There was no sign of his apprentice. "The luggers might as well take him while they're at it," said Picul, with a harsh laugh.

None of the soother's mates were attempting to comfort him. They don't want to be associated with him, Rill thought.

He'll never work in this craft again, Picul added. "Better for him if the beast had killed him - a soother who dies in his stall at least gets a craft funeral, at no