The Brave Apprentice by P. W. Catanese

know who warned the trolls about the wine.”
    The queen nodded, then saw Patch looking down the stairs. “That leads to the storeroom for our provisions. You don’t think he’s down there, do you, Patch? He wouldbe trapped—there is no way out except these stairs.”
    “But he could never get out of Dartham with all the gates patrolled. So maybe he found a place to hide awhile—with food and drink. Until it’s safe to sneak out.” Patch started down the first two steps.
    “Wait! You can’t go alone!” the queen said, tugging at him. “I’ll find help.” She gathered up her long gown and raised it above her ankles so she would not fall as she ran.
    Patch watched her until she was out of sight. He moved cautiously down the stairs again.
Can’t wait,
he thought.
It’s my chance to make good.
    There was a door at the bottom of the stairs. Under the handle was a keyhole. He pulled at the handle, and the door swung open with a loud creak.
Shouldn’t the provisions be locked up?
he wondered.
But of course, the king’s steward would have a key.
He held the candle before him and stepped into the room.
    His heart was pounding and a sprinkling of sweat had erupted on his forehead, but even through his fear he could appreciate the wonderful smell of this room, the scent of basil and pepper and salt and dozens of other herbs and spices. The room was twenty paces wide and at least forty deep, as far as the light of his candle informed him. It was crowded with sacks of grain, casks of wine and ale, jars of honey, bushels of beans and barley, barrels of salted fish, meats hanging from hooks, and a great many wide wheels of cheese.
    “I know you’re here, Basilus,” Patch called out, his voiceringing against the stone walls and low ceiling. He peered through the gloom. Something shone out brighter than the rest of the objects there, an incongruous thing. It was a staff of polished white wood. Patch remembered it—from the night he first arrived at Dartham, when Basilus met them at the door.
    The faintest sound came from behind him—it might have been a sharp intake of breath or the rustle of a robe—but it was enough to make Patch leap forward. He heard the
whoosh
of something sharp and narrow slice through the air. The back of his linen shirt tore, and he felt a line of pain, blazing hot, just below his shoulders.
    Patch whirled about. Basilus was there, holding a gleaming meat hook. The steward’s calm demeanor and regal posture were gone. Now he crouched with his teeth bared, his nostrils flared, and sweat trickling down his temples. “Don’t move—I won’t hurt you,” he said, stepping toward Patch. It was such an absurd thing to say, as he raised the hook to strike again, that Patch almost laughed.
    “Help is coming,” Patch said, sliding backward.
    “I don’t believe you,” Basilus whispered, creeping closer. He stabbed at the air to the right and left, forcing Patch straight back until he bumped against the sacks of grain piled against the wall. There was no more room to retreat. He opened his mouth and took a deep breath.
    “Don’t scream,” Basilus warned. Patch did not; he blew the lungful of air at his candle, putting out theflame. Everything fell into blackness. Patch dropped to his haunches, hearing another
whoosh
in the space he had left, and sprang like a frog to one side.
    Basilus grunted and cursed. Patch could hear him stabbing at the air in every direction. “If I don’t kill you, I’ll make sure the trolls do,” the steward hissed. There was a crash as he blundered into a stack of something that fell to the ground, and he cried out in pain. Patch heard him whimpering and moving again, toward the door. He followed the sounds, keeping a safe distance between them.
I’m not losing you now,
he thought.
    Patch heard the steward’s feet on the steps. As Basilus mounted the stairs and moved closer to the light, Patch followed. Then came the thump of heavy boots in the main hall and the