Shadow of a Dark Queen by Raymond E. Feist

are you?” asked Erik.
    â€œNathan is my name. I’m the new smith sent up from Krondor.”
    â€œFrom Krondor? New smith?” Erik’s expression showed his confusion.
    The large man shrugged as he hung his travel cloak on a wall peg. “The guild asked if I wished this forge. I said yes, and here I am.”
    â€œBut it’s my smithy,” said Erik.
    â€œIt’s a baronial charge, boy,” said Nathan, his tone turning firm. “You might be competent in most things—you might even be talented—but in time of war you’d be mending armor and tending thebarony’s mounts, as well as taking care of farmers’ draft horses.”
    â€œWar!” exclaimed Erik. “War hasn’t touched Darkmoor since it was conquered!”
    The man took a quick step forward and put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, gripping him firmly. “I think I know how you feel. But law is law. You’re a guild apprentice—”
    â€œNo.”
    The smith’s brows lowered. “No? Didn’t your master register you with the guild?”
    With conflicting emotions, anger and ironic amusement, Erik said, “My former master was drunk most of the time. I’ve conducted the business of this forge since I was ten years of age, Master Smith. For years he promised to take the journey to Krondor or to Rillanon, to register my apprenticeship with the guild office. For the first three years I begged him to send a message by Kingdom Post, but after that . . . I was too busy to continue begging. He’s been dead for two months now, and I’ve done well enough tending the barony’s needs.”
    The man stroked his chin and then shook his head. “This is a problem, youngster. You’re three years older than most who begin their apprenticeship—”
    â€œBegin!” said Erik, his anger now coming to the fore. “I can match skills with any guild smith—”
    Nathan’s expression darkened. “That’s not the point!” he roared, his own anger at being interrupted giving him volume enough to silence Erik. “That’s not the point,” he repeated more quietly when he saw that Erik was listening. “You may be the finest smith in the Kingdom, in all of Midkemia, but no one at theguild knows this. You have not been listed on the roster of apprentices, and no one with a guildmaster’s rank has vouched for your work. So you must begin—”
    â€œI will not apprentice for seven more years!” said Erik, his temper threatening to get the better of him.
    Nathan said, “Interrupt me again, boy, and I’ll cease being civil with you.”
    Erik’s expression showed he was not in the least bit apologetic, but he stayed silent.
    Nathan said, “You can go to Krondor or Rillanon and petition the guild. You’ll be tested and evaluated. If you show you know enough, you’ll be allowed to apprentice, or perhaps you’ll even get journeyman’s rank, though I doubt that seriously; even if you’re the best they’ve ever seen, there’s still the politics of it. Few men are willing to grant to another rank without the sweat to have earned it. And there’s always the possibility they’ll call you a presumptuous lout and throw you into the street.” The last came with a hard tone, and suddenly Erik realized that this man had spent at least seven years as an apprentice and perhaps twice that as a journeyman before gaining his master’s badge—and to him Erik must sound a whining child.
    â€œOr you can apprentice here, in your hometown with your family and friends, and be patient. If you are indeed as well taught as you claim, I’ll certify you as quickly as I can, so you can petition for a forge of your own.”
    Erik looked as if he was again going to object that this was his forge, but he said nothing. Nathan continued, “Or you can set out today, on