The Innocent Mage (19 page)

Gar sighed. ‘Don’t be difficult. I’ve told you, he does me valuable service.’

‘Ha,’ said Asher.

Now Gar was looking him up and down. ‘You seem ientable at any rate. Now come on. We can’t afford to be late.’

Instead of taking the road to the sprawling splendour of the palace, Gar chose a grassy pathway winding through ‘carelessly scattered gardens and past older, abandoned apartments and residences that once had been home to other kings and queens of Lur. Long dead now, they were all laid to rest in tombs on the far side of the palace grounds.

Asher stared at the forlornly empty buildings and shook his head. ‘Seems like a bloody great waste to me. Perfectly rooms and whatnots, ain’t they? Why don’t folk live in’em any more?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gar, shrugging. ‘Too many ghosts, perhaps. All those memories, pressing down. Sometimes people just want a fresh start… and who can blame them?’

Aye. Maybe. And speaking of which … ‘Thanks for not havin’ me mentioned in the dispatches to the coast,’ he said as they left the old palace behind. ‘Reckon I’m grateful for that.’

Gar’s sideways glance was curious. ‘That’s all right. I still think you’re mad, but …’

‘You wouldn’t if y’had my brothers,’ Asher said flatly. This news’ll keep just fine till I’m home again.’

‘Yes. Well. As I said before, it’s your decision.’ Gar waved a dismissive hand. ‘Now, about this Privy Council meeting … there’s no need to be nervous.’ Another sideways look. ‘Are you nervous?’

Asher flicked a fly away from his ear. ‘Well…’

‘Don’t be. They won’t bite. At least not while I’m there.’ Gar pulled a face. ‘Or not very hard anyway.’

‘And that’s s’posed.to make me not nervous, is it?’

Gar grinned. ‘Of course.’

‘Ha!’

‘Besides, this is really just a formality. As my assistant you’ll have more to do with the General Council, which takes care of the day-to-day business of running the kingdom. Guild issues, common legal matters, that sort of thing. Privy Council meetings are more … rarefied. You won’t often be required to attend.’

Asher hid his relief. Last thing he wanted to do was front up to the king and his personal advisers on a regular basis. ‘Suits me.’

‘I know the privy councillors are the most powerful men in the kingdom, but they’re still men. Not ogres. That being said, however …”

‘Oh aye?’ sighed Asher. ‘Here we go. What?’

Gar was frowning. ‘His Majesty has many virtues but they don’t include a wink and a shrug at inappropriate informality. No matter what happens this morning, remember that you are addressing the king or one of his chosen confidants. You may not ‘...’ He hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘Our interactions, Asher, are characterised by a degree of familiarity that would never be tolerated by His Majesty. Whatever you do, don’t make the mistake of confusing us.’

Like there were much chance of that happening. Asher rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ Then, as they took a short cut through yet another arrangement of perfumed flowerbeds, he added, ‘You sorry you hired me now, are you?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Gar said, flushing. ‘I just want your introduction to the Privy Council to proceed smoothly. You must realise that whatever I do reflects upon the king. And whatever you do reflects upon me.’

That was fair enough. But … ‘If that’s true, then how come you don’t care if I speak my mind around the Tower and everywhere else? Folks ain’t deaf, Gar. They’ll hear what I think, and they’ll hear I ain’t one for mincing my words. And they’ll flap their lips about it too.’

‘That’s entirely different. All my people know I encourage — insist upon, in fact — open, honest and vigorous debate. But the Privy Council is different. Privy Council meetings are … political. Even when they’re not. Every word, every gesture, can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and some people will always interpret things in the harshest light possible.’

Asher considered that. ‘You sayin’ it ain’t just you that’s got enemies?’

This time Gar’s glance was chilly with warning. ‘No. His Majesty is beloved by all his subjects.’

‘Come on, Gar,’ said Asher, gently derisive. ‘Y’reckon the Doranen are the only folk with a taste for playin’ politics? My da used to represent Restharven in the Coastal Alliance. I’d lay odds on the Westwailing Fishermen’s Board agin your precious Privy Council any day of the week. So, who’s the rotten fish in the barrel?’

That made Gar smile, if only briefly. He hesitated, then said, ‘Keep your eye on Conroyd Jarralt. In Privy Council and out of it. If he can do you a bad turn, he will.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s Conroyd Jarralt.’

‘And?’

‘And that’s all you need to know. For now. Asher —’ Gar slowed, and stopped. Asher stopped beside him. ‘Think of Privy Council meetings as an elaborate game. One in which waving the flag of your indifference to almighty Doranen prestige will lose you points. Not win them, as it does with me. I’m asking that you watch your step. That’s all. If you don’t, well, chances are we’ll both be sorry thatl | hired you.’

So. The prince was nervous about the Privy Council I meeting too. Mayhap even more than just nervous, Resisting the urge to clap Gar on the shoulder, Asher started walking backwards, arms outstretched. ‘Don’t worry,’ k said. ‘I ain’t about to let you down.’ He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘My solemn word.’ Which he’d keep, sink ot | swim. No way was he about to lose those fifty trins a week,

‘Good,’ said Gar with a brief smile. ‘I knew I could | count on you.’

They hurried on, and five minutes later reached the I newest section of the palace where Gar’s family lived and | worked. The pure white sandstone gleamed in the sun 1 freshly fallen snow. Some twelve storeys high, it was i with blue and crimson roof tiles and sparkled at regular • intervals with elaborate stained-glass windows. A grand I sweeping courtyard, scattered thickly with blue and white gravel, stretched from the base of the centrally placed white sandstone steps and ground-level balcony, down to the mouth of the winding tree-lined driveway that led towards the City.

Side by side Asher and Gar ran up the steps, past the ceremonial guards and into the royal residence.

The palace’s interior shocked Asher to a standstill.. height and breadth and radiant stained glass, it made Justice Hall look … plain. Cut flowers in ceramic vases splashed colour over every flat surface and sweetened the cool ait, Exquisitely carved crystal birds wrought in shades of rose, sapphire, ruby, amethyst and emerald, tipped in gold adorned indigo-marble display stands.

Two wide and winding polished timber staircases reached like arms to left and right of the grand entrance, embracing visitors, inviting exploration. The floor beneath Asher’s feet was a riot of tiny blue, white, crimson and gold tiles in patterns his eyes could barely take in. The walls were papered in dull gold and bronze stripes. Breathtaking oil paintings, portraits so lifelike he’d swear their subjects were breathing, glowed at eye level, demanding admiration.

He had to guess they were members of the royal family, because there was Gar, years younger, with his arms round the neck of a fat black pony. A man and a woman — the king and queen? Had to be, ‘cause there was Princess Fane. Maybe just six or seven years of age, but still beautiful. Bronze lamps jutted between the precisely placed frames, blazing with the same strange light he’d noticed in Justice Hall. Not candles. Not oil.

‘Glimfire,’ said Gar. ‘It’s magic, which is why you won’t find it in the Tower.’

Asher scarcely heard him. ‘Sink me bloody sideways!’ he breathed. Recalling his own family’s stone cottage back home, all shabby shadows and crowded cosiness, he shook his head in wonder. He’d easily fit his bedroom in here three times over. ‘You used to live here?’

Mellow laughter spun him to his right. Descending the staircase was a tall Doranen man, lean and proud, with lines of experience — or pain — carved deep into his face. His ceremonial likeness hung on the wall scant feet away. In the flesh, though, he was simply clad in a dark blue silk tunic and trousers. His eyes were green, like Gar’s, but older. Seasoned by years and sights unseen by other men. An immaculately trimmed beard framed his strong jaw. A crown of twisted gold announced his rank. The royal house’s emblem, a lightning bolt crossed with an unsheathed sword, was stitched in gold thread onto his collar points.

Asher swallowed. He’d seen the king before, down in Westwailing at festival time, but only from the arse-end of a ge crowd. Gar’s da had been little more than a blond stick-figure then, waving indiscriminately at the thousands of fisherfolk gathered to celebrate Sea Harvest. Up close, k was magic made flesh. The aura of raw power surrounding him dimmed everything beyond it to tawdry tarnishment,

Gar bowed. ‘Your Majesty. Good morning.’

Somehow, Asher managed his own inadequate bos without falling over. ‘Y’Majesty,’ he muttered.

King Borne approached and stretched out one ringed hand. ‘You must be Asher of Restharven. My son ks spoken most highly of you, and of his hopes that you’ll prove invaluable to him in his work. Welcome to Doram City.’

Asher stared at the king’s hand. Now what? Was is supposed to kiss it? Shake it? What? ,;fj|

Gar chuckled. ‘Barl save me. I believe my new assistant is lost for words.’

‘No, I ain’t,’ said Asher, rallying. He took the king’s hand and shook it. To his surprise it felt cold and thin, with something close to a tremble deep between the slender bones. All that power, and in the end Lur’s monarch was still only human. Somehow he hadn’t expected that. ‘Thank you, Y’Majesty. Reckon I be about the luckiest Olken in Lur. I won’t do wrong by His Highness. Or you. I promise.’

The king withdrew his hand. ‘I’m sure of it, Asher.’ A glance passed between himself and his son and his pale lips softened into a smile. ‘Now, shall we make our way to the Privy Council chamber? We have a full morning’s work ahead of us.’

Gar extended his arm towards the left-hand staircase. ‘By all means, sir. Lead the way. Asher and I are ready.’

That earned him another swift look from the king. ‘You think so? Well. By all means let us see, shall we?’

Conroyd Jarralt was an outrageously handsome man even when flushed with anger and shouting. A Doranen in his glorious, powerful prime, dressed in purple silk brocade and seed pearls, with his falcon house-emblem emblazoned on his chest in silver and jet. His aristocratic face was as perfect as a carving in marble, his athletic vigour overwhelming. In contrast, despite his magical power, the king looked pallid and drained of all vitality. Like a moon dimmed by the sun.

Jarralt banged his fist on the chamber table. ‘This is insupportable, Prince Gar! An Olken} With unfettered access to this Privy Council, its members, its decisions? I think not, Your Highness. Barl’s mercy, what possessed you to do such a thing without gaining our permission? To have this reckless appointment announced in chapel without first doing us the courtesy of discussion? And then to refuse an accounting of yourself until now? Insupportable, sir! Insufferable!’

Exquisitely polite, Gar said, ‘I discussed the matter with His Majesty, my lord. As for declining your invitation to discuss it further … as I said, I felt it to be a topic best reserved for the privacy of this chamber.’

‘Indeed.’ Jarralt’s burning gaze turned on the king. ‘So. He discussed the matter with you. And you said yes to this insanity?’

‘I did,’ said the king. ‘Obviously.’

Jarralt clenched his jaw. ‘I see. Well. One is forced to wonder what will come next. Olkens marrying into the Founding Families, perhaps?’

‘Now, now, Conroyd …’

Asher, seated beside Gar on the other side of the table from the raging Doranen lord, slid his gaze to Barlsman Holze, on Jarralt’s left. The elderly cleric’s expression was pained, his lips pursed in disapproval. Steepled forefingers tapped against the tip of his bony nose. Voice mellow, reproving, he continued: T think we must —’

Jarralt silenced him with a white-hot glare.

At the end of the rectangular table, sitting directly opposite the king, Master Magician Durm contemplated the plain white ceiling with a vast, unnerving indifference.

And the king? Well, the king was smiling. Not nicel?, but in a guarded way that hinted at possible unpleasantness should Jarralt travel any further down his current j Asher winced.

‘Intermarriage between our peoples is strictly forbidden, Conroyd,’ His Majesty said, deceptively mild. ‘Gar knots that as well as you do. Surely you’re not suggesting k advocates the breaking of Barl’s Second Law?’

‘Of course he isn’t, Your Majesty,’ said Holze, one tin hand resting on Jarralt’s rigid forearm. His once blond hair was mostly silver now, and thinning. Cut unfashionabli short for a Doranen. A single braid, tightly wound witl Barlsflowers to denote his devotion, dangled to his frail li shoulder. ‘Conroyd was merely expressing understandable concern for this — forgive me, You Highness — potentially rash decision.’

‘Rash?’ Conroyd jarralt snatched his arm free. His dart gold hair was unbound and fashionably long, with just the hint of a curl. Beautiful hair. Girl’s hair, thought Asher, then quickly discarded the thought in case it showed on his face, ‘Rash is too kind a word, Holze,’ the lord continued. ‘I’ll thank you to answer for your own utterances, sir, not mine.’

He had the most amazing voice, like magic given a tongue. It was a voice to drink deep of, as a thirsty man swallows water. Instinctively Asher stiffened his spine against it. He didn’t trust a man who could say something wrong yet make his listeners swear black and blue it was right because the way he said it sounded nice.

Holze, defeated, dipped his head. ‘As you say, Conroyd, You must speak for yourself.’

‘And I do!’ said Jarralt. ‘I want to know what the king was thinking, to approve this ridiculous appointment. To foist this Olken upstart upon his Privy Council without so much as a by-our-leave!’

The king did not answer immediately. Hands clasped loosely before him on the tabletop, he considered the demand for a moment, then said, ‘Are you saying you doubt me, Conroyd?’ His manner was surprisingly calm, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. Jarralt saw it, and coloured faintly.