The Innocent Mage (28 page)

‘What^ What could you have said? In front of your da and his precious Privy Council? Pellen Orrick, and all those other Olken? Knowin’ that every word in that chamber was bein’ recorded by Lady Marnagh? What could you have said to help Timon Spake when he was doomed by his own words?’

Suddenly boneless, Gar folded at the knees and slumped to the ground. T don’t know …’ he whispered. ‘Something.’ ‘Oh, aye? Something like, “Barl was wrong, it’s a stupid law”? And what would’ve happened then d’you think, you mad fool! Don’t you know Conroyd Jarralt’s just waitin’ for you to make that kind of a mistake? Grow up, Gar! You may not have magic but you’re still Doranen. Royal Doranen. And this is what bein’ royal is all about. Protectin’ the kingdom. Keepin’ it safe and sound … even from the people who live in it. Even when it hurts like murder.’

Gar’s voice was stark with pain. ‘That’s what I mean, Asher. What happened today. What I did in that chamber. It may have been lawful. It may have been necessary. But i still feels like murder.’

To Asher’s dismay Gar’s voice broke on the last word, ‘Don’t,’ he said, horrified. ‘Don’t do that. What’s the use oi cryin’, eh? What’s the bloody use, Gar? Ain’t goin’ to bring that Timon Spake back, is it? Ain’t goin’ to help his poor bloody father?’

Gar was beyond hearing him. So he stood, staring over the shadowed gorge, and waited until the harsh, gasping sobs faded into silence. Stars came out overhead and the first sharp cries of hunting owls pierced the gloom in the valley.

Face hidden behind one muffling hand, Gar said, ‘I received two letters about you this morning, before we —’ He cleared his throat.

‘Two letters afore the sun’s properly up?’ said Ashet, determinedly bracing. ‘Ha. You’d think folks’d have better things to do with their time, now wouldn’t you?’

‘The first one was from Guild Meister Norwich Porter, castigating you for, among other things, your rude, high-handed and disrespectful tone towards him during a trifling misunderstanding at the guardhouse last night.’

Asher snorted. ‘The only misunderstandin’ that puffed-up ole geezer had were in thinkin’ I could be knocked arse over eyeballs by a fancy title and some bits of dead animal hair nailed to his weskit. Who were the other letter from, then?’

Gar raised his head. ‘Captain Orrick. He wished to compliment me on my recent choice of an assistant. He found you efficient, decisive and of great help in breaking up a nasty confrontation at the guardhouse last night.’

‘Ha,’ said Asher, pleased. ‘He’s a good man, that Pellen Orrick.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Gar. ‘He is. While Norwich Porter is a puffed-up ole geezer with a fancy title and — and —’

‘Some bits of dead animal hair nailed to his weskit,’ Asher said helpfully.

‘Yes. Thank you. The rest of the guild is all right though. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time at the banquet next month.’

‘Aye, sir. If you say so.’

Silence. The last thin line of light on the horizon died. Gar said reflectively, ‘Asher? I think I’m drunk.’

Asher sighed. ‘Aye, well, I think you are too. Reckon you can ride or do I send back a carriage for you?’

‘I can ride.’ A pause as Gar tried and failed to stand. ‘It appears I can’t get up, but I’m sure I can ride. Assuming of course I can find where I left my legs.’

Leaning down, Asher took him by the forearm and hauled him to his feet. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll go nice and slow and that ole Darran can just find himself a dry pair of panties to put on, eh?’

Gar started haphazardly brushing dirt from his fine clothes. ‘I have the nasty creeping feeling that tomorrow, when I wake up with a terrible headache, I’m going to remember I made a fool of myself here this evening.’

Holding his breath, trying to forget the sheer drop somewhere ahead, Asher retrieved Gar’s silver flask and gave it back to him. ‘No, you won’t. Nowt happened here today but two friends havin’ a bit of a chinwag. Where be the foolishness in that?’

Gar tucked the flask back inside his tunic. Stared at Asher, unsmiling. ‘Is that what we are? Friends?’

Asher blinked. Were they? Did he want them to be? He thought maybe … yes. Why not? Gar wasn’t Jed, or Matt even, but he wasn’t bad company. For a Doranen. And if he’d ever met a man who needed a friend it was Gar, just like Matt had said. Sink him. Trouble was, the decision weren’t up to him. ‘You tell me. Your Highness.’

‘I thought you said this wasn’t a prince to fisherman kind of conversation,’ said Gar, eyebrows lifting.

‘It ain’t.’

Gar grinned. ‘So there’s your answer. Come on friend. It’s time we went home.’

Side by side in the silent star-pricked darkness, fc the horses follow their noses, they rode back to the Tot-stables where Matt was patiently waiting and all the lair were lit.

Honestly,’ said Princess Fane in an undertone to her mother, ‘I don’t see why we have to suffer through all Ais nonsense just because Papa is another year older. It’s all right for Gar, it’s not as if he’s got anything better to do ill his time, but Durm and I are right in the middle of a difficult sequence of incantations. It’s stupid for me to x stuck here in this stuffy pavilion with people I can’t stand tirching silly men prancing about on their ponies and Hacking defenceless bits of wood. Not when I could be luting important work done!’

Her mother sighed. ‘I know you don’t believe me, dear, i your father’s birthday celebrations are work too, pally as important as your arcane studies. You’d do well be guided by Gar in this. Your brother understands the irtance of such occasions.’

I, being decorative is the only thing he’s good at,’ said impatiently. ‘And since he does it so well, why do km need me?’ She knew she was being petulant. She didn’t A private family dinner to celebrate her father’s birthday d have been a much better idea. She hated all the froth bubble of public occasions. Despised the feeling of being ishow, paraded like one of Gar’s wretched horses in the lie ring. All those looks and whispers everybody thought she jstoo young to notice or understand.

Too young. Fools. She was sixteen, not stupid.

Her mother’s expression was a blend of exasperatio and affection. ‘Oh, Fane. Gar’s royal duties involve a grea deal more than being decorative and you know it. Besides do you think Durm would be here if participation in ttis event weren’t as vital to the wellbeing of Lur as the most perfect calling of rain?’

Fane pulled a face and snatched a pastry from a passing silver platter. Around a mouthful of crabmeat and mayonnaise she replied, ‘Durm is Papa’s best friend. He doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.’

Dana sighed again and reached out a slim finger to coax a wisp of Fane’s silver-gilt hair back into place. ‘Whereas you, being merely his daughter, are above such trifling considerations?’

Fane blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Then be more careful when you speak,’ her mother said with an edge to her mellow voice. ‘It’s one day, Fane, out of an entire year. Tell me I haven’t raised a daughter so selfish that she can’t spare her father one single day from so many,’

‘That’s not fair! All I want to do is get back to work!’

‘I know.’ Her mother looked suddenly sad. ‘But the work will always be there, darling.’

As Fane opened her mouth to argue, a roar went up from the enormous crowd of spectators crammed shoulder to knee in the tourney field beyond the royal pavilion. King Borne turned aside from watching his Birthday Games, and with laughter smoothing the lines grooved deep in his face called, ‘Come along, you two! Have done with your gossiping and join us! Asher has just gone one up over Conroyd and looks in fine enough fettle to win the competitio’n!’

‘Please, Fane…’

Fane met her mother’s cool blue gaze and felt some of her heated impatience cool in return. With a pang she realised that Dana was looking tired, worn. Older now than even a few short months ago. Heart-wrung, she pulled her mother close and kissed her on one smooth, violet-scented cheek.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t mean to be awful. I’m just a little — I’m feeling —’ She swallowed. ‘Durm told me last night I’m ready for my first WeatherWorking.’

Her mother’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’

‘I promise I won’t spoil Papa’s day.’

‘I know you won’t, Fane.’ After a moment, her mother smiled. ‘And besides, you’ve still got your surprise present to give him. I can’t wait to see what it is, you’ve been so mysterious.’

Fane grinned. ‘Yes. I have.’ She laughed, then whirled in a kaleidoscope of silk and brocade and joined her father on the pavilion’s flower-strewn balcony. ‘What did you say? Asher win the King’s Cup? Darling Papa, exactly how many birthday toasts have you drunk today? He’ll never wrest it from a horseman like Conroyd Jarralt!’

Seated with her father were her brother, Durm and sundry obscure lords and ladies who for whatever reason had been deemed worthy of the honour. As the sundries laughed politely, Borne raised amused eyebrows at her, Durm smiled and Gar looked down his brotherly nose.

‘Don’t be so certain. Asher’s been practising his javelin skills for weeks.’

‘Really? Then for his sake I hope you found somebody halfway decent to help him. Your aim is so bad you couldn’t hit the side of a stable with a shovel of wheat! How many strikes did you manage to score in the first round? One? I could’ve beaten that blindfolded.’

And would have, if they’d let her compete. But no. That was too dangerous a pastime f6r the WeatherWorker-in-Waiting. She might take a tumble and break her pretty neck, and then where would they be?

Gar was smiling. ‘I don’t doubt that.’ In his eyes, understanding. Pity. She felt rage scald her. She’d have no pity from a cripple. For a moment she wanted to claw her fingers into talons and scratch out those green eyes of his that saw so much. Too much.

And then she remembered her birthday surprise and ha fingers relaxed. She smiled. Talons could come in many different shapes, after all.

Still watching the competition, her father said, ‘Young Asher has proven himself an object lesson to all of us, 1 think, not just Conroyd, in how dangerous it is to judges man on looks and bearing alone.’

Gar glanced at him sidelong, smiling smugly. ‘If these weren’t your birthday celebrations, sir, I’d be tempted to say “I told you so”.’

T think you just did,’ Borne pointed out, and laughed, Patting his son’s arm he added, ‘But that’s all right. I’m more than happy to be proven wrong on this occasion. I like him very much, you know. He’s a man of uncommon good sense, hard-working, honest and refreshingly forthright. And he’s a good friend to you, I think.’

‘An excellent friend,’ said Gar. ‘I doubt I’d have achieved anywhere near as much this past year without his shrewd counsel on Olken matters.’

Borne let his considering gaze roam the faces of the lords and ladies, and Durm, before resting it again on his son. He lifted his voice slightly, making sure everyone could heat him. ‘Yes. The Olken are lucky to have him working so hard on their behalf.’ Another pat on the arm. ‘They’re lucky to have both of you, Gar. And so am I. This precious kingdom would be poorer without you.’

Gar flushed. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s good of you to say so.’

‘Nonsense,’ the king said briskly. ‘It’s nothing but the plain, unvarnished truth. Isn’t that so, Durm?’

‘Indeed,’ Durm agreed. ‘As ever, Your Majesty has the right .of it.’

Pretending to stare over the tourney field where Conroyd was so majestically defending Doranen honour,

Fane rolled her eyes. Of course Durm would agree in public. In private, though, they felt the same way about useless crippled Gar, and Asher and the rest of his lumpen, magickless brethren. Not even her tutor’s vast affection for her father could change that.

Another throat-ripping roar went up from the crowd. Rising above the excited clamouring, the competition adjudicator’s amplified voice: ‘And Lord Jarralt makes a perfect run to score three targets out of three! We have a tied match! Fresh targets, if you please!’

Fane laughed. ‘There you are. Your precious Asher hasn’t won anything yet, Gar. My money is still on Conroyd.’

‘Or it would be if you were allowed to bet, which of course you’re not. Goodness, it is exciting though, isn’t it?’ Dana said brightly, scooping Fane into the guardianship of one encircling arm and easing her away from Gar to a spare seat on the other side of Durm. ‘I can’t remember the last time the competition ran so close. Now tell me, Borne my dear, who do you honestly think has the best chance of winning your beautiful Birthday Cup?’

As befitted his social stature Darran watched the king’s birthday celebrations from the royal household enclosure, where palace and Tower staff enjoyed some of the best seats available and were liberally plied with sweetmeats and chilled ale by the servants roaming among the spectators. Beside him sat Wilier, as was only right and proper. Why should he suffer alone, after all?

He released a lugubrious sigh. This was the last place in Lur he wanted to be. Not because he resented spending his time helping to celebrate His Majesty’s latest birthday. Not at all. No, what he resented was being made to celebrate it by watching that wretched Asher make a spectacle of himself in public.

Wilier shifted irritably in his seat. The boy looked like a pudgy peacock in his shiny blue and gold satin. He was dusted with sugar powder, soaked in scent and querulous with pique. ‘For the love of Barl, can’t we please go? Five minutes more of this rubbish and I’ll fall down dead of a brainstorm, I swear.’

Darran permitted himself another discreet sigh and rearranged his long legs. ‘We leave when His Majesty leaves and not before. Now stop fidgeting or I shall have your pay docked for impertinence.’

Wilier scowled. Fixed his glowering gaze on the crudely muscular figure of their employer’s indispensable assistant and said viciously, ‘Who does Asher think he is anyway) Competing for the King’s Cup. Presuming to ride against the Doranen nobility. He’s just an Olken like us, no better than you or me. In fact he’s a damned sight worse.’

Darran glanced around the enclosure, full of Ashcr’s friends, and rapped his knuckles on Willer’s soft knee. ‘Keep your voice down. You and I may know the truth of him but we are lone voices crying in the wilderness.’