The Innocent Mage (3 page)

No. He was a Restharven fisherman born and bred and he knew his worth. Somewhere in this City he’d find someone else who did too. Statue or no statue, he was going to get hisself that job.

He had to. He had a fortune to make and promises to keep.

Cutting through the babble of noise in the square, the indignant bellow of a cow. Asher snapped out of his slump. Of course. The Livestock Quarter. Fool. He should’ve tried there first, ‘stead of traipsing from stall to stall getting nowt but a fistful of ‘no’ for his trouble. In the Livestock Quarter he’d find farmers, cattlemen. His kind of folk. For certain sure there’d be somebody there wantin’ the kind of service Asher of Restharven could provide.

He jumped up, hope rekindled. On the other side of the square, sound and movement distracted him. Shouting. Whistles. Applause. Glimpsed between the market stalls and crowding bodies, a flash of dark heads and blue and crimson jfcry: the City Guard, marching down the sloping road from ilace, which gleamed like a settled seagull up on the hill we the City.

Asher went to look. The Livestock Quarter wasn’t going lanywhere, and he was curious. Five minutes here or there I weren’t like to make a difference.

‘Way now!’ a stern voice shouted, carrying over the [bubble and froth of the marketplace. ‘Make way for His ighness Prince Gar!’

Asher felt himself jostled and bumped forward with the I test of the crowd as it surged and seethed around him. He n’t understand the commotion. Why get so excited just I because the prince was coming? The prince lived here in the I City, didn’t he, along with the rest of the royal family? Didn’t City folk get to see him most every day of the week? I Aye, they did. So why break a body’s toes to lay eyes on him 1 now?

But even as he muttered and cursed and shoved back, he had to admit to a breath of excitement. Not even Ole Hemp had laid eyes on a member of the royal family. This would put him one up, and no mistake. Da would be tickled pink.

With the roadway cleared of shoppers and stallholders, the prince was free to ride his bay blood horse with only one hand on the reins. It was a beautiful animal, mincing and dappled and harnessed in jewels. Asher felt his throat close in envy. That’s what being a prince got you: a wondrous beast like that one, and a hundred more at home just like it, most prob’ly.

For the first time in his life, he was fleetingly sorry to be himself.

The approaching prince looked as well bred as his horse. His corn-silk hair, as long as a girl’s, was caught in a tail at the nape of his neck. His green silk shirt and tan leather breeches were immaculate. The gloss on his black leather boots was blinding. On his head gleamed a beaten silver circlet of rank, studded with rubies. His thin face was lively

with appreciation as he waved and smiled at the well-| wishers to his left and right.

Thrust to the edge of the road by the heaving crowd, I Asher eyed him up and down. So. This was His Royal Highness Prince Gar. Even down in distant Restharven they I knew about him. Gar the Magickless. Gar the Cripple. Even, some whispered into their ale pots, Gar the Disgrace. Too blond to be an Olken, too magickless to be Doranen. That’s what folks said about His Royal Highness Prince Gar … at | least down Restharven way.

But from all the hooting and hollering of the City Olken around him it seemed they didn’t mind the prince couldn’t do magic. That he’d not be the one to take over the WeatherWorking once his father the king wore out. No, the City Olken seemed to think he was something to screech and dance for. Why? What use was a magician who couldn’t do magic? About as much as a ship without sails, to his mind.

And it seemed he wasn’t the only one to think so.

Barely a handful of Doranen had stopped to cheer their king’s son as he rode off to spend a strenuous day in the countryside sniffing flowers, or whatever it was he did to amuse himself. A few had paused to smile and nod. A lot more, though, paid him no mind at all, or watched him pass with bland faces and judgement in their eyes. Did the prince see it? Did he care? It was hard to tell. For sure his dazzling smile didn’t falter and his hand stayed steady on the reins… but mayhap there was a flicker in the green eyes. A momentary coldness, or stifled hurt.

Asher snorted. Catch him wasting time feeling sorry for a prince.

The king’s son was drawing level now. In a moment would be close enough to reach out and touch if he’d had a mind to. Determined to remain unaffected, Asher stared into the smooth, careless face of royalty … and royalty stared back.

A frown. A jolt: of interest, or rejection, or something in between. Then an Olken lass tossed a rose. It struck royalty’s prancing horse on the neck. The horse shied, objecting, and the prince had his hands full.

Disconcerted, Asher stepped back from the edge of the road, heedless of the trampled toes and curses behind him. Despite himself, and despising himself for it, he was impressed. There was something about the prince. The king’s son possessed an aura of authority. Of grace, even. Something inborn, of blood and bone and breeding, not circumstance. Something that made him … different.

Codswallop. The prince was rich, magic or no magic he was Doranen, and he was royalty; probably it was that and nothing more.

Asher shook himself, breaking the unlikely, unwelcome spell. All this standing about gawping at royalty. Da would’ve clipped him over the earhole long afore now. Time he took care of his own business.

He turned away. From six feet further along the road came a loud bang. A scream. Asher turned back to see a whirling, whizzing rush of light as the rockets in a fireworks stall erupted into blazing glory, shooting skywards in a shower of green and yellow sparks. The crowd shrieked.

Already unnerved, the prince’s blood horse whinnied in fright and reared. His Royal Highness fell off backwards to land his royal arse hard and hurting on the dirty ground. Panic-stricken, preparing to bolt, the animal bunched its hindquarters and spun about, eyes wild. Foam flew from its gaping mouth.

‘BallodairV the prince cried as the horse launched itself over his head in a great leaping bound.

‘Catch him!’ cried another voice, sharp and commanding, buried somewhere close by in the crowd.

Without thinking, Asher jumped into the path of the frightened horse. A lifetime of sailing boats in untamed weather had honed his reflexes and made him indifferent to danger. Catching those flapping reins was just like layinji hold of a loose halyard in high winds; battling the beast toil standstill not much harder than wrestling with a net-load of fish reluctant to die.

And besides, it seemed a shame for a fine animal Rial that to break a slender leg just ‘cause some royal folderoll couldn’t keep his arse in the saddle.

Shod hooves striking sparks, the horse plunged and! spun. The screaming crowd scattered. Swearing as the horse’s head collided with his own, seeing stars and shouting as an iron-clad foot ground his booted toes into the cobblestones, Asher struggled to keep the animal in one place. Blood from his split eyebrow blurred his vision. His sweaty hands slid on the leather reins as the horse grunted and thrashed and struggled for freedom.

In the end, Asher won. Defeated at last, the horse stood with all four feet on the ground, trembling. Its nostrils were red and wide open as ale pots as it huffed hot, hay-scented breath. Its eyes stared but no longer rolled, white-rimmed. Asher bent over, gasping.

Without warning the reins were plucked from his grasp and a shaking voice said, ‘Ballodair! It was just some fireworks! Are you all right, you fool of an animal?’

Head pounding, blood warm and sticky on his face, Asher straightened.

The prince, running an anxious hand down the animal’s legs, was searching for damage. Paid no heed to the man who’d saved his wretched horse’s hide. Offended, Asher cleared his throat. ‘It be fine, I reckon,’ he said, determined that this elegantly clad prince was a man, like him, who pissed and farted same as all men did, and had nothing more special to recommend him than an expensive tailor. ‘Don’t seem like the beast’s taken any harm, barrin’ a fright.’

The prince glanced up at him. A flicker of recognition lit his eyes and he nodded. Standing straight, he looped the reins over one arm then dusted his hands on his breeches.

‘So it would appear, Barl be praised.’ He kissed the solid gold holyring on his left forefinger. ‘He was a gift from His Majesty.’

‘A grand gift,’ said Asher. ‘Glad I could save ‘im for you. I be fine too, by the way. You know. ‘Case you were wonderin’.’

The returning crowd gasped and muttered. A City Guard, his cheeks still pale from what might have been, frowned and stepped closer. The prince held up one hand, halting him, and considered Asher in unsmiling silence. Heart pounding, Asher lifted his chin and considered the prince right back. After a moment, the prince relaxed. Very nearly smiled. ‘Not so fine, I think. Your head is split open and your wits are addled from the blow. Have you taken any other hurt?’

The crowd buzzed its surprise, pressing to get a closer look at the ramshackle newcomer in such close conversation with royalty. Asher touched cautious fingertips to his eyebrow and shrugged as they came away red. ‘This ain’t nowt. Reckon I’ve had worse shavin’.’ Then he scowled. ‘And my wits ain’t addled, neither.’

Horrified, the City Guard prodded Asher in the back. ‘Lout! Address the prince as “Your Highness” and show some respect or you’ll find yourself in one of Captain Orrick’s cells!’ Again the prince lifted a hand. ‘It’s all right, Grimwold. I suspect our reluctant hero isn’t from around these parts.’ Smiling, he pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, then undipped a leather flask from his saddle and doused the fabric with its pale green contents. ‘Wine,’ he explained, offering it to Asher. ‘It’ll sting, I’m afraid, but that’s better than horse sweat in an open wound. Where are you from,

by the way?’

With a grunt — and if the prince wanted to consider himself thanked, then fine — Asher took the handkerchief and dabbed his face with it. The alcohol burned like fire against his raw flesh; he couldn’t swallow the pained hiss fast enough. ‘Restharven,’ he muttered. ‘Your Highness’ Face clean of blood and dust, he glared at the soiled handkerchief. ‘Y’want this back?’

The prince’s lips curved in faint amusement. ‘No. Thank you.’

Was the king’s son laughing at him? Bastard. ‘Got hundreds, have you?’

Now the smile was in full bloom. ‘Not quite. But enough that I can lose one and not repine. I’ve never been to Restharven.’

‘I know,’ said Asher. Then, prompted by the guard’s glower added, sickly sweet, ‘Your Highness.’

‘How is it,’ asked the prince, after a thoughtful pause, ‘that you come to dislike me so thoroughly? And after I’ve given you a pure silk handkerchief, moreover.’

Asher felt his face heat. Hadn’t Ma always said to him, Asher, that unruly tongue of yours will land you in such trouble one day … ‘Never said I dislike you,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t even know you, do I?’

The prince nodded. ‘That’s very true. And easily remedied, what’s more. Grimwold?’ The silently scandalised guard snapped off a salute. T believe we’ve provided enough entertainment for now. Move the people about their business. I’d like a private word with this gentleman.’ He turned to Asher. ‘That is unless you’ve pressing business to conduct elsewhere?’

Asher bit his tongue. Stared into a fine-bred face vivid with amusement, and a challenge. He cleared his throat. ‘No. Your Highness.’

‘Excellent!’ declared the prince, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then I shall steal a few minutes of your time with a clear conscience! Grimwold?’

With an obedient nod Grimwold did as he was told. The crowd dispersed in dribs and drabs, murmuring … and Asher was left alone with the Crown Prince of Lur.

Asher spared the grudgingly moving townsfolk a scathing glance. ‘Load of ole mollygrubbers. You fell off your horse, I caught it for you. Ain’t no need for fuss. Ain’t none of their business, I reckon.’

Arms folded, head on one side, the prince regarded him with fascination. ‘Do you know, not even my enemies are as rude as you. At least not to my face.’

Asher stared. Enemies? Since when did a prince have enemies? Then he scowled. ‘Rude? I ain’t rude. I’m just me.’

” i I tl0 Odnre anil laughed. ‘And who

‘Is that so?’ said the pnnffi, Ml ISagiicoi -would “me” be, exactly?’

It took Asher a moment to realise the prince was asking his name. Smart-arse. ‘Asher.’

‘Well, Asher — from Restharven — it’s certainly refreshing to make your acquaintance. What brings you all the way from the coast to the City?’

Asher stared. Questions, questions and more bloody questions. Next time he’d let the horse bolt and break all its legs, he surely would. ‘A private matter,’ he said. Then added politely, because say what you like, Ma never raised her sons to be rude, ‘Your Highness.’

‘I see,’ said the prince, nodding. ‘Anything I can help with?’

Asher shrugged. ‘Prob’ly not. I be lookin’ for work.’

‘Work?’ The prince raised his pale eyebrows. ‘Hmm. So tell me, Asher. Since you come from Restharven, am I right in thinking you’re a fisherman?’

‘Aye.’

The prince pushed aside his horse’s questing nose. ‘Ah, Well, I can’t say I’ve noticed a lot of fish in Dorana, unless you count the ornamental ones in the palace garden fishponds, and I don’t think my mother would approve ol you netting those.’ Another smile, reminiscent this time, ‘Besides, I ate one when I was four and it tasted disgusting.’

T can do other things aside from fishin’,’ said Asher, goaded.

‘Really?’ The prince considered him. ‘Such as?’

Such as … such as … sailing. Except there weren’t no boats in Dorana, neither. Damn the man. ‘Lots of things. 1 can … I can …” Punch you in the nose for askin’ damn fool questions. Which most likely would earn him a night in a cell. Oh well. It’d save him the cost of a room at Verry’s it he had no luck in the Livestock Quarter. ‘I can —’

A voice, polite but with a brisk air of confidence, said, ‘Your Highness?’

Asher turned. A woman. Middle height. Maybe a year ot three older than himself. Thin. Sharp-faced, sharp-eyed, with an intensity about her that could never be restful. No feminine frippery about her, makeup or jewellery or suchlike. Slung over one bony shoulder a string bag half filled with packages. She glanced at him, an air of disinterest behind the good manners, then returned her attention to the prince.