The Innocent Mage (46 page)

When at last their fury was sated and there was nothing left in the world but torn flesh and pain, they dragged him outside and threw him and his stripped-off clothing into the gutter. It was dusk and Harbourmaster Street was empty.

‘From this day on,’ said Zeth, standing over him, panting down on him, ‘you be no kin of ours and Restharven ain’t your home. Don’t look for shelter anywhere else neither, for we’ll be bannin’ your name up coast and down. Your fishing dreams are over, little man. Go back to the City and your new blond friends. You be not wanted here.’

Asher stared up at his hateful, hating brother. Hot wont crowded his throat, clamoured for release. You can’t and 8j what right? and He were my father too!

All he could do was moan.

One by one his brothers spat on him to seal the sentence. Then they went back into the Dolphin and slammed the front door behind them.

Floating on a scarlet sea, Asher barely felt the spittle as it trickled through his hair, down his cheeks, between his parted lips.

Da, he cried, though no more sound escaped him. Da,,.

Ages later he sat up beneath a starry sky, inch by painful inch, and pulled on his torn shirt. The weskit was beyond saving so he left it in the gutter. Then, wincing at every step, he dragged himself to the nearest ale house. Sat in a dark corner, ignored by the other patrons who’d gathered to share wild stories and lucky escapes, and spent all his money on glorious cider and beer. Once his purse no longer jingled, the barman pushed him into the street and locked the door behind him.

It was late. So late it was early. He laughed aloud at his own clever wit; the harsh sound bounced off the nearest stone wall, echoing. The streets were deserted. All the windows he could see were dark and cold, no friendly lamplight, no warm waiting welcome. Ah, well. Best he got back to the mayor’s house. There was a bed there for him at least. For now. And now was all that mattered. He couldn’t think past now. Couldn’t think at all.

Weaving his way along the uneven pavement he Stopped twice to empty his belly onto the cobblestones,

ing over made his head pound like a galloping lad of horses. After the second heaving he had to sit kn for a while. Standing up again was … interestingly difficult. There was pain in him somewhere but all that [lovely cider and beer kept it far, far away. He’d need to drink some more soon, to sternly discourage its approach.

After a wrong turn or three he found the servants’ entrance to the mayor’s house. The door was locked. Of course. He didn’t have the strength to knock, so he kicked instead. Bang, bang, bang. Eventually the door creaked open, Maggoty Darran stood there, nostrils all pinched in, nsslitted and beady. What a welcome. Maybe he could be sick again, all over the ole crow’s shoes. Would that make him go away?

‘Where in Barl’s name have you been?’ Darran hissed. ‘It’s the middle of the night! His Highness has been worried sick!”

‘Suck on a blowfish and die,’ he said, and pushed his way into the house. Tripped over something. A chair. Fell down. Oooh. That hurt. Def’nitely he needed another drink. After a couple of false starts he found his feet again.

I Bed. He wanted his bed. There was a staircase in front of him. He didn’t like staircases. With a grunt, he started upwards. Behind him came Darran, wittering. ‘How dare you come back here in this condition! After everything His Highness has been through, how dare you insult him in this fashion!’

At the top of the stairs, turn left. No, right. No, left. Along the corridor, what a nice wall, holding him up. If he fell down now he’d never stand again. He needed a bloody drink…

‘— disgusting, that’s what you are —’

If he hit Darran, would that shut him up? He’d get into trouble but what did that matter? What did anything matter any more? He swung around, fist clenched. ‘Shut your tra you manky ole maggoty man!’ he growled. ‘Shut it afore shut it for you!’

‘How dare you!’ Darran gasped. ‘You should be flogge for this!’

He grinned.’Too late.’

Darran wasn’t listening. ‘You should —’ He swallowed the rest of the sentence. Collected himself, and bowed. ‘Your Highness,’

Asher shuffled round a bit and looked Wearily behind him. Gar, tying the belt of his quilted blue dressing-gown as he walked towards them, scrapes and bruises stark on his face, expression grim.

‘Hey!’ he said, and waved. ‘Blondie!’

‘He’s drunk, sir,’ said Darran.

Gar raised his eyebrows. ‘No. Really?’ Then he sighed. Dragged a hand over his face. ‘Go to bed, Darran. I’ll deal with this.’ Darran hesitated. Mouth all pruned up. ‘Go, I said!’ Gar snapped, and Darran withdrew.

‘Nighty-night!’ Asher called after the ole scarecrow.

Gar grabbed him by the shirt front. Shook him. It was a wonder his head didn’t fall clean off his shoulders. ‘Shut up,’ said Gar. ‘And come with me.’

Stumbling, protesting, he fumbled along the corridor at Gar’s heels until they reached the prince’s room. Gar opened the door, pushed him inside and closed the door behind them. ‘You stink of vomit and beer,’ he said. Curt. Clipped. Eyes and face as hard as a brother’s.

Asher shrugged, adrift between the chamber door and the window. ‘Aye. Well. S’what happens when you spend the night drinkin’ ale and pukin’.’

‘I’m not interested. Get yourself cleaned up and sober. We leave for the City at first light.’

‘What d’you mean, “we”? I don’t work for you no more, remember?’

‘You work for me until I say otherwise.’

Asher blinked at him, swaying gently. ‘Why go back to It City? We only just got here.’

There was a muscle leaping along the side of Gar’s inched jaw. ‘The king is dead.’

Asher winced. He really needed another drink. The pain as getting closer and his mouth tasted vile. ‘How d’you bow he’s dead? Did Zeth tell you?’

Gar said, ‘I don’t know any Zeth. Now be quiet and ken. We-‘

‘Cause if Zeth didn’t tell you, then —’

Gar shoved him, hard. ‘I said be quietl What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you hear me? My father is dead’.’

That was funny. That was so funny, he had to laugh. ‘He is,’ Well, what d’you know? So’s mine! You an’ me finally jot somethin’ in common, eh? Aside from the no magic tosiness, I mean. Fancy that.’

Gar hit him.

Well. Now he really needed another drink. He touched to fingertips to the corner of his mouth. Found blood. Stated at it. Wiped it off on the front of his shirt and headed unsteadily for the door.

‘You’re not leaving,’ said Gar.

‘Watch me.’

As he reached for the door handle Gar pushed him aside, lands flat to his shoulderblades. Pain flared, roared, drove the air from his lungs in an anguished grunt of protest. He fell against the wall, clutching at it to stop himself from falling. Eyes screwed tight shut he pressed his bruised cheek to the Mty wallpaper and waited for the flames to die down. ‘What is this?’

Reluctantly he opened his eyes again. Looked at Gar. The prince was staring at his hands. There was blood on them.

‘Nowt.’ He was tired all of a sudden, so terribly tired. Nothing.’

Gar looked at him. ‘Show me your back.’ ‘No.’

‘Show me your back or I’ll call Darran in here to help me make you!’

And he would, too. Bastard. Wincing, Asher peeled off his once fancy fine silk shirt. Dropped it to the mayor’s expensive carpet. Closed his eyes and leaned against the wall for support.

Gar sucked in a quick, sharp breath. ‘Who did this?’

‘Nobody.’

‘Asher.’ Gar’s voice demanded instant obedience. Ha. ‘An assault on you is an assault on me. I want his name.’

He never should have come back. Not to this house. Not to Westwailing. ‘Leave it be.’

‘His name, Asher.’

Somehow he opened his eyes. ‘I fell down.’

Gar stared, incredulous. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I fell down.’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘I fell down.’

Infuriated, Gar shoved him a second time. He toppled like a stack of bricks, like the roof tiles on the storm-shattered houses of Westwailing. Landed hard, half on his back, and it hurt so much he started laughing because it was that or cry, and he didn’t want to cry.

Gar stood over him, fists clenched. ‘This isn’t funnyV

‘I know,’ he said, and hid his face against the floor, and kept on laughing.

The sound of bare heels stamping across the carpet. The door, wrenching open. ‘Darran? What are you doing out here? I told you to go to bed!’

‘I know, sir, I’m sorry, sir. Sir, is everything all right?’

‘No. I need a pothecary. Find one, wake him up and bring him to me. Now.’ \ ‘Yes; sir.’

The door, closing again. Thump thump of heels. A slithery swish and a bump as Gar slid down the wall to sit on the floor beside him. A quiet voice. ‘Your father’s dead?’

He stopped laughing. ‘Aye.’ ‘In the storm?’

‘An accident. Eight months ago.’ ‘I’m sorry. How did you —’ ‘My brothers told me.’ ‘Your brothers did this?’ ‘They blame me.’

And they weren’t the only ones. He died screamin’ your name. From somewhere beyond the chamber door, the muffled buzz of voices. Gar said, very quietly, ‘Your brothers did this …’

The carpet smelled of dust and salt. ‘This is nowt. I’m shunned, Gar. Zeth and the rest of ‘em, they’ve banned me. No fishing boats for Asher. Not in Restharven. Not anywhere in Lur.’ And what was the pain in his flesh compared to that?

A sharp intake of breath. Tense silence. Then: ‘For how long?’

‘Forever.’

More slithery sounds as Gar shifted against the wall. ‘Can they do that?’

Not only could, but had. It was done, and by common fisherfolk law not to be undone. ‘Aye.’

‘No. It’s not right. Fishing’s a dangerous life, how many times have you told me that? Whatever misfortune befell your father, Asher, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry. I’ll fix this.’

In the cavernous coldness within, a small warm flame. ‘You can’t. It’s Olken business. Fishermen’s business. You’ll make no friends stirrin’ that pot. Leave it be.’ ‘Even though they beat you half to death?’ ‘It ain’t that bad,’ he said, lying. ‘Reckon I’ve had worse.’

‘Really?’ Gar scoffed. ‘When?’

He sighed, even though breathing hurt like fire. ‘Leave it, Gar.’

‘How can I? Here you are, beaten to a bloody pulp, denied your heritage, the means by which you choose to make your living, exiled from your home … and by your own damned family, Asher! Leave it? How can I possibly do that?’

‘Because I’m asking you to.’

Gar muttered something under his breath. He sounded angry. Resentful. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘You don’t have to.’

Silence. ‘Well …’ Gar’s voice was laced with doubt. ‘If you’re sure.’

‘Damned sure.’

‘In that case … what will you do now?’

Stay curled up on the floor forever and ever. Drag his sorry carcase to another alehouse and drown it in an ocean of alcohol. Find a Doranen magician to turn back time so none of the past year had ever happened. So Jed wasn’t a drooling gapwit and Da was still alive.

‘I don’t know,’ he said roughly, swallowing tears.

Another silence. Then: ‘I really do have to leave at first light. Her Majesty will need me.’

‘Aye.’

‘I’ll take Mishin with me. Or Fitch.’

‘You’ll take me.’

‘Asher, you can’t —’

With a grunt and a groan he rolled over. Sat up, teeth gritted. ‘You’ll take me,’ he said again with all the force he could muster. He sounded like a half-drowned cat, mewling.

Gar was shaking his head. ‘You’re out of your mind. Look at yourself. You can’t ride all the way back to Dor—’

Despite the pain he reached out and grabbed a handful of Gar’s dressing-gown. Bunched it in his fist and shook as hard as the dregs of his strength allowed. 7 have toV he said raggedly. 7 can’t stay hereV Perilously close to breaking, to begging, he loosened his fingers and let his hand fall. ‘I can’t stay here.’

Gar hesitated. Nodded. ‘All right. All right, you can come. Provided the pothecary says you’re fit.’ ‘Sink the pothecary. I’m fine.’

Gar sighed. Shook his head. ‘Of course you are.’ Then added, hesitantly, ‘You don’t have to stay in the City afterwards. Not if you don’t want to. I gave you my word you could leave my service after a year and of course I’ll keep it. I’m sorry I was so angry before. It was unjust.’ He frowned. ‘Unprincely.’

If he leaned against the wall his back would burst into (lames. Pulling up one knee, he rested his aching head. ‘No. You were right. I should’ve said something. Anyway. It don’t matter now.’ He sounded bitter. He couldn’t help it, and didn’t much care.

‘You are welcome to stay, of course,’ Gar said, abruptly formal. ‘I still need an Assistant Olken Administrator. If you stayed it would save me a lot of work, showing someone else the ropes.’

Face hidden, Asher smiled, a sarcastic twist of lip. If he stayed? What choice did he have now but to stay? Where else was there for him to go? He couldn’t be a fisherman any more. Assistant Olken Administrator was the only work he was fit for now. A dry life the only one that wanted him.

He lifted his head. ‘I’ll stay. You’re mad if you think you’ll find anybody else to put up with Darran and Wilier.’

Gar made a small sound of amusement. ‘Probably that’s an exaggeration but… good. I’m glad.’

With a groan Asher let his head drop again. If he didn’t get another drink soon he’d have to start climbing the walls. He glanced at Gar. Saw trenched hollows beneath his eyes, the scouring grief within them. ‘You’re sure about the king?’ Gar nodded, bleakly. ‘I’m sure.’

When, exactly, did a body fill up with so much pain it couldn’t feel any more?

Soon, he hoped.

Gar looked … destroyed. He should say something, k the words wouldn’t come. And then the door opened and manky ole Darran bustled in with the pothecary. After that the only pain that mattered was the clean, physical kind.

A pity it wasn’t likely to stay that way.

Scant hours later, in the cold dawn of the mayor’s stable yard, drugged and dour in the saddle, Asher waited as Darran flapped and fuddled over Gar.

‘Oh, sir, I do wish you wouldn’t do this!’ Gar frowned. ‘So you’ve said. And said. Don’t say it again.1 Darran’s lips pressed tight. ‘No, sir.’ He looked like lie wanted to scream.