The Innocent Mage (8 page)

Abruptly aware of his audience, Asher flushed. ‘Sorry. Never meant no disrespect.’

Her severe lips softened. ‘Yes. Well. If you’ll come with me?’

He followed her up the left-hand staircase. Behind the shrouding red velvet was a screened gallery complete with comfortable chairs and an excellent view of the Hall.

‘You can observe from here,’ said Lady Marnagh. ‘Please remain absolutely silent while the hearing is in session. It would be best if you stayed seated once His Highness has commenced the proceedings. To all intents and purposes anyone in the gallery is invisible to the Hall, but movement can be distracting.’ She frowned. ‘In fact, choose a seat now and don’t leave it again until His Highness gives you permission.’

Disconcerted, Asher stared. ‘And how long’ll that be? I mean, what time’s all this malarkey s’posed to end?’

‘That depends entirely upon the matter at hand,’ said Lady Marnagh, her plucked eyebrows raised.

‘Well, but, what if I need to … you know …’

The eyebrows rose higher. ‘Then I suggest you cross your legs — Asher, is it?’ She smiled; he’d seen friendlier sharks. ‘Now I must attend to my duties. I trust you will find this afternoon’s …’ She paused and looked down her nose at him. ‘Malarkey, educational. Certainly I hope you know how privileged you are, being invited to watch the hearing from the Royal Gallery, as His Highness’s personal guest.’

Oh aye, he was privileged all right. Stuck in a box halfway up a wall with no way down again till the prince had finished his business, being told to cross his legs — ha! — if nature called, all for reasons that nobody saw fit to tell him! Privileged? Put upon, she should’ve said. Used and abused and taken advantage of, and what Matt was going to say when he came back to find none of the mangers scrubbed clean, like he’d ordered, and the yard only half swept; raked, and the lads doing evening stables without him …

Lady Marnagh was waiting for an answer. Ha eyebrows had climbed so high they’d nearly disappeared into her pale yellow hairline, and her lips were thin with disapproval.

Asher sighed. ‘Aye, Lady Marnagh. Reckon there ain’t been a body so privileged as me in all the history of Lur.’

Lady Marnagh left the gallery. The way she twitched tk velvet curtain closed behind her suggested that she wasn’t amused. Oh well. Too bad. The prince wasn’t paying him near enough to cover extra duties like keeping snooty shark-impersonating Doranen women smiling. He heaved another sigh and leaned his arms along the screened gallery’s railing so he could get a decent look at what was happening down below.

Justice Hall was split down the middle by a wide aisle, and from side to side two-thirds along with a solid wooden barrier, maybe waist high on a man. Behind the barrier there was nothing but rows and rows of benches. For the public Asher guessed, seeing the smattering of folks, mostly Olken, dotted about the Hall. The few Doranen all looked young. Students, most likely, from the university. They had an older Doranen with them, wearing a chivvying face. Asher grinned. Poor bugger. Be a good bet he’d happily change jobs with the prince’s boot polisher, any day. Everyone, Olken and Doranen, was dressed up in their holyday best, Most of them wore hats, plain and flat for the men, tall and nodding with flowers and feathers for the women.

In front of the barrier there were chairs, and a wide wooden table on each side of the aisle. There were Olken sitting there, too, and seeing how serious they looked, he supposed they were the — what had Lady Marnagh called them? — the parties, their speakers and witnesses. So. The folks doing the brangling.

At the top end of the Hall, set into the wall, was a door. On the other side of it, he suspected, was the chamber where he and the prince had come in. Set some six paces in from the wall was a crimson dais. On it stood a high-backed wooden chair, padded and covered in crimson and gold velvet. Beside it, a slender wooden stand bearing a golden bell and hammer. On the wall behind the dais hung an enormous tapestry of an unsheathed sword. Just in case folks forgot what they were doing here, most likely.

Aye, right. As if that was like to happen.

Off to the right side of the dais was a small desk and a plain unpadded chair. The desk had a pile of paper on it, but no inkpot or pen. Asher couldn’t see the point of that. He shrugged; the mystery would surely be explained sooner or later. And if it wasn’t he could always ask the prince later.

Although whether the prince would answer him was another matter entirely. Too bloody secretive by half, was His Royal Highness Prince Gar.

The sound of hushed conversation rose from the floor of the Hall like the rolling of waves onto a distant sandy shore. Filtering through the stained-glass windows, sunlight from the world outside splashed a palette of colours over every face and turned the attending City Guards’ uniforms into patchwork quilts. Asher counted twelve pike-wielding, po-faced officials: one on each side of the main doors, four along each wall, and the last two flanking the raised platform beneath the hanging sword. None of his friends was among them. Pity, that. He could’ve amused himself pulling faces at ‘em.

The Royal Gallery he occupied in such solitary splendour ran almost the full length of the Hall. There was a similar gallery directly opposite, but it was completely filled in. A private place for the prince or the king or the Master Magician to gather his or her thoughts before hearing folks go on about their troubles, he guessed.

The door in the Hall’s rear wall opened, then closed I behind Lady Marnagh. Her silk and brocade tunic had been smothered with a plain robe of dark green. She crossed to the small table and stood behind it. The guards on either side of the dais rapped their pikes onto the tiled floor hard: and sharp, three times. At the Hall’s entrance, the guards flanking the open doors swung them closed with a muffled: thud. Silence fell like an axe. :

Then everyone seated in the Hall stood, eyes turned towards the end of the private gallery. A moment later a section of the gallery floor detached and descended with slow majesty. Asher felt his jaw drop. No ropes or mechanical devices guided the platform’s progress: it moved by magic.

Of course.

Inch by inch, the unsmiling form of the prince was revealed. He was draped neck to knee to ankle in a gold and crimson brocade robe. His silver circlet had been replaced by a heavy, plain gold crown. His expression was grave. Thoughtful. He looked … older.

The platform stopped a mere whisper above the floor. The prince stepped down and took his seat on the dais. Then he lifted the hammer from its hook and struck the bell three times. The air inside the Hall chimed. Shimmered. Asher felt something cool and invisible dance across his skin.

‘We are gathered today, by His Majesty’s authority and in his name, for the purposes of justice.’ The prince’s voice carried effortlessly to every corner and listening ear. ‘Barl give us grace and wisdom and honour in its seeking.’ Bowing his head, he kissed his holyring.

‘As you ask,’ murmured the crowd, ‘Barl mote it be.’ All round the Hall, lips were pressed to forefingers, ringed or not.

The prince replaced the hammer, then rested his hands on the arms of his chair. ‘Be seated. And let us hear the vexatious matter that brings us hence today.’

With a rustle and a scraping of the petitioners’ chair legs on the tiles, everyone sat. Intrigued despite himself, Asher waited to see what would happen.

‘Who seeks my judgement in this matter?’ asked the prince.

A young woman seated at the right-hand table stoo She was short and plump, her dress an unflattering shade custard yellow. ‘I do, Your Highness.’

The prince nodded. At the small desk Lady Marnagl closed her eyes and twice passed her left hand across the stack of paper before her. Orange sparks ignited, flared and faded. She returned her hand to her lap and glanced at thf prince.

‘State your name and place of residence for the records, he said.

‘Mistress Raite of Deephollow Vale, Your Highness.’

Asher pressed his face to the gallery’s screen. Just barel] he saw orange fire dance across the top sheet of paper, i single line of words glowed for a moment then winked out.

So. Who needed pen and ink when magic could be ha at the snap of the fingers?

‘Thank you. Be seated,’ said the prince. ‘Who contesi your claim?’

At the other table a middle-aged Olken man leapt to h feet. ‘Me, Your Highness! I contest my cousin’s ridiculou ungrateful complaint!’

He was tall and broomstick thin. His satin suit, frothe with lace at neck and wrists, was a bilious pea-green. Asher pulled a face; looked like colour blindness ran in the family. The prince frowned. ‘I requested your name and place of residence, not your legal opinion.’

Even from halfway up the wall and behind a screen, Asher could see the man’s face turn tomato red. He grinned. So the king’s son had a bite in him, eh? That was interesting. He’d been thinking all that silk and velvet might’ve softened the prince’s sinews. Useful to know that wasn’t the case. And what kind of a sinkin’ fool was the pea-green man, to set up the prince’s hackles against him in the first few minutes? ‘Meister Brenin, Your Highness,’ the cousin said. He sounded perilously close to sulky. ‘From Tolton-by-the-Marsh.’

As the man sat down again, whispering to one of his cronies at the table, the prince turned his attention to the young Olken woman. ‘Very well. Mistress Raite, for the record, state your complaint.’

Flustered but resolute the woman stood again. The man seated beside her — husband? brother? too young to be her da, any road — reached for her hand, squeezed it tight, then let go. Asher leaned back in his chair, propped his heels on the railing inside the gallery’s screen and prepared to be entertained.

The trouble had started when word was sent to Mistress Raite of her Uncle Vorlye’s mortal illness. He was dying, and there wasn’t a herb or potion in the kingdom to save him. Would she be able to nurse the poor soul in his fading days? Cousin Brenin was a busy man, with no wife at hand to shoulder the burden. Of course it meant three hours a day of travel, but they were family, weren’t they? A good woman mindful of Barl’s Laws would surely ignore a little inconvenience for the sake of a dying man.

What of the hospice in Salting Town, a mere half-hour from Tolton-by-the-Marsh? the prince wanted to know.

It was a fine facility; he had attended its dedication by Hei Majesty and Royal Barlsman Holze just last summer. The Barl’s Brethren there were devoted to nursing the sick and dying. Uncle Vorlye would have been well cared for, and Mistress Raite not put to so much hardship. Meister Brenin?

Blustering, Meister Brenin pointed out that the Barl’s Brethren, doubtless holy folk to the youngest novice, couldn’t be held the same as a man’s family, Your Highness.

Not to mention family wouldn’t ask for a donation of fifteen trins a week towards the costs of ministering to a dying man, was the prince’s dry observation. Asher snickered approvingly; he liked a man with a sense of humour.

Next, Mistress Raite became a trifle agitated. It seemed that dear Uncle Vorlye, who remained well in his right mind up to the very end, was so touched by her tender care that he saw fit to leave her a little something in his will.

‘A little something?’ her cousin snarled. ‘The bloody woman addled his wits, Your Highness! Tricked him into leaving her half his fortune! A scurrilous villainy of wickedness it was, sir, and the District Magister agreed! He overturned that poxy will in a matter of moments and fined the wretched woman accordingly. Only by a miracle did she escape a harsher penalty!’

‘Peace, Meister Brenin,’ the prince said coolly. ‘Your turn will come.’ He turned to Mistress Raite. ‘You have good reason for refusing to accept Barl’s Justice in this matter?’

Mistress Raite’s chin lifted. ‘Yes, Your Highness. I’m innocent. The legacy was two hundred trins, not half his fortune, and I never asked for a cuick of it.’

‘Yet the District Magister upheld your cousin’s claim.’

‘Yes, he did, Your Highness,’ she agreed. ‘And that would have nowt to do with how the District Magister and my cousin hunt regular together every week through winter, or play catch-ball in the lighter months, or race each other to the bottom of a wine barrel three nights out of six, now would it?’

Asher dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, impressed. Convicted and custard yellow she might be, but Mistress Raite was a persuasive speaker. He couldn’t see a skerrick of guile in her. Just honest distress.

Staring down at the prince’s shuttered face he tried to figure what the king’s son was thinking. Was he convinced by Mistress Raite’s tale of woe, or not? There was no way of telling; all thought and feeling were locked tight behind his Lawgiver’s mask.

The prince was silent for long moments, considering. Then he looked at Meister Brenin. ‘Mistress Raite speaks the truth? You and this District Magister are friends?’

Meister Brenin looked down his nose. ‘We are, Your Highness.’ His lips curved into a thin, self-satisfied smile. ‘I have many friends, sir. I am a man of influence and standing in Tolton-by-the-Marsh.’

The prince’s answering smile glittered like a naked sword. ‘We are not in Tolton-by-the-Marsh, Meister Brenin.’

Asher swallowed a hoot of amusement as Meister Brenin flinched. ‘I was unaware that such a friendship was frowned upon, Your Highness,’ the man said stiffly.

‘Friendship is never frowned upon, Meister Brenin.’ The prince’s faint emphasis on the word ‘friendship’ wasn’t lost on his audience; Meister Brenin wilted. The prince let his cold gaze linger a moment longer on the man’s downcast face, then looked at Mistress Raite. ‘You have speakers present who will attest to the truth of your claims?’

‘I do, sir.’

The prince nodded. ‘Then let them be heard.’

One by one, Mistress Raite’s speakers rose and confirmed her version of events. When they were done, excited whispering from the audience drowned the silence and had to be quelled by the guards.

Called upon to answer the accusations, Meister Brenin lost his temper and swore at Mistress Raite. The prince cautioned him. On second thoughts, Meister Brenin’s speakers declined to exercise their tongues on his behal Meister Brenin swore at them, and was given warning. Meister Brenin subsided, cowed at last.