The Awakened Mage (39 page)

The thought of Asher tipped his mouth into a smile. Outrageous. The man was outrageous. Today’s—no, yesterday’s—performance in Justice Hall would be gossip fodder for weeks. Months. He’d thought Guild Meister Roddle would drop dead of a seizure on the spot. He’d nearly had a seizure himself from trying not to laugh out loud.

Reprobate Asher had climbed onto the Law Giver’s
chair.
The chair that had cradled royal law-giving rumps for years. But then that was Asher all over, wasn’t it? Always climbing onto things. Yes, and over them too. Benches. Tables. Obstacles. Restrictions. Traditions. Shredding pomp and consequence with all the finesse of a cheese-grater.

A silent convulsion of laughter shook his bones. Indigo Glospottle’s name would live on for generations now. Asher had seen to that. So much authority resting on those broad and brawny shoulders. If it had been anybody else standing on that Law Giver’s chair he knew he’d not be laughing, but worried. Power like that could turn a man’s head more easily than the lilting walk of a pretty girl passing by. But not Asher’s. If ever he’d met a man entirely unimpressed with the trappings of power, it was Asher.

Sparks spat in the fireplace as a log broke apart, crumbling into coals and ash. The room was warmed with magic, of course, but he still kept a fire burning through winter. Most people did. Even the Doranen loved the sound and smell of fresh burning pitty-pine. The romance of leaping flames.

Orrick stifled a yawn. Middle of the night, he should be sleeping, but paperwork couldn’t tell the time and he’d let it lapse of late. Extraordinary. He was a man of strict and proper procedure. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d left this office without the daily report being finished and filed for future reference. And here he was with a full week’s worth of reports undone. It wouldn’t do.

Sound and movement in the street below his window caught his attention. The hollow clopping of hooves on cobbles. A carriage, drawing to a halt at the guardhouse gates. Two cloaked figures alighting.

Pellen Orrick put down his pen and went to investigate.

“Lord Jarralt!” he said, betrayed into showing surprise. He stood back from the guardhouse front door. “Please, my lord. Enter.”

The king’s Privy Councilor was attended by Willer Driskle, from the Tower. The palace. Wherever it was he worked these days. A blameless man, but not well liked. Unpopularity wasn’t a crime, though, so the guard had no cause to know him. Orrick nodded politely and closed the door behind them.

“Your office,” said Lord Jarralt, stripping off his gloves. “Now.”

Such a chilly man. Orrick bowed, taking no offense; it was pointless. “My lord.” With a quelling look at young Piper, on overnight front desk duty and struggling not to gape, he led his visitors upstairs.

Jarralt refused the chair that was offered him. Willer almost accepted, caught the lord’s cold eye and changed his mind. Orrick, not inclined to be intimidated in his own office, took his chair behind the desk and sat back, observing.

‘Tell him,” said Jarralt, slapping his gloves across one palm as though his flesh offended him. “All of it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Driskle said, and planted his fists on the desktop. There was something eager,
lascivious,
in the way his eyes were shining. Something predatory.

Disliking him, Orrick stared at the encroaching hands till the fat little man withdrew them and stood back. “Tell me what?”

“Captain Orrick, you must arrest Asher of Restharven at once. He has broken Barl’s First Law and attempted magic!”

He laughed.
“Asher
has? Are you
mad!
”

“Tell him,”
said Lord Jarralt grindingly.

He listened in growing disbelief as Driskle spewed forth a tale as horrifying as it was unlikely. “I don’t believe it,” he said at last, once the man was done with his litany of accusations.

“I do,” said Lord Jarralt.

Orrick shook his head. There was a hot buzzing in his ears and his eyes were fogged with shock. “But Olken can’t do magic.” He turned to Willer. “You
saw
him call the snow?” ¥

“I saw the snow falling and went into the Weather Chamber. He was alone. Unconscious on the floor and covered in blood. And I heard him and the king talking about WeatherWorking. I
told
you,” whined Driskle. “Asher’s a criminal and he has to die!”

Feeling sick, Orrick ignored that. “How were you in a position to overhear anything of a private nature discussed between Asher and His Majesty?”

“That is not your concern,” said Lord Jarralt.

He stood. “Forgive me, but it is. These are grave accusations. I won’t proceed against Asher on nothing but the word of a man who, if I may be blunt, appears to have a personal stake in his downfall.”

“You will proceed, Captain,” snapped Jarralt, “or find yourself relieved of duty. Master Magician Durm is dead, and you are questioning the orders of his successor.”

Jarralt’s eyes were frightening. Pale, pale blue and colder than any winter ever called. Flickering in their depths, a scarlet thread. Or was that just his imagination?

Orrick didn’t know. It took every skerrick of strength in him not to cower beneath that burning stare.

“Dead, my lord? I had not heard so.”

“The news is not yet public. You will consider it privy, and not to be repeated.”

“Of course. My lord, His Majesty trusts Asher implicitly,” he said, still fighting, even though he knew he was lost. “What Driskle suggests is madness. And as for this nonsense about magic, even if it were possible, which it isn’t, to say that Asher would so imperil himself, this kingdom—”

Lord Jarralt smiled. “You speak most eloquently in his defense, Captain. Should I be questioning
your
loyalty?”

He felt his face bleach white. “I am as true a subject as ever lived.”

“Really? I always felt you accepted the explanation for the late king and his family’s unfortunate deaths somewhat readily, Orrick,” said Jarralt. “Perhaps that is a matter which in due course would pay further investigation.”

“My lord, I protest! I do my duty without fear or favor!”

Smile vanished, Jarralt’s eyes were deadly. “Indeed? Then rouse your men, Captain, and tell them nothing of magic. That information you may regard as secret, on pain of death. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” he said. His mouth was dry.

“You and your officers will accompany me to the Weather Chamber. Then we’ll see how willing you are to yoke your future to Asher’s short, bloody and painful one.”

He was Captain of the City Guard. He had no choice.

He bowed. “My lord,” he said, and went to wake his men.

Tossing restlessly on the hard floor of the Weather Chamber, shot through with sizzling sparks of pain, Asher dreamed.

Sick and dying in her bed, Ma holds out her arms to him. Thin white arms, which once had been so plump and brown. “Give me a hug now, Asher, and promise you ‘11 be a big strong boy once I’m gone,” she says in her foam-thin voice, which only a month before had been as strong as the ocean itself. “Your da’s goin’ to need his little man soon and I know you won’t do nowt to fratch or disappoint him, will you? You ‘11 never let him down.”

He cries, oh how he cries, as they lay her in the cold salty ground and sing the Farewell above her head.

Standing at the graveside in his best brown homespun shirt and trousers that Ma made, he can’t believe the sun is shining and the sky is so blue, as blue as her favorite blouse that only last night Zeth cut up into pieces to grease the hinges on the fish trap in his boat. How can the sun be shining on such a terrible day?

As he weeps, dark clouds race in from all directions, tumbling and tearing and clogging the sky until all the light is gone, the bright yellow light, and it begins to rain.

“What be you. doin’, Asher?” his brothers angrily shout. “You ain’t s’posed to make it rain! We’ll have to give you a damn good straightenin’ if you think it be your business to make it rain, a no-good Olken fisherman like y’self!”

And Zeth undoes his copper-studded belt. Slides it free of his narrow waist and cracks it double against his leathery palm. In his eyes such a yearning for blood. . .

“Stay clear of me, Zeth!” he says, backing away. “Da, don’t let him! Don’t let him, Da!”

But Da’s not listening, Da’s on the ground with a heavy great mast across him, split in two, and the rain’s washing all the blood out of him, all Da’s blood is running into the grass, onto the grave, soaking away to be with Ma.

The rain falls harder, bits of ice in it now, the clouds have turned as black as pitch and purple like bruises and there’s thunder, thunder, boom boom boom …

Asher woke, gasping, to the hollow echoing tread of feet on the stairs leading up to the Weather Chamber. Mazed with dreaming, with woken pains both old and new, he was only halfway to his feet when the door burst wide and Willer gabbled in, pointing. At his heels were Pellen Orrick and Conroyd Jarralt.

“See? See? I told you he was here!
Now
will you believe me?”

Pellen’s face was bloodless, his eyes narrow with pain. A truncheon hung from his belt. “Asher? What are you doing here? Don’t tell me this repulsive little popinjay was
right!”

A terrible wave of anger and despair crashed over him and he took a wild step forward, fists clenched. “You fool, Willer! You farting bloody
fool\
You’ve gone and ruined
everything^

Willer was grinning like a numbskull, dancing on the balls of his ugly flat feet. “Not ruined!
Saved!
I’ve saved the kingdom and soon everyone will know it!” he crowed.

“There are guards downstairs with chains and rope to bind you hand and foot. It’s over, Asher! You’re done with!”

Asher leapt on him. “You sinkin’ idiot!” he shouted, pummeling and kicking and clawing in fury. “You slime-ridden, shit-eating, ranting, putrid
sea slug,
you—”

Pellen stepped forward and clubbed him on the head. Still fragile and vulnerable from the Weather Magic, he was brought to his knees by the blow, retching.

“Don’t believe him, Pellen,” he choked, red pain rolling through him. “You
know
me. I ain’t a criminal
or
a traitor!”

A face carved from ice would look warmer. “How can I not believe, Asher? You’re inside the Weather Chamber, where you ought not to be.”

He groaned. “Send for the king. He’ll explain everything, he’ll—”

“What are you doing here?”

He was so afraid he wanted to vomit. “I ain’t sayin’,” he whispered. “I want to see Gar.”

Pellen’s eyes were devoid of hope, or pity. “Asher of Restharven, in the name of our king and by the authority granted me as Captain of this City, I arrest you for the capital crime of breaking Barl’s First Law.”

“Well done, Captain,” said Conroyd Jarralt, and let one smoothly gloved hand fall on Pellen’s shoulder. Beside him Willer still danced his little victory jig, shining like a greedy child on Grand Barl’s Day morning. “I can see I need doubt your loyalty no longer. Now call up your men and make sure this traitor’s bound fast. There are many questions to be asked … and answered.”

They locked him in the same cage Timon Spake had occupied in the hours before his death. When one ignorant Asher of Restharven had blithely said,
“Chop off the bastard’s head.”
He swallowed black laughter, and tears.

I wanted nowt but a boat and the ocean and an open sunlit sky…

Gar’s answer, echoing, taunted him from a distance of days that felt like years now.

“Not every man gets what he wants, Asher. Most men just get what they’re given.”

Again, the threat of morbid amusement.

Fine. So can I give it back?

Stifling a groan he tried to ignore his body’s insistent pains. The guards had ripped off the gag and choking hempen noose they’d thought was needed to get him here from the Weather Chamber but had left his arms tied to breaking point behind his back. His elbows thrummed, his wrists stung, his swollen hands throbbed and his shoulder sockets burned. His mouth tasted like ashes and dried blood. His head ached, and his ear, where Pellen’s truncheon had clubbed him.

He was desperate to sit but they’d taken away the bench and straw that Timon Spake had enjoyed, and the floor held no attraction; even through his booted feet he could feel the flagstones’ chill.

Even more desperate was his need for a pot: his bladder was full to bursting. But even if they’d left him one he couldn’t unbutton his trousers, so when he couldn’t hold it any longer he just let go; the hot piss running down the inside of his right leg was the only warm thing in the place. That and the shame that burned him like coals.

Shame, but not fear. He refused to be afraid. Gar had promised he’d be protected, and Gar was the king.

Time passed. He wondered why his release was taking so long; surely they’d wake Gar for this, even if it was still dark outside. Was it still dark outside? He couldn’t tell.

When the outer cell door finally opened it was to admit Conroyd Jarralt, with Pellen behind him. Asher straightened. “Where’s His Majesty?”

“Snoring sweetly in his bed, I presume,” said Jarralt.

“You ain’t
told
him?” He turned to Pellen. “You got to tell him, Pellen, you—”

“Captain Orrick.”

“What?”

Pellen’s expression was rigid. “You will address me as Captain Orrick.”

He took a moment to breathe slowly, carefully. To subdue fear. “All right. Captain Orrick. I know how this looks but I swear if you rouse the king and ask him to come, he’ll explain—”

“It’s your explanation we’re interested in,” said Orrick. “Your presence in the Weather Chamber is a capital crime, punishable by death. Attempting to implicate His Majesty will not save you.”

“I got nothing to say! Not till you get Gar down here!”

With a gentle sigh, Jarralt stepped forward. “You may leave us, Captain. I require private conversation with the prisoner.”

Orrick shook his head. “No, my lord. He’s in my charge and is my responsibility. Traitor or not he has certain rights. I must stand witness.”