The Innocent Mage (12 page)

He glowered at her. ‘My da’s boat don’t leak. And I don’t care two tubs of fish guts what other folks say. I k good enough for the prince, and that’s all I care about. I can do whatever he asks.’

Considering him thoughtfully she said, ‘Does that mean you’ll say yes?’

He shook his head. Shrugged. ‘I d’know …’

Reaching across the table, she patted his arm. Her toudi through his thick cotton sleeve was warm and familiar, fc shivered him, somewhere deep inside. ‘Oh, come on,’ she coaxed. ‘At least give the job a try. All bluster aside, you know you want to. If only to prove to all those folk you don’t care about that they’re wrong. And he said you could go back to the stables if it didn’t work out, didn’t he?’

He sniffed. ‘Talk’s cheap.’

‘I’ll agree that nothing is certain save sunshine and rain,’ she said carefully, ‘but for what it’s worth, Asher, I believe Prince Gar is a man of his word. And I think you do, too.’

He couldn’t deny it. ‘I s’pose.’

She sat back again, eyebrows raised. ‘Look at it this way. If you don’t give this new job a chance you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been. And you’ll be a lot poorer while you’re wondering it. Fifty trins a week? That’s not a sum to be sneezed at.’

‘Huh,’ said Asher. ‘Easy enough for you to say. You ain’t the one lookin’ at lace on his collar and seven forks to eat a bowl of soup.’ He scratched his chin, then shoved his emptied stew pot to one side. ‘Reckon I’m done here.’

She smiled. She had a nice smile, when it wasn’t pretending to be an unsheathed dagger. ‘You’re welcome.’

With a nod, he slid out from behind the benchtop and shouldered his way across the Goose’s crowded dance floor.

Dathne watched him go. ‘Missy?’ she said to herself, remembering, and laughed.

Asher opened the door and was lost to the mizzling night. He didn’t see Matt lurking nearby in the shadows, waiting for him to leave.

Dathne looked up as the stable meister approached her habitual corner. Her eyes were triumphant.

‘So.’

‘Just tell me,’ said Matt, easing onto the seat Asher had abandoned, ‘that you had nothing to do with it.’

Her straight black eyebrows shot up indignantly. ‘Of course I didn’t! But at least now you have to admit that what I did do turned out to be the right thing. He’s about to enter the House of the Usurper. Prophecy continues.’

Matt sighed. ‘He said he’d take the job, then?’

‘No. But he will. I told him he should, and he wants to. All that lovely money.’ She laughed softly, and swallowed some more ale. ‘And though I suspect he’d die before admitting it, he’s proud as punch the prince has asked him. In fact, my friend, I’d say nine-tenths of that young man’s backbone is nothing but pride.’ She paused, her expression thoughtful. ‘Which isn’t such a bad thing, provided it’s put to good use.’

Matt rubbed his eyes. ‘There’ll be folks none too ] to see a stable lad elevated so far above the rest of us. He’s bound to lose some friends over this. Or worse, mab enemies.’

Dathne shrugged. ‘He’s not here to be popular. He’s kt to fulfil Prophecy.’

‘It doesn’t bother you?’

‘What? That I told him what would serve my purpose before his?’ Another shrug. ‘I’m not here to be popular either, Matt.’

He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I feel like muck.’ His voice was so low he could barely hear it himself. ‘He’s my friend, and we’re using him. Without his knowledge, or lis consent. It’s wrong.’

Her hand snapped out to close about his wrist, ink-stained fingernails biting deep between tendon and sinew. ‘Look at me.’

Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze.

‘Saving kingdoms is a mucky business. We can soil our hands a little now, you and I, or we can see them soaked ii blood later. Either way, we get mucky.’

‘And what if I don’t like getting mucky?’

Dathne bared her teeth in a fierce smile. ‘Then I’d say sorry, bucko, but it’s a bit late now.’ The smile disappeared and all that remained was ferocity. ‘You listen. He’s not your friend, Matt. He’s a pawn, just like you and me, Prophecy’s tool. You don’t make friends with a tool. You use it, and you keep on using it until the job it’s design for is done.’

‘That’s cold,’ Matt whispered.

Her teeth bared again. ‘You mean I’m cold.’

‘I mean there might be another way. A better way.’

She shook her head. ‘There isn’t.’

‘But —’

‘There isn’t.’ With a visible effort, she controlled herself, ‘There’s a reason Prophecy calls him the Innocent’.

He doesn’t get told a thing, Matt. Not one thing. Not until he has to be told. Not until there’s no turning back. Understood?’

A fraction more pressure from the fingernails on his flesh and she’d draw blood. He sat motionless, heart pounding, and endured her flame-filled eyes. Then he nodded, feeling scorched to his bones’ marrow. ‘Aye. Understood.’

She nodded sharply and released him. ‘Good. Now go fetch yourself a mug of ale and wash away that mopey look before somebody thinks you asked me to marry you and I said no.’

‘Ha!’ said Matt, and shoved away from the bench. He didn’t want a mug of ale. If he drank so much as a mouthful, his quivering guts would heave themselves onto the floor at his feet. ‘Ask you to marry me? That’ll be the day!’

He saw his words strike home. Saw them hurt her.

To his shame, he wasn’t sorry.

Darran, Private Secretary to His Royal Highness Prim Gar and self-appointed Guardian of the Tower, reached for his cup and took a genteel sip of his morning tea.

Gulping was for peasants.

‘Darran?’

Darran replaced the cup in its saucer with a faint chinl of porcelain. ‘Yes, Wilier?’

His assistant and protege was staring vexedly at i sheet of official parchment topping a pile of official parchments teetering untidily before him. ‘I think we have a problem.’

With a sigh, Darran drummed his manicured fingernails on his pristine desktop. ‘Wilier, how many times mustlsaf it? In this office we do not have problems. We haw interesting developments. We have challenges. If w absolutely must we may, on occasion, have a slight difficulty. But under no circumstances whatsoever do wt have problems. Now. What is it?’

As befitted his subordinate position, Willer’s desk was small and situated between the door and the bookcase, which was neatly filled with publications detailing tk genealogies of all the kingdom’s Doranen families, plus sundry other reference works such as Dorana City By-Laws, Fabrit and Delbard’s A Short History of Lur and, of course, the indispensable Polger’s Etiquette, Precedent and Frotocol.

Squirming round in his chair — really, the boy ate far too many pastries, Darran thought — Wilier held up the offending document, his expression trepidatious. ‘It’s His Highness’s diary for next month.’

‘Yes? What of it? How many times must I remind you, Wilier? Above all else, a good private secretary is lucid.’

With a grunt Wilier shoved his chair back, got up and marched across the circular office’s plush carpet waving the parchment in question. ‘Well, Darran, he’s lucidly gone and declined all of next month’s invitations except the one to the Brewers’ Guild banquet.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Darran held out an impatient hand for the diary. ‘He can’t have. Declined Lady Scobey’s soiree? Refused to attend Lord Dorv’s hunting party? Again? Turned down the chance to go boating on the Gant with the Council? Tut! You’ve misread his — oh. Oh dear.’ Staring at the list of social engagements to which His Highness had been invited, noting with despair the decisive pen strokes through every invitation bar the least prestigious, he felt a sudden stab of pain between his eyes. ‘Barl preserve us!’ he cursed, and thrust the parchment back into Willer’s waiting hand. ‘What is he thinking}’

Wisely, Wilier didn’t reply.

lady Scobey is going to be furious! I’ve had “her wretched cook in and out of here a dozen times this week, wanting to know His Highness’s favourite dishes. He can’t say no to her, I’ll never hear the end of it!’ Scalded with outrage, Darran snatched the diary back again and stared at it with loathing. ‘The Brewers’ Guild? Is he out of his mind? That motley assortment of inebriated reprobates? There’s not a man among them who knows how to tie a cravat properly! In fact, I doubt there’s even one who knows what a cravat is! Barl preserve us!’ He tossed the diary onto his desk and went so far as to stand and pace towards the window and back again. ‘Well. Clearly this is unacceptable, Wilier, present my compliments to His Highness and request the indulgence of a short —’

There was a smart rap-rap on the closed office door.

‘What?’ cried Darran.

The door swung open to reveal His Royal Highness, behind him a disreputable-looking Olken wearing deplorably scruffed shirt and trews and boots clotted with mud, or something worse. He looked vaguely familiar, was some kind of manual labourer about the place, possibly, 1 what he was doing here, in the ordered beauty of the Tower, with the prince …

His Highness smiled, that sweet, mischievous smile the hardest of hearts could not withstand. ‘Don’t tell me, Darran. Let me guess. Willer’s just shown you my acceptance list for next month’s social engagements.’

‘Your Highness!’ gasped Darran. ‘Oh sir, forgive me.’

His Highness, sauntering into the office, waved dismissive hand. After a slight hesitation the disreputable Olken followed him over the threshold. ‘It’s all right. 1 didn’t expect you to be happy about it.’

Mortified at being discovered raising his voice in disarray, Darran took a deep, calming breath and reached for the diary. ‘As it happens, Your Highness, I did wish to consult with you on the matter of next month’s engagements. I’m sure it’s just an oversight, but —’

‘Sorry,’ said His Highness. ‘No oversight.’

Darran felt his heart plummet. ‘Your Highness, forgive me, but is this …’ He hesitated. ‘... wise? To say no to all of these important Doranen personages, your peers, and then accept an invitation from the … the … Olken Brewers’ Guild?’

His. Highness shrugged. ‘I like the Olken Brewers Guild.’

‘You do?’ said Darran faintly.

‘Well, I like the members. Their meister is best sipped in half-pints only. But yes.’ The prince sighed. ‘And clearly you think that’s inappropriate.’

‘I do not presume to have an opinion,’ said Darran, avoiding Willer’s gaze. ‘But I would be doing you a grave disservice did I not remind you that as the king’s son you have social obligations and a duty to —’

‘Be bored out of my mind in the name of politics?’ said His Highness dryly.

‘Well …’ Darran ventured the very slightest of smiles; a judicious sympathy went a long way in greasing the wheels of appropriate princely conduct. ‘Please don’t mistake me, Your Highness. I do understand that sometimes it’s difficult.’

‘Difficult?’ murmured His Highness. ‘I think the word you’re looking for is impossible.’

‘Yes, sir. I imagine it is. But, sir, if you could please bring yourself to reconsider … find a way to accept one other invitation … just one … it would be the politic thing to ).’

His Highness sighed. Held out his hand. ‘Show me’

Darran gave him the diary, stepped back again and cleared his throat. ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir?’

His Highness glanced up. ‘Short of gagging you, is there anyway I can prevent it?’

‘Oh, sir!’ Darran protested with a deprecating laugh. ‘So amusing.’

‘I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny. Your point, Darran.’

Darran nodded. ‘Of course, sir. My point is this: I happen to know that Lady Scobey has gone to great lengths to design her soiree in such a way as can only be highly pleasing to your palate.’

‘Lady Scobey,’ said His Highness, frowning, ‘is hoping against hope that I’ll succumb to the dubious charms of her youngest daughter and offer myself as a husband.

Lady Scobey, shrewd mama that she is, seems to have reached the flattering conclusion that my lack of magical ability is outweighed, just, by the fact that my father is the king and my sister heir to the crown. I suppose I should be grateful …’

There was an embarrassed silence. After a moment Darran cleared his throat. ‘Well, if the idea of Lady Scobey’s soiree displeases you, sir, then perhaps —’

The prince’s face twisted with a repressed and violent revulsion. ‘‘Displeases me? Why would it displease me! Lady Scobey’s eldest daughter has just announced hei engagement to Conroyd Jarralt’s firstborn son. Now the good mama thinks to get her feet under both our tables and who can blame her? She’s only thinking of her family. No, no, what displeases me, Darran, is —’ And then he stopped, Shook his head and managed a rueful smile. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t possibly be interested in Doranen romantic gossip, And of course you’re right. I can’t attend only the Brewers’ banquet. Privilege has its price, after all. Give me a pen.’

Darran nodded sharply at Wilier, who inked a quill and handed it to the prince. His Highness scrawled a circle around the notation for Lady Scobey’s party, crossed out his original rejection and wrote in the neat hand that Darran admired so much: Invitation accepted — under protest, Then he handed both diary and pen to Wilier.

‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ said Darran, scrupulously neutral. ‘Lady Scobey will be delighted, I’m sure.’

That made the prince laugh; a mirthless sound. ‘Only until I make it quite clear that I’ve no intention of marrying her daughter.’

The pain in him, imperfectly masked, was painful to see, To endure, without offering comfort. But Darran knew that while His Highness might, on very rare occasions, refer to his … imperfection … such references were never ever to be ratified by comment, or even acknowledgement.

‘Is there anything else Your Highness requires?’

His Highness’s expression cleared. ‘As a matter of fact, Darran, there is.’ He beckoned to the swarthy Olken, still silently loitering just inside the doorway. The ruffian hesitated then stepped into the office proper. ‘Asher, this is my private secretary, Darran. I believe you’ve heard of him. Darran keeps my life in order whether I want him to or not. And the young gentleman there in the startling pink weskit is his assistant, Wilier.’