The Innocent Mage (29 page)

Wilier snorted. ‘We certainly are, Darran, and I for one am getting a damned sore throat! How much longer must we suffer his presence? It’s been over a year now! Give him rope, you said, and he’ll hang himself. Well, we’ve given him so much rope he could knit a blanket big enough to cover the kingdom and he’s still here. Basking in His Highness’s affection, wallowing in the ignorant adoration of the masses, making our every waking hour a misery!’

Darran’s meagre lips stretched in a thin smile. ‘Patience, Wilier. Even a long road must eventually come to an end.’

‘I know, Darran, but when? I’ve been patient! I’ve been patient till I’m practically choking! I don’t think I can go on being patient for very much longer!’

‘You must,’ Darran replied, and summoned one of the roaming servants with an imperious finger. It was hot and he was thirsty, and he feared that only more ale would sustain him to the end of this lamentably tedious affair. ‘Have faith, Wilier. Patience is always rewarded, sooner or later.’

Down on the tourney field, Asher ran a reassuring hand along Cygnet’s sweating neck and turned to smile at Dathne. She was sitting on the grass by the roped-off tourney field, Matt at her side.

She nodded back, all cloudy dark hair, brown skin and gleaming cat-slanted eyes, and waggled congratulatory lingers in her typically offhanded way. He felt his heart race at the sight of her, and cursed. Never you mind about that now, fool! You got a cup to win!

Matt raised his clenched fists high over his head and hollered cheerfully. Seated on the grass with them, Mikel and Bellybone and some of the other lads shouted and whistled too, oblivious to the Doranen looks their loud support attracted.

A short distance away Olken lackeys scurried back and forth across the turf, pounding in fresh rows of wooden pegs ready for the final bout between himself and Conroyd Jarralt. A silly sort of game it was they were playing. Sticking the pointy ends of long javelins into tiny wooden targets. What his sensible da would have to say on it when he told the tale, Asher didn’t like to think. But there was a pleasure in aiming true and holding fast, and if it meant knocking Jarralt off his lofty perch, well, where was the harm?

Swallowing impatience, he waited. The enormous mixed crowd of Olken and Doranen spectators buzzed and hummed like a tame swarm of bees and the royal band played loud and hard enough to break their strings and bend their brass. Perched in his official seat, the tourney adjudicator blew foam off a fresh mug of ale and Conroyd Jarralt shouted at his Olken servants as they struggled to saddle a fresh and fretful horse for the ride-off. Asher felt his lip curl and turned away before his lordship noticed the disrespect. The bastard always made sure to pay back any slights, real or imagined, and he had a vicious, invent tongue.

Fresh horse ... Asher snorted, and gave Cygnet’s damp! silver neck another pat. Even if he owned another horse- ‘ and he could if he wanted to now, aye, more horses than a {*} body would need in a lifetime -- he’d not insult Cygnet in such a fashion.

With the last wooden peg secured the lackeys scurried off to stand on the sidelines. The adjudicator swallowed the dregs of his ale and strutted to the middle of the field Beneath the pomp and ceremony of his adjudicator’s scarlet regalia he was Ruben Cramp, Meister of the Butchers’ Guild. Asher knew him well now, and liked the unpretentious ole fart.

‘Attention, please … might I have your attention, my; lords, ladies and gentlefolk!’

Heaving a weighty sigh, Asher eased his leather-clad buttocks in the saddle. Talk, talk, talk. Couldn’t they ju get on with it?

The buzzing crowd hushed. Into the sudden silence the stamp and jingle of impatient horse as Jarralt’s fresh mount objected to restraint. Jarralt jerked his hand and the chestnut threw up its head, eyes rolling in protest against the sharp bite of the bit.

Asher scowled, and Ruben Cramp continued his address. ‘And so, Your Majesties, Your Highnesses, Master Durm, my lords, ladies and gentlefolk, the bout be tied, with Lord Jarralt and Meister Asher on six strikes each!’

The tourney ground exploded into applause. Asher bowed towards the royal pavilion, punched the air with a clenched fist then blew Dathne a kiss. She pretended not to see it. Always playing hard to get was Dathne. Drat her.

As the cheering subsided, Ruben concluded: ‘Therefore the winner of the King’s Cup will be decided by a tiebreaker, the best out of three runs. Gentlemen, be you ready?’

Asher raised his lance in reply, and was echoed by Jarralt. Their eyes met, and Asher smiled at the fury and hatred burning in the Doranen lord’s gaze. Fool of a man. As if it mattered. It was a game, just a game, with some poxy ole tin pot the prize. How could it possibly matter?

The band blew a flourish of mellow notes into the high blue sky. Ruben reached into the folds of his fancy overcoat and pulled out a bright scarlet pennant. ‘Gentlemen, make ready!’

Asher closed his calves on Cygnet’s silver sides and the horse pranced to the starting mark. In a flourish of spurs and flying foam Jarralt galloped to the far end of the target tun and took his mark.

Ruben raised the pennant high overhead. ‘On three, sirs, and may the best man win! One … two … three!’ He opened his fingers and the scarlet cloth fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird. A roar went up from the crowd. Sudden thunder rolled around the tourney field as iron-shod hooves hammered the green grass.

Asher forgot everything: Jarralt, Dathne, the stupidity and futility of the game he played. He forgot the watching king and queen and prince, unlikely friends; the princess, the Master Magician and other enemies. Forgot that this life would soon be left behind, and that the difficult leaving of it still lay ahead. All that existed in that moment was the pounding horse beneath him, the outstretched lance before him and the driving need to pierce a tiny wooden target through the heart and win himself a golden cup.

‘First pass, and it be a peg to Meister Asher, a miss to Lord Jarralt!’

As the crowd greeted Ruben’s announcement with excited shouting Asher lowered his lance for the lackeys to remove the speared and splintered wooden target and kept his fierce eyes far away from Jarralt. His lordship was cursing his horse, which was only to be expected. Didn’t Da always say: It’s a bad workman as blames his tools, boys,

\

and let that be a lesson for you. Privy councillor or no, there was far too much of the bad workman in Jarralt. It was an ongoing wonder to Asher that the king kept the man on the Council or listened to him when he spoke.

Within moments it was time for the second pass. Time to win the cup and get down to some serious celebrating with Dathne and his friends down at the Green Goose.

Except that when he reined Cygnet in at the end of their second thundering run, it was Jarralt who waved a wooden-tipped lance in the air and he who was left looking a fool, his target abandoned on the turf.

Damn.

He kicked Cygnet into place and waited, breathing quietly, for Ruben to drop the pennant a third and final time.

‘... three!’ the butcher bellowed. ‘Threel’ the crowd bellowed with him as the scarlet scrap of cloth drifted on an errant breeze and Jarralt buried golden spurs in his horse’s bloodied sides and Cygnet pinned his ears back, no need to be told what to do.

Out with the lance, Asher, down with the tip, aim for the heart, strike, pierce, hold, lift, lift, stay there, you beauty, you bastard, stay there, you’re dead, you’re mine, where’s Jarralt, he’s dropped it, he’s dropped it, I win, I win, Da, ain’t this somethin’, I win —

Buoyant on the crest of the band’s joyous music and the crowd’s shrieking admiration, Asher rode his victory lap with head and lance held high. Pink-cheeked Olken lasses threw him their flowers and giggled behind their hands. Mikel and Bellybone and the lads pulled faces and pretended they weren’t impressed. Matt hopped and hollered, and Dathne speared his heart with a smile as Cygnet cantered dulcetly by.

Those he worked with in the Prince’s Tower were dancing on their chairs in the royal household enclosure. He stood in his stirrups as he pounded by them, waving one fist in the air. Laughed when he spied Darran and Wilier, looking as though they’d swallowed curdled milk. A pox on the pair of them, the mouldy ole crow and his jackdaw lackey.

In passing the royal pavilion he eased to a slow trot and brandished the lance in a salute to the king, who stood on his balcony and applauded, laughing. On Borne’s left stood the Master Magician; Durm spared him a spurious smile, grey-green eyes warm as glass. On Borne’s right and grinning like a split melon, Gar. They pulled a face at each other. He nodded and smiled at the queen, and her Most Royal High Snootiness Princess Fane, and then the royal pavilion was behind him and it was time to collect his prize. He passed Cygnet over to young Jim’l for a rub-down and a cool drink, then waited for the king to join him, Ruben and a glowering Conroyd Jarralt in the centre of the tourney field.

Borne took his hand and shook it as though they were equals, or old friends. ‘An impressive display, Asher. Congratulations.’

He bowed. ‘Thanks, Your Majesty. It’s an honour.’ Borne grinned. ‘It’s a cup, actually,’ he said and gave it to him, a glittering golden affair studded with a few careless gemstones and not much good for anything except maybe a daffodil or two. As the prize changed hands the band struck up a lively jig, the crowd cheered and Jarralt accepted the king’s commiserations and made his escape. Onto the tourney field danced a troupe of gymnasts, acrobats and clowns, and under cover of diversion Borne leaned close and said, ‘Come. My son wishes to congratulate you in person. A short delay, and then you’ll be free to celebrate with your friends.’

Matt and Dathne would be waiting for him under the Cobbler’s Tree, as arranged last night in the Goose. But work always came first. ‘Aye, sir. Of course.’

Together they walked towards the royal pavilion. One jewelled royal hand found a place on his shoulder; surprised, Asher slowed a little to match the king’s easier pace. Without warning, Borne stumbled. For two strides and a heartbeat Asher carried the king’s full weight. Then Borne regained his balance and held up his other hand to silence concern. His face was marble white and sheened with sudden sweat.

‘I’m fine, Asher,’ he said curtly. ‘Perhaps a touch too much wine at luncheon. All those birthday toasts. Our little secret, yes?’

Asher opened his mouth to argue. The king looked abruptly unwell. His clear green eyes were fogged with discomfort, his tightly gripping hand palsied with strain. ‘Your Majesty —’

The king frowned and removed his hand. ‘Asher. I am fine.’

He lowered his eyes. Nodded. Clasped his hands behind his back lest anyone presume to think they hovered in case the king should misstep himself a second time. ‘Aye, sir,’ he murmured dutifully. He’d mention it to Gar, once they were safe inside the pavilion. Gar wouldn’t get tossed into one of Pellen Orrick’s prison cells for arguing with his own father.

He scowled as his entrance into the royal pavilion was met with a hailstorm of applause. Lords and ladies, who’d be hard put to give him the time of day anywhere else, crowded forward to congratulate him, to proclaim his prowess, exclaim his skill, to reassure themselves and any royal personage who happened to be watching that they had nothing but respect and admiration for the low-born Olken who rode so high in the royal estimation.

Well used to it by now, he accepted their compliments as though they meant something. Caught sight of Gar’s amused face, imperfectly hidden behind a glass of wine, and rolled his eyes.

Elegant in azure and silver brocade, fine gold hair swirled and savaged with gemstones, the queen came forward to greet him. She passed the King’s Cup to a servant to mind, took his hands in her own and pressed a sweet-smelling cheek to his sweat-grimed and stubbly one.

‘Dear Asher,’ she said, ocean eyes sparkling. ‘And to think that a year ago you didn’t even know one end of a lance from the other.’

Borne laughed. ‘Or a horse, for that matter.’ He still looked pale. Surely somebody would notice?

Not Gar, too busy scoring points. ‘I confess he’s been an adequate pupil.’

Despite his concern for the king, Asher grinned. ‘And Stable Meister Matt’s been a damn fine teacher!’

Amidst the dutiful laughter Dana protested, ‘Really, Gar! The least you can do is say “Well done, Asher”.’

Gar offered him a mocking bow. Hidden beneath it was genuine admiration. ‘Well done, Asher.’

He bowed back. ‘Thank you, sir. You owe me a hundred trins.’ Gar groaned. ‘I know. That’ll teach me.’

‘Aye, sir. It will.’

‘Well,’ said Dana, still holding his hands, ‘I think it was a thrilling competition. We’re all so pleased you won, Asher.’ Around the silk-walled pavilion, blond Doranen heads nodded their vigorous agreement.

‘Thank you, Your Majesty,’ he said, and raised her fingers to his lips: the queen was a fine liar and he loved her for it. Kissing her thus was a daring gesture, almost improper, but she was smiling and so was the king, so what did it matter if Durm looked thunderous? Then Lord Jarralt entered the pavilion and politics demanded that the queen greet him in a scented cloud of sympathy. As the noble lords and ladies gathered around their fallen comrade Asher stepped aside and lost himself amongst the fernery along the far wall.

A razor voice dipped in honey said sweetly, ‘Well, well, well. Who’s a clever little Assistant Olken Administrator, then?’

Concealed in a high-backed chair drawn out of tl mainstream, she sat straight-spined and elegant in j her slender white ringers juggling three balls of j glimfire. Her blue eyes watched him sideways and over and around the spinning magical spheres. She was so beautiful, the way splintered ice and a new harpoon and sei storms were beautiful, and just as dangerous. What she’d be like once grown out of adolescence and crowned WeatherWorker, Asher didn’t like to think.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Jealous, Your Highness?’ Anger danced beneath the surface of her face, but u-voice was placid and bored as she replied, ‘Desperately, It is my life’s ambition, Asher, to stick sharp metal spikes into eensy teensy bits of wood.’