The Innocent Mage (38 page)

As Fane’s gentle rain whispered down the chamber windowpanes, Gar tossed on his pillows, racked with doubt and dark imaginings.

Her first WeatherWorking. He should be pleased. Proud. She was his only sister, and despite everything he did love her. Sometimes anyway. As often as he could. As often as she’d let him. Already she’d sacrificed so much for the good of their father’s kingdom. Slain her childhood, slain whatever dreams she once might have had about her life. He should remember that instead of dwelling on the wounds she inflicted. Should be desperately grateful that her imminent elevation to WeatherWorker meant their mother’s dire predictions would never come true. He was so jealous he could vomit.

Exhausted, he lay in the dark and listened to the rain until it died and the sun broke free of the horizon.

Within half an hour of breakfast the next morning they were on their way once more. Headed for the long road that led, eventually, to the narrow stretch of coastline supporting the fishing towns and villages of Westwailing, Restharven, Dinfingle, Bibford, Chevrock, Rillingcoombe, Tattler’s Ear and Struan Caves. All of Lur’s fisherfolk were to be found in those eight places. Nowhere else along Lur’s three-sided coastline was habitable. For mile upon mile the land stopped abruptly, falling away to the water in sheer cliffs jagged as broken glass. According to Asher, not even a madman would risk a boat and his life in the savage surf that battered itself to foam and ribbons on the rocks that ringed the kingdom.

Gar, not disbelieving exactly, still found it hard to credit. He was the product of an orderly existence. The promise of such excessive disorder was breathtaking. He began to feel truly excited by the prospect of seeing for himself the wild and untamed water that had somehow managed to produce a man like Asher.

The second night of the journey saw them safely bedded down in the town of Chillingbottom, commercial hub of the prosperous horse-farming region known as the Dingles, although nobody, not even Darran, seemed to know exactly why. The third night saw them welcomed with parade, brass band and flatteringly excited locals into the paper-making town of Slumly Corners named, apparently, for the paper-pulping mill around which the township had grown. On the third and fourth nights they camped in the middle of Grayman’s Moor. Darran complained that his pallet was lumpy.

After that, Gar found that some of the novelty and excitement wore off, and then some more, and then pretty much all of it, so the journey became little more than a blurred succession of towns and villages and more towns and villages and lots of scenery and waving people and aching buttocks and too much food which he couldn’t politely refuse because somebody’s wife had always gone to so much trouble to prepare it, sir.

His father had somehow forgotten to mention that aspect of the adventure.

He started running beside Ballodair for part of each day instead of riding him, and not just to give his backside some rest. His leather riding breeches were starting to feel a little tight.

Asher thought it was very funny, and said so. At length.

Nobody, else, of course, dared say so much as a word but he could feel them looking. And smiling.

Roll on Westwailing.

One thing did have him puzzled, as they got closer and closet to their destination. He and Asher hadn’t discussed it, partly because he’d been drowning in the preparations for the festival, and partly because Asher wasn’t the kind of man who waxed lyrical about anything of a personal nature, or welcomed questions — but still, he’d expected some comment, some mention, even in passing, of the fact that after more than a year away his friend was returning to what used to be his home.

But no. Asher hadn’t said a single word about it. Not back in Dorana while they’d made the preparations for the journey, and not in the last days on the road. Even worse: the closer they got to the coast the more silent and withdrawn he became. Sullen, almost, and annoyingly short-tempered. In fact, here they were scarcely an hour away from Minching Town and their final night’s billet, with Westwailing practically close enough to smell, and Asher hadn’t said so much as three words since luncheon, nor cracked a smile since sunrise.

It wasn’t good enough. At this rate, by the time they did reach Westwailing Asher’s mood was likely going to ruin his whole experience of the Sea Harvest Festival.

Well. He wasn’t about to put up with that. It was time for some answers. Like it or not, Asher was going to be asked some pointed personal questions over dinner that evening. And he was going to answer them, whether he wanted to or not.

By the time they straggled to a halt in the cobbled stable yard of The Juggling Crow, Minching Town’s best inn, Asher was close to cross-eyed with weariness. For all the riding he’d done since his arrival in the City, after near on two weeks across country his buttocks and thighs were a shrieking anguish and his back felt beaten with red-hot pokers. Mayhap if he slept in a bathtub tonight, and a serving wench got herself assigned to topping him up with boiling water every half-hour or so, he could stomach the thought of one last day in the saddle tomorrow …

The Crow’s beaming landlord, Meister Grenfall, and his beaming wife and his seven beaming children were waiting for them as they arrived. Beyond any kind of pleasantry save a surly smile, Asher left the social chitchat to Gar, Darran and Wilier. Instead he swung himself groaning to the ground and got busy organising the stabling of the horses and the stowing of the coach and wagons and the securing of the various valuables they were carting all the way to the coast.

The inn’s head groom was a bent-backed old gaffer, seen it all, done it at least twice, and not the least bit impressed by princes and their hangers-on or anything about them except, perhaps, the quality of their horseflesh. That had him nodding and smiling, as well it might. Asher, pleased, handed Cygnet and Ballodair to the ole man’s underlings without a qualm. There’d be no suggestion of second-best oats and not enough hay here. Not that there had been anywhere else but it never hurt to check. Folks were unchancy at the best of times. The trick was never to let them think they could sell you sardine for shark.

Letting himself into the inn through the back door he heard the now familiar sounds of excitement at Gar’s presence under the innkeeper’s humble roof. Rightly speaking he ought to follow the laughter and join the prince and Darran and Wilier and the rest of them, but he was too damned tired to face it. Instead he asked a passing maid for directions to the prince’s private parlour, declined her offer of an escort and climbed the stairs, hopefully to find brandy and a comfortable chair.

Westwailing tomorrow.

The parlour was blessedly unoccupied, and there was indeed brandy and armchairs. Also a spinet, a polished mahogany dining table and a cheerfully crackling fire in the hearth. He dragged off his boots, poured himself a generous slosh of comfort, slumped into the nearest chair and stretched his stockinged feet towards the leaping warmth. Westwailing tomorrow.

Imagine. A year and more of dreaming, of planning, of looking forward to seeing Da again, seeing his pride and pleasure in a son’s job well done — and now that the moment was almost upon him, he was afraid.

Afraid of Da thinking what he’d accomplished this past year wasn’t enough. Of thinking him changed. Of his brothers ruining everything out of meanness and spite. Afraid that he hadn’t saved enough money after all and that somehow all his plans of boats would come to nowt.

But that was just him being foolish. He had more than enough money. It was on the road behind him now, along with all his other bits and pieces. Had to be, because the king had promised he’d see to it.

And then there was Gar. He’d long since started to wish he’d stood up against Borne, fought for his right to tell the prince he was quitting his position before they left the City. Then he could have made his own way home in his own time, with a clean break behind him. He wouldn’t have had to spend the last long days pretending. Keeping up appearances. Dreading Gar’s disappointment and demands that he stay. Because there would be disappointment. And argument. Shouting, probably, and things thrown in anger.

Not even his brothers could start him throwing things the way Gar could.

The parlour door opened and Gar came in. ‘There you are.’ He thanked the maid holding the door open for him and headed for the brandy. The maid curtseyed, pink-cheeked, and quietly withdrew. ‘I was wondering where you were.’

Asher sat up a little straighten ‘I got a bit of a headache. Couldn’t face all the botheration downstairs.’

Brandy balloon in hand, Gar turned to consider him. ‘A headache, eh? I should’ve thought of that one. Do you know, before this expedition I never would’ve thought a man could be welcomed to death.’

Asher grinned, briefly. ‘They’re excited to meet you, is all.’

Gar sipped his drink, pulled a little face then took a thoughtful turn about the room. Took a seat at the spinet and tinkled the keys idly. Cheerful chiming music filled the air. Smiling, he swallowed another mouthful of brandy then put down his glass and began to play properly, some highfalutin’ fancy tune you’d never hear down at the Goose. ‘I know,’ he said, his voice lifted above the intricate music. ‘I should be flattered, but it’s so damned exhausting.’

‘It ain’t just the locals excited, either,’ said Asher. ‘Everyone is. Westwailing tomorrow. Reckon those pot boys won’t get a wink of sleep tonight. Worse than magpies, they are, chattering.’

‘Everyone?’ said Gar.

‘Okay, well, maybe not Darran. But then he ain’t the type to be frisking and gambolling like a spring lamb, eh? That ole crow couldn’t kick up his heels if his life depended on it, I reckon.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Darran.’

Oh. Guardedly Asher stared at Gar across the top of his brandy. Now what? ‘Me? I ain’t the frisking type either.’

Gar changed tunes, started playing a popular tavern ditty instead. ‘I don’t know about that. I’ve seen you kick up your heels once or twice. That memorable evening at the Vintners’ ball leaps immediately to mind …’

Asher grinned, remembering. He’d never been so drunk in all his life. It had been a grand fine night, all things considered. Even the next morning’s murderous headache had been worth it. Dathne had danced with him, all dressed up in silk and ribbons …

‘What?’ demanded Gar. ‘Your face just fell a thousand feet. Asher, I wish you’d abandon this mania you have for secrecy and tell me straight out what’s bothering you. And don’t try to tell me nowt, because we both know lying to me is a waste of time. You’ve been worried about something (of days now. Do you not want to see the coast again? See your family? Is that it? If so, why didn’t you say something? There was no need for you to come if you didn’t want to. Barl knows I’ve nursemaid enough in Darran. Did you think I’d be unsympathetic? That I’d force you to come on this trip if you didn’t want to?’

As the music flirted in time with the flames in the fireplace, Asher stared at the floor. Damn. For days he’d wanted to break the news. Tender his resignation. Now the chance was handed to him on a silver platter by Gar himself, and he didn’t want it. There was going to be such a fuss … ‘No,’ he said. ‘That ain’t it.’ ‘Then what?’ Wait till after the festival, the king had said. Don’t give him anything else to fret about.

He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

Gar’s warm concern chilled. He stopped playing the spinet and stared. The sudden silence was uncomfortable.

‘You’re lying.’

‘Nothing important,’ he amended. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

‘And what if I don’t wish it to wait? What if I wish to know right here, right now?’

‘Then I’d say it ain’t for you to decide. This is my problem, Gar, not yours.’

Gar got up from the spinet stool. Paced to the window, then thumped his fist against the wall. Spun around. ‘Don’t you understand, you fool? I’m trying to help!’

‘I didn’t ask for your help! And anyways, there’s nothing you can do.’

‘You don’t know that.’ Gar pushed away from the wall and threw himself into the nearest armchair. ‘I spend most of my waking life helping people, one way or another. Why should you be any different?’

Exasperated, Asher glared at him. ‘Because I am! Because some things can’t be helped! Because if you want the truth, Gar, this ain’t none of your bloody business!’

Gar looked down his nose. ‘I’m making it my business.’

Stalemate. Asher took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Losing his temper now would only make things worse. ‘Don’t. You’ll only regret it.’

Gar laughed, incredulous. ‘Was that a threat}’

Too late, Asher realised his mistake. He should have told a different lie. Instead of denying a problem existed he should’ve invented a less explosive one. Spun some malarkey about a wobbly wagon wheel, or loose horse shoes. Bleeding piles. Something. Anything. Instead he’d roused Gar’s rampant curiosity … which nothing but the truth would satisfy.

Well. No point fretting about it now. That boat had well and truly sailed.

‘Fine,’ he said flatly. ‘You want to know what’s bothering me? I’ll tell you. But I give you fair warning: you ain’t going to like it.’

‘Anything’s preferable to you sitting there telling me bare-faced lies. I deserve more than that, I think.’

‘Aye,’ said Asher, sighing. ‘You do. So here’s the thing. Once we’re done with the Sea Harvest Festival, I’ll not be going back to Dorana with the rest of you. My year’s well and truly up, Gar. I’ll be going home. To Restharven.’

Silence, as flames crackled in the hearth and somebody’s heels thudded along the corridor outside. Then Gar laughed.

‘Very funny, Asher. What’s the idea? Give me a false shock then ease me into the actual bad news? Don’t waste your time, or mine. Dinner will be here shortly. Come. You’re not usually so coy. Just tell me the problem and together we’ll work it out.’

Asher put down his glass. ‘I ain’t being coy, Gar. I’m moving on. Sorry.’

Another silence, longer this time. Gar released a shuddering breath. ‘You bastard.’