The Innocent Mage (40 page)

‘Yes, Darran,’ said Wilier, discarding with a sharp pain between his ribs his daydreams of Asher’s public downfall. ‘Of course, Darran. As you say. It’s for the best. Of course I’m pleased. I’m very pleased.’ And he smiled, a brave smile, as though he weren’t sick with disappointment at all.

In the courtyard Asher’s voice rose above the general hubbub. ‘Right-ho! Mount up, climb up and all aboard! We got ourselves a hefty stretch of travellin’ yet and the sun ain’t standin’ still.’

Wilier settled himself more comfortably against his cushions and pulled out a book. It was, he discovered with faint surprise, some small comfort that from the sound of i Asher was just as unhappy about impending unemploymeni as he was about his lost hope for revenge.

Good, he thought, and snapped over the page with a vindictive thumb. And what’s more, after all this riding I hope he gets piles.

The journey continued in silence. Word had spread, as word always does, that there was something seriously amiss between the prince and his assistant. Even if it hadn’t, the chilly unaccustomed silence, their haughty, aloof faces, and the way they rode apart and alone would have shouted as much to anyone who knew them even a little. The grooms, the cooks and the pot boys all exchanged swift, eloquent glances, raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders and in the shorthand of discreet employees everywhere said: What’s up with them, then, eh? Dunno. Mind yer step, though, for himself’s in a temper and no mistake.

The subdued day dragged on. They reached the Coast Road and got their first look at the ocean an hour and a half after leaving Minching Town. At any other time the breathtaking sight would have stopped them all in their tracks, had them gasping and pointing and begging stories from Asher to match the heart-stopping, impossible stretch of ceaseless blue water.

But Asher was hardly even looking at it and neither was the prince, so that was that. The cavalcade trundled on: overheated, overtired and unhappy.

Luncheon was a brief and acrimonious affair on a sparse stretch of salty open heath land. Strange, ugly bushes writhed low to the ground as far as the jaded eye could see; agonised outcroppings of deep purple and red rock clotted the barren landscape. The horses were unhappy, lashing their tails at stinging flies and snapping yellowed teeth at anybody daft enough to stand too close. Gar ate in solitary splendour beneath a parasol. Asher savaged a heel of bread and a hunk of cheese in the shade of the supply wagon and was wisely left alone. From the look on his face, the horses and flies weren’t the only creatures in a biting mood.

They didn’t rest for long; Darran had them back on the road within the hour, fussing about punctuality and reminding all and sundry that they would have to stop again before reaching Westwailing so that everyone could change into the fresh clothes kept aside for their official arrival and welcome.

After two interminable, buttock-bleeding weeks on the road, the journey was nearly over.

Westwailing welcomed them with open arms, smiling faces and a raucous brass band, whose five burstingly proud members were crowded at the foot of the mayor’s beribboned dais, strategically placed at the top end of the High Street. All the gathered fisherfolk of Lur were there, lining the long,

downward-winding thoroughfare, perched precariously in trees and on rooftops, dangling daring from open windows,

and every one eager for a glimpse of the flaxen-haired prince from that unimaginable place, the City. The air was brisk and laced with salt, flavoured with fish. There was a speech from the mayor, mercifully short, and then the brass band played in earnest as His Royal Highness Prince Gar and his royal party minced their recently washed and meticulously reclothed way between the cheering spectators. The mayor and his wife and various other local dignitaries tucked in behind, basking in royalty’s reflected glory.

Face schooled firmly into an expression of gratified pleasure, hand raised and waving impartially left, then right, Gar slid his gaze sideways to his scowling companion and said, ‘Smile. You owe me that much.’

Asher manufactured an obedient, empty smile. Smothering the hurt, Gar looked to the crowd again. Released a sigh, soft as the briny breeze. All these people. All this excitement. They meant nothing. Nothing. They’d cheer a dancing bear just as hard. Cheer harder if it fell on its fat moth-eaten behind. Would he fall on his tomorrow, during the Sea Harvest Festival? And would they cheer if he did?

Dear Barl, if you can hear me, he said to the vaulting cloudless sky, lips pressed hard to his holyring, don’t let me fall. Please. If you love me … don’t let me fall.

That night there was a banquet, and the whole town was invited. The Westwailing market square was reserved for the mayor and his important guests but the streets belonged to Lur’s fisherfolk. Coloured lanterns draped the trees, hung from windows and shop signs, lit the shiny cobbled streets in garish rainbows. Trestle tables and benches marched end to end between the pavements and the air was soaked to the gills with the smoky smells of roasting meat. Hogsheads of wine and ale stood open on every corner, and on this one night alone it was no shame to be merry with grog. Laughter was music, and music was music, with the warring shrill and pipe of a dozen different strumming bands and voices raised in discordant song.

The daily grind of life had been packed away in its battered box, not to be looked at or sighed over for a day, or even two. For now only merriment counted, and ale, and fat roast pork, and the cheerful gossip of those lucky enough to have a caught a glimpse of the Prince from Up Yonder.

In the market square the celebrations were more refined but just as enthusiastic. The same brass band played valiantly in the centre of the square, the edges of which had been lined with trestle tables covered in donated best tablecloths and garlanded with scentwax and ruby gloss-glows and pale purple bugles.

The official table stood above the rest, as was only fitting, and was waited on by the self-important few who’d been honoured and schooled and reminded and teased and resented on it until they were thinking that mayhap their friends and relations carousin’ in the streets had the better bargain after all. For certain, serving the likes of that bossy long streak of cat’s piss in black who called hisself ‘sir’ when lie caught sight of his face in the mirror, most like, and went by the name of Durgood or some such, well, servin’ the likes of him weren’t a minute of fun … nor the fat, overdressed little creature who followed him around like a bad smell.

But take no never mind of them. There were the prince and the Mayor and Mrs Mayor and the seven other town and village leaders, and they were gracious enough. Oh, aye, and that other fellow. The Olken. Used to be a local, someone said, vaguely recognising him, and how had he managed to climb so high above the rest of them? Sitting there in his fancy clothes, with a fancy gewgaw in his ear and silver rings on his fingers flaming blue and red and purple fire in the guttering torchlights. And not hardly speaking a word, neither, black thunderclouds in his face. V?ho was he? Who were his kin, and what village or town did he once call home?

Busier than seagulls among fish guts, the serving lads and lasses scurried from table to carvery to wine barrel to bread bins and back again, and looked and wondered, and raised their eyebrows at each other as the banquet continued beneath a crystal clear vista of stars.

Asher buried his face in a fresh mug of ale and cursed himself for the greatest fool breathing. They were all staring at him, sink ‘em. Even when their heads were turned or they gobbled a plate of food or swallowed an ocean of wine, still they were staring. The minute he opened his mouth he’d branded himself a local, and what a fool he’d been not to have thought on that possibility.

Aye, he had a City accent now, though he’d never noticed it creeping up and would be glad to lose it fast enough, but still he was one of their own and they knew it. And of course Ole Sailor Vena, Restharven’s village adjudicator, had took one look at him and nearly fallen over backwards with shock. He was fair worn out with the effort of avoiding the ole codger. Last thing he wanted was to have to tell Vem what he’d been up to. Turned out protocol was good for something after all. Vem would never get up from his table before Gar, and Gar was too busy troughing to be going any place any time soon.

In his ear a familiar voice, laced now with unfamiliar spite. ‘Stop sulking,’ Gar advised, a lying smile on his lips. ‘Did I say you couldn’t stay? Stay, if that’s what you want. Stay and be damned.’

Dumbstruck, he could only stare. What did Gar want him to say? Never mind, it was only a joke, of course I’m coming back to the City with you? Got no life of my own, no plans, no ambitions. The only promise that counts is the one I made to you. So I’ll just tag along at your heels until I be old and grey and all my teeth be in a jar. Was that what the prince expected?

Then more fool him.

He opened his mouth to say so but was drowned by the renewed vigour of the band, striking up a lively dance tune.

Gar turned away, offering his arm to the lady mayoress. She blushed and dimpled, the silly cow, as though royalty wouldn’t tread on her toes just like her husband, and accepted his invitation. As they ponced their way to the 1 clear space in the middle of the market square other couples joined them, and soon the cobblestones rang beneath jigging feet and stamping heels.

Sailor Vem, safe on the other end of the table, put aside his crumpled napkin and stood.

Asher pushed back his chair, abandoned his barely touched food and slid silently into the night. He thought he heard a disappointed shout behind him, but didn’t look back.

Westwailing Harbour was wide of mouth and deep of bottom. Draped over the stone wall separating the general public from the business of catching fish, Asher sucked in a deep double lungful of heady ocean air and marvelled at himself for staying away so long.

A wide stone pier jutted from the main wharf, pointing like a finger towards the horizon … and the foam and break of the huge, magically protected reef. As a boy, Asher had sat atop a headland at sunrise and watched the morning light glint off the ferocious coral construction and wondered, achingly, what might lie beyond that meeting of sea and sky. Nobody knew. Hardly anybody cared. What did it matter, so long as the fish found their way through the reef and into the harbours, that they might end their days on a dinner plate somewhere?

Their lack of curiosity had enraged him. But that was people for you. They were the same in the City. Day in, day out, that bloody great Wall gleamed and towered and cut 1 them off from whatever lay beyond it, but they didn’t care. It was just the Wall, it had always been there and it always would. Anyway, what other kingdom could possibly be better than Lur? Lur was perfection. Let beyond the Wall look after itself.

Not even Dathne cared. Not even Gar. He supposed he didn’t even care all that much himself. Just sometimes, looking, he’d be struck with wondering.

Just like he was struck now, gazing out at the serene, silvery waters of Westwailing Harbour, with the sounds of celebration loud still behind him, and the softer slosh and slap of waves before, and a full moon riding high overhead. The beauty of it seared him. That afternoon, as they travelled the winding road down to the headlands and the salt wind blew off the water and they’d got their first dazzled, dazzling glimpse of the ocean, his eyes had stung with tears. He’d known then that leaving the City, coming home, was the only right thing left for him to do. All the aggravation, now and to come, was worth it, had to be worth it, because there was the ocean. There was his heart, whose muffled beating in a dry city had gone on long enough.

Tomorrow, after the festival, he’d find his father. Kneel at the old man’s feet and beg his forgiveness for being away so long. For staying silent. Da would be angry at first, but he’d come round soon enough. They understood each other, he and Da, as his brothers had never understood either of them,

And after that, their new life would start.

Before that, though, he’d try to mend fences with Gat. It would be a damned shame, after a year of friendship, if they parted so bitterly at odds. Gar wasn’t a mean man. He’d just been thoughtless. Was disappointed. Angry that this wasn’t a decision he could overturn or overrule. But, just like Da, the prince would come round.

Or if he didn’t, it wouldn’t be for want of trying.

A giggling couple, courting and fuddled with ale, weaved their arm-in-arm way down the sloping street to the stone wall. They were young and in the full bloom of love. She was short and sweetly plump, he a hand span taller, with the close-cropped hair and muscled arms of a working man. Her eyes were starry for him, her lips red with his kisses. He was peacock proud, walking on a fine cushion of air for all to see.

Asher, caught unprepared and opened to beauty by the night, watched their bodies melt one into the other as they murmured breathlessly into each other’s mouths. His heart hitched. Dathne.

He must have said something, or made a noise, because the couple broke apart, charming in their confusion. Then, laughing, they drifted away into shadow and the all-consuming fire of private passion.

Asher shook his head, fingers tight on the sharp stones of the harbour-mouth wall. Fool, he cursed himself. There was no point in pining. He’d asked, she’d answered. If he couldn’t share his life with Dathne, then mayhap there’d be someone else he could share it with. That could take care of itself too. All that mattered now was he was home, beside the ocean, and he’d never leave it again.

From the direction of the square the.sound of footsteps on the pathway, coming closer. He didn’t need to look: he knew that slovenly gait. ‘You followin’ me, Wilier? Have a care. Folks’ll talk.’

Willer’s snide and snivelling voice said: ‘So. We’re finally rid of you. I must say it took long enough.’ He sighed. ‘Piss off.’

‘The question everyone’s asking, of course, is did he jump or was he pushed?’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re standin’ on the edge of a tidy drop into deep water,’ said Asher. ‘So I wouldn’t be talkin’ so much about jumpin’ and pushin’ if I were you. The amount of food you shovelled down your gullet tonight, reckon you’d sink faster than a stone.’