The Innocent Mage (41 page)

Laughing softly, Wilier drifted forwards until his fat belly met the stone harbour wall. Asher noticed he kept his distance. Smart man.

‘I do hope, Asher,’ he continued conversationally, ‘you weren’t expecting any public displays of grief over your long-awaited departure. Impassioned pleas for you to stay. A going-away party, or any such thing.’ He paused, considering. ‘Although now I come to think of it I could name one or two people who’d happily pay large amounts of money for a “Praise Barl he’s gone” party.’

Asher took a deep breath. Let it out, throttling rage and the desire to silence the vomitous sea slug once and for all. He turned his head and looked at Wilier, baring his teeth in what wasn’t exactly a smile.

‘Fancy that. Here’s us workin’ together all this time and I never knew you for a man who liked livin’ dangerous.’

Wilier laughed again. ‘You’re wasting your breath. You don’t frighten me. You never did.’ He pushed away from the harbour wall. Drifted backwards, and was swallowed by shadows. ‘Goodnight, Asher. Goodnight and good riddance.’

Back in the town square the partying continued. Snatches of music and laughter floated down to the harbour, and drowned in the sighing of the sea. Propped up by the ancient stone wall, Asher listened.

It was a long, long time before he finally turned away from the moonlit water to make his way back to his bed in the mayor’s house, where he could sleep away the scant hours before the great event of the morning: the Sea Harvest Festival, and the end of Asher, Assistant Olken Administrator of Lur.

‘Tell me again,’ said Gar, reaching for the damp towel Darran held out to him, ‘whose spectacularly clever idea this was.’

‘His Majesty’s, I believe,’ Darran replied. His smile was sympathetic. ‘If it makes you feel any better, sir, His Majesty also became … indisposed before his first Sea Harvest Festival.’

Sitting on the edge of a chair, his emptied stomach churning, Gar blotted cold sweat from his forehead. He was shivering, even though the Mayor of Westwailing’s very best guest room faced full into the morning sun and the chamber’s air was warm against his bare chest. Less than an hour before he was due to lead the procession down to the Harbour … to lead the Sea Harvest Festival … and he was puking his guts into a chamber-pot like a virgin on her wedding night. Perfect.

He spared Darran a sour glance. ‘You’re just saying that.’ ‘I assure sir, I am not,’ Darran said blithely. ‘As it happens I was in a position to perform for your dear father the same service I perform for you now.’

‘Really?’ Gar considered him. ‘That’s very dedicated of you, Darran. Surely there must be something more edifying you can find to do with your time?’

‘Not at all, sir,’ said Darran as he tidied away the pot and the soiled facecloths. ‘I consider this opportunity a great honour.’

The roiling queasiness was easing. Overcome, possibly, by sheer, fascinated horror. ‘You think watching me vomit my breakfast into a chamber-pot is an honour? Darran, you really need to get out more.’

Darran laughed politely and relieved him of the damp towel. ‘Your Highness, I have served your father’s house since before he was born and I was a small boy, of an age to be trusted with running messages. Serving him once he ascended the throne … serving you, now, in whatever capacity I can … well, there isn’t another Olken in the kingdom who can claim such continuity. Who has been gifted with such trust. How could I be anything but honoured?’

Tentatively, Gar straightened. When his stomach didn’t revolt, he took a cautiously deep breath. ‘I suppose.’

Darran bowed. ‘Indeed, sir. Now, as you can see, I’ve laid your clothes out for you. Of course, if you’ve changed your mind, then —’

‘No,’ said Gar, glancing at the grass-green silk shirt, the deep blue, gold and crimson brocade weskit embroidered with bullion thread, the sea-blue woollen breeches he’d selected last night. They were as respectable as anything else he’d brought. ‘Well, not about the clothes anyway. Are you sure I can’t change my mind about leading the festival?’

‘You are a prince, sir,’ Darran reminded him with a discreet smile. ‘You are at liberty to do as you please. But I wouldn’t advise it.’

‘Neither would I. The king would skin me alive.’ Gar frowned, briefly, the thought of his father still a small, stinging hurt. He banished the pain. There’d be time enough to deal with that upon his return. For now he had to concentrate, on the matter at hand. ‘But even so, I can dream, can’t I?’

‘Certainly you can, sir,’ Darran said. ‘But if I might suggest that you dream and dress at the same time? We are due to leave for the harbour within the half-hour.’

Nodding, Gar reached for his shirt. Buttoning it, careful to keep his eyes on the task, he said, ‘Have you seen Asher this morning?’

Darran stiffened. ‘Yes, sir. He took breakfast with the rest of the staff in the servants’ kitchen.’

‘And did you convey to him my displeasure at his leaving the banquet so peremptorily last night?’

‘I did.’ Darran’s voice was frigid. ‘He saw fit to inform me that his whereabouts were none of my concern.’

Gar glanced at Darran. Noted the burning spots of colour in his sallow cheeks. ‘But not quite as politely as ‘ that?’

Darran sniffed. ‘Not quite, sir. No.’ He felt his jaw tighten. Felt the simmering rage surge. ‘I see.’

‘If I may be so bold as to suggest it, sir,’ Darran continued, ‘you might be best served by dispensing with Asher’s services at the festival ceremony this morning. His attendance can achieve no useful purpose and his recent behaviour clearly demonstrates a distressing want of conduct and appreciation for his position. Without wishing to cause you further perturbation, I would remind Your Highness that in a short while you shall be the cynosure of all eyes. It would be regrettable indeed should Asher’s deplorable conduct in any way reflect poorly upon yourself or His Majesty.’

With the last button successfully captured, Gar turned his attention to pulling on his breeches and tucking his shirt tails into their waistband. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He is sworn to me until the end of our stay here and I shall hold him to that oath.’ Not least because clearly it was the last place Asher wanted to be.

Vindictive? Him? Never.

After a short pause Darran said, ‘Certainly, sir. If you say so.’

Gar shot him a look. ‘I do. Hand me my weskit.’

Darran gave him the brocade vest and adjusted it across his shoulders after he’d shrugged it on. ‘Your Highness is naturally free to do as you see fit.’

‘Yes, Darran, I am,’ he snapped, and eased his feet into his boots. Damn the man; criticising and judging and never a word out of place … ‘And as I said before, I’ll have no gossiping on this, do you hear me? It’s between me and Asher and nobody else.’

‘Sir,’ said Darran, grossly offended. ‘I do not stoop to gossip:

Gar held out his hand for his circlet of office. The plain one, which had been passed down from father to son since the days of Barl herself. ‘And there’s no point getting huffy with me either.’

Lips thin with disapproval, Darran removed the circlet from its velvet-lined case and with a soft cloth began to buff it to a glowing lustre.

‘People talk,’ Gar added as his secretary’s careful hands coaxed highlights from the beaten white gold. ‘It’s to be expected. I’d just better not hear about it, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Sir,’ said Darran with awful dignity, and handed over the gleaming circlet. ‘If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I shall ensure that the rest of the party is ready and awaiting your pleasure.’

Gar nodded. ‘As you like. I’ll be downstairs shortly.’ Ignoring Darran’s straight-spined departure he- laid the circlet on the bed, found a brush and put his hair in order. Then, staring at his immaculate reflection in the chamber’s full-length mirror, settled the circlet of office on his head. Behind him, the door opened again. Asher.

The circlet wasn’t quite straight; damn thing was always a horror to get right. ‘Yes?’ he asked, fingers cool and steady on the gold.

‘Just checking to make sure you be all set.’ Asher was dressed in dull purple and dark blue, all silk and brocade and leather, thick black hair freshly washed, polished half-boots on his feet. There was nothing of the fisherman about him.

‘Of course I’m all set,’ said Gar. ‘Do you think I can’t get myself dressed for some half-baked country yodelling session without assistance?’

Asher sighed. Came further into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. ‘Look. Let’s not leave it like this, eh? Not when we’ll likely never lay eyes on each other again after today. You want me to say I’m sorry? Then I’m sorry. You want me to say it were wrong of me not to drop a hint every now and then? “When I get back to Restharven”, that kind of thing? Fine. It were wrong. And I know I should’ve said something the minute I knew my mind was made up to go. But, Gar, I didn’t. And you poutin’ and stampin’ and pullin’ faces like a frog on a log over it ain’t goin’ to change that now. What’s done is done. And you did say I had leave to quit you after a year. So can’t we just shake on it, eh, and part friends?’

One final nudge and the thin strip of ancient gold was perfectly aligned. It clasped his skull lightly. Only his imagination made it heavy. Gar took a step back from the mirror and eyed himself up and down one last time. He looked fine. Better than fine. He looked every inch a prince. Doranen royalty. Keeper of Barl’s Law. Defender of the Realm. Morg’s Scourge. Pity about the magic, but there it was. You couldn’t have everything, could you?

Letting his gaze slip sideways, he met Asher’s uncertain, reflected eyes. ‘Change your mind.’

Across Asher’s face, a skittering of emotions: sorrow, anger, an impatient compassion. T can’t.’

And there it was. Final as a door slam. Part friends? Not likely. ‘You’re making me late,’ he said. ‘Go downstairs and wait with the others.’

Correct to a hair’s-breadth, Asher bowed. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ The door closed softly behind him.

Gar snatched off his circlet and threw it at the door. Part friends} Not likely.

But he wasn’t going to think about it. Let Asher toss his, life away. Let him wade chin deep in fish guts and end his days scarred and shrunken and seasoned with salt, like all the old men of Westwailing. He’d had his chance and turned his back on it. More fool him.

His Royal Highness Prince Gar had more important things to worry about. It was Sea Harvest Festival time, and very soon now he would stand before thousands of the king’s subjects and lead them in song and celebration.

Asher? Asher who?

Miles and miles and days away the king disobeys his keepers and calls a fall of rain. The power writhes through his weakened body, finding all the sorry places, and he cannot help but cry. Too soon, too soon, his keepers were right, but the choice was not theirs to make. Was never theirs to make, and the fault was his, to let them make it. Is he not King Borne of Lur, the WeatherWorker? Bound and sworn to solemn duty unto the bitter end? He is. His daughter was not ready for the blade. Had bared her throat to its edge before the proper time … and now pays dearly for the privilege.

The ceiling of his Weather Chamber is solid glass. Early autumn sunshine spills across the timber floor, his shaking hands, the map of Lur that guides his heart and mind and tells him ivhere to send the rain, sing the seeds, chill the earth with snow and ice.

But pain shouts more loudly than magic. Drowns it in a scarlet flooding tide. He falls to his knees. To his hands. Stares hotly at the map on the floor, sweating. Stares at Westwailing township, down on the coast. Thinks of his son, serving him, serving Lur, and smiles. Power seethes and surges through him, turning his blood to bubbles. His long silver hair, lank with recent ill health, stirs of its own accord on bis shoulders. Crackles with blue sparks that arc and knee and ignite the air.

‘Gar,’ he whispers. ‘Sing for me, my son. Sing the harvest. Sing the festival. Sing the health and happiness of the people. Sing well, and make me proud.’

Beyond the naked chamber ceiling, the blue sky trembles … and across the glowing golden sun a cloud,

‘Gar!’ the king cries, fingers clawed and clutching, his head crowned with a nimbus of unspeakable power. ‘Barl save me … save me … save him!’

And then darkness, as the sun goes out.

The festival fishing boat danced on the end of its mooring, sprightly as a lass at her first grown-up party. Mouth dry, heart pounding, Gar imagined himself upon it, upon the ocean, which was vast and blue and very, very deep. He couldn’t remember Asher ever saying it was deep.

Yesterday, still seething with anger at the ingrate’s intentions, he’d scarcely noticed the immensity of water stretching from the coastline to the horizon. Even though it was the first time he’d ever seen it. Rage had blinded him. Now, though, now …

He imagined himself at the mercy of all that wild water, which not even a WeatherWorker’s might could tame, and felt a tremble in his bowels.

Fear was unbecoming. Ruthlessly he throttled it. Throttled imagination too. Instead glanced at Asher, who stood at his fisted right hand. Who stared at the ocean and the boat, his unknowable eyes alight with avarice, and who thought both were more important than anything he’d ever achieved … had yet to achieve … in the City of Dorana.

The Mayor of Westwailing cleared his throat. ‘Your Highness?’

Gar nodded. Turned his face away from the water. ‘Of course, sir. We are ready?’

They were standing on a dais that had been erected at the township end of the harbour’s pier. Darran and Wilier stood behind them in the second row, along with the other dignitaries who represented their local communities. An enormous crush of bodies filled every inch of space along the harbour front, the promenade, the streets winding down to the water. Men, women and children, bright and shining in their once-a-year festival shirts and skirts and hats and trews and painfully polished shoes. And their faces, glowing with anticipation. Eerily silent, like one vast, indrawn breath, they waited for the ceremony to begin.

A flag waved. The mayor bowed to Gar. ‘We be ready, Your Highness.’