The Innocent Mage (63 page)

All day he’d been stuck indoors, working, just as he’d spent nigh on the last six weeks stuck indoors, working. Or stuck indoors taking meetings with guild meisters, with Pellen Orrick, with concerned citizens. For the life of him he couldn’t see any hour soon when he wouldn’t be stuck indoors, working. Reading letters. “Writing letters. Reading affidavits. Responding to affidavits. Preparing for meetings. Attending meetings. Reading notices. Drafting notices. Five more minutes of this and he was going to scream. Like a girl.

It hadn’t been so bad when he was Gar’s assistant. He’d done a lot of going around talking to people, and he’d enjoyed that. Enjoyed poking his nose into other people’s businesses, other people’s lives. Solving their problems or, if he couldn’t, making sure somebody else did. Seeing how the brewers roasted their hops and the cheese makers waxed their wares and the cartwrights made their wheels so round. Especially enjoyed the respect and the welcome and the way they were so proud, because he was one of them elevated near as good as royalty, eh, and sitting in their parlours, taking tea.

But now, with Gar all magically afflicted and everything so up in the air, he’d had to leave all that pleasurable visiting behind. Instead of talking to people he was either listening to them complain in formal meetings or else bloody writing to them and he hated writing. It made his fingers ache and his brain buzz and he kept getting ink all over himself. The laundry maids were complaining. And if all that wasn’t bad enough he wasn’t getting out to the stables. He wasn’t riding or sharing a morning mug of tea with Matt or mucking about with the lads. At this rate Cygnet and the stable meister both were going to forget what he looked like.

Worst of all, his once regular visits down to the Goose had been severely curtailed. With no assistant of his own, and trying to carry his own responsibilities as well as Gar’s, his free time had disappeared faster than a jug of ale down a thirsty field-hand’s throat.

His nights down at the Goose were useful, damn it. All sorts of gossip and titbits he picked up down there. That’s how he’d found out about the Guigan brothers and their shifty dealings in stock feed. How he’d put a stop to a right old bust-up between the candle makers and the beekeepers practically afore it started. How he’d throttled more than a dozen brewing storms. If he couldn’t get on down to the Goose nice and regular, who was going to nip all those pesky little problems in the bud, eh?

A nasty, sneaky voice in the back of his mind said: you could always ask Dathne.

Scowling, he told the voice to shut its trap. The only good thing to come out of any of this was him not having much time to lay eyes on Dathne. The thought of her was a raw wound, scabbing over. Last thing he needed was to go pickin’ and pokin’ and scratchin’ at that little embarrassment.

/ don’t love you, Asher. I don’t love anyone.

The razor-sharp memory of her cool voice, so controlled, so brisk and matter of fact, made him want to throw something. Hit someone. He didn’t know whether to be relieved that he didn’t have a rival or appalled that he couldn’t break down the wall she hid behind and reach the warm and beating heart of her.

He only knew that he missed her, and he never wanted to see her again.

She’d offered her help. If he took her up on that, if he pretended he was happy to be nothing but friends, if he bided his time, like any good angler, and baited his hook with patience and undemanding good company …

Codswallop.

Time to face facts. Dathne wasn’t interested. The sooner he stopped pining, the better. Starting right now.

Abruptly, savagely sick of his office and his desk and the endless stream of problems he was expected to solve like — ha! — magic, he threw his pen at his inkpot and headed for the stables.

Where he found Matt and Dathne, damn her, sitting in the yard office amusing themselves with cards.

‘Thought you had yourself a shop to run?’ he demanded from the doorway, not caring overmuch that his sour temper showed.

She exchanged an arched-eyebrow look with Matt, took a moment to consider her hand of cards, put one on the table and slid a replacement from the pile between them, then said, ‘Poppy’s after some extra pocket money so I left her to mind the till for the afternoon. Is that all right with you?’

Her sweetly poisonous tone galled him. ‘Poppy?’ Slouching into the tack room, he pretended to care what was bubbling on the coal-fed burner in the corner. Barley and linseed mash: the fuggy steam of it hit him full in the face, stealing his breath. Out of habit, and because he didn’t want to look at bloody Dathne, he grabbed the old wooden stirring spoon and slopped the horse porridge from side to side in its pot.

She was staring at him; he could feel her gaze smouldering his spine. ‘Aleman Derrig’s youngest. Poppeta, commonly known as Poppy. The one who insists on giving you lovelorn glances and free ale when her father’s not looking.’

He put the spoon aside, the lid back on the porridge pot and turned round. ‘I know who Poppy is.’

Dathne sniffed. ‘You could’ve fooled me.’

‘Aye, well, reckon the village idiot could fool you, Dathne,’ he sneered, folding his arms across his chest.

There was a half-eaten apple on the table beside her. Flushed with temper she threw it at him, hard, as Matt said protestingly, ‘Hey now, hey now! What’s all this, Asher? There’s no call to fratch at Dathne like that!’

He caught the apple, demolished it in three angry bites and lobbed the core into the waste bucket by the sink. ‘Sorry.’

‘My, that sounded sincere,’ said Dathne, rolling her eyes. She sounded just like her spicy, spiky self … except there was a hint of hurt surprise in her face and the cards in her clutching fingers shook ever so slightly.

He felt like a murderer. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, and this time meant it. He crossed to the camp cot against the wall and collapsed onto it. ‘Don’t mind me. I been penned up in that Tower for what feels like three lifetimes, tryin’ to come to grips with Meister Glospottle’s piss problem.’

‘Eh?’ said Matt. ‘I thought you had that solved a week ago.’

‘Aye, well, so did I,’ said Asher. And added, darkly, ‘It came back.’

‘What … like a persistent bladder infection?’ suggested Dathne delicately.

Matt guffawed. Dathne grinned. And then they were laughing, all three of them, like the good and true friends they were.

‘Come on,’ said Matt, wiping his eyes. ‘Forget Meister Pissy Glospottle for a bit and play a round of cards with us, eh? We’ve not laid eyes on you for days now, and we’ve missed your ugly face. Haven’t we, Dath?’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Dathne, but she was smiling and shoving out the table’s third chair with her foot.

He sat down and waited while Matt took back all the cards. As he shuffled them with casual expertise the stable meister said, ‘How’s His Highness getting on then?’

Asher shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know. Hardly lay eyes on him from sunup to sundown these days. Every time I do catch a glimpse he’s rushin’ off to practise turning toads into toadstools with that ole Durm. Or his sister, if you can believe that.’

Matt started dealing. Dathne, waiting for all her cards to arrive before picking them up, said, ‘Is he any good?’

Asher laughed. ‘Don’t ask me. Still …’ He thought for a moment. ‘Reckon he can’t be exactly bad, I s’pose. If he were bad he’d be in a worse mood than me, but every time I see him he’s smiling.’

Dathne and Matt exchanged glances. ‘Well,’ she said brightly, and turned her cards over, ‘isn’t that nice for him? I’ll start, shall I? Ladies first, and all that horse manure. I wager … three cuicks to a demi-trin I’ll see full house in seven switches.’

Grinning at Matt, who was throwing a theatrical fit at the outrageous wager, Asher sat back in his chair and stared at Dathne while pretending to consider his own cards. For the first time in a long time he felt something approaching happiness.

Friendship was less, far less, than his heart’s desire, but if it was all he could get, at least for now, perhaps it wasn’t so bad after all.

Morg wrote the note in Durm’s cramped and crabby cursive: Come to my study at dawn. Sealed it, and gave it to a servant to deliver to the prince.

Duly summoned, the cripple presented himself at sunup the following morning, agog with curiosity. ‘Durm? Is something wrong?’

Inviting him in with a beckoning finger, Morg closed and warded the suite’s double doors and guided him into the library to a seat at the round velvet-covered table by the window. On it was the ancient wooden box housing the Weather Orb.

‘What’s this?’ asked the cripple, examining the box with interest.

Morg sat in the other chair and waved his hand. ‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’

The cripple raised an eyebrow and reached for the box. Went to slide free the pin securing the lid and yelped as ;the lightly applied ward spell bit him.

Morg laughed. ‘Did you think I would make it easy? Undo the ward spell.’

‘I would if I knew how.’ There was an edge to the cripple’s voice.

‘You don’t need to know how,’ he countered. ‘The “how” is within you, Your Highness. As it was the day your magic revealed itself and I asked you to make a rose. Remember?’

The cripple gave him a look. ‘I remember that just yesterday you told me I was a cretin and a fool and a disgrace to the memory of my ancestors.’

‘Academic hyperbole.’ Morg dismissed the complaint with the wave of one hand. ‘It was merely enthusiastic encouragement, I assure you.’

‘Perhaps oferenthusiastic would be a more accurate description,’ muttered the cripple. ‘To be honest, I think I’ve been doing exceptionally good work of late.’

‘And so you have, Gar, so you have,’ Morg soothed. ‘Why else do you think I’ve summoned you here this morning?’

‘I don’t know why you’ve summoned me. I’m still waiting for you to tell me.’

‘And I will,’ Morg promised. ‘Just as soon as you deactivate the ward spell.’

After a single, searching glance at him the cripple reached out to the box and dissolved the lock’s guarding enchantment. He laughed. ‘I did it!’

‘Of course you did, Your Highness. I believe there is nothing you can’t do, provided you put your mind to it.’

‘It was so simple!’ the cripple exclaimed. ‘So natural. Just like … breathing.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Morg. With my help, you deformed monstrosity. ‘That is how magic should be. The reason you’ve found it so hard during our lessons is because I’ve been forcing you to think about it. To analyse it. To apply your powers consciously when in reality they flow most easily from the subconscious part of your mind.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘Because it is necessary. Trust me.’

The cripple smiled. ‘You know I do. Implicitly. Durm …’

‘Yes, my boy?’

‘How is this possible?’ the cripple whispered. ‘How could I have had all this power inside me for so many years and never once imagined or suspected or felt so much as a hint of it?’

He smiled and spread his hands wide. ‘That, I’m afraid, is likely to remain a mystery. Let’s just put it down to another of Blessed Barl’s miracles, shall we, and continue with our current business. Open the box.’

The cripple obeyed, revealing the box’s contents. His face stilled. ‘That’s the “Weather Orb. Fane described it once. Why are you showing it to me?’

‘Why do you think?’

Shoving his chair away from the table, the cripple retreated. ‘No. It’s too soon. Durm, my powers woke from their slumber scant weeks ago! And now you want me to undertake the Transference? Fane studied with you for years before —’

Morg shrugged. ‘You are not your sister. Her powers are great, I don’t deny that. But they grew as she did. Matured as she did. I had to wait until she was ready to face the immense tides and tests of the Weather Magic. But your circumstances are very different. Your power has sprung forth fully developed. With you it’s not a case of maturation but exploration. And while your power is formidable, Gar, it might yet be that Fane is still the better WeatherWorker. Receiving the incantations is but the first step on the way to determining who ultimately shall be named your father’s heir. Even I cannot tell how long it will take you to master their complexities. Or even if you can. Don’t you see? The sooner you’re given the magics, the sooner can we begin to explore your aptitude for controlling and applying them.’

‘I understand that,’ the cripple said, still staring at the Orb. Fascinated. Repelled. ‘But what would a little further delay matter? I need more time, Durm. Time to fully grasp what’s happened to me. How I feel about it. What it means, for my future and the future of the kingdom. That’s all. Just a little time.’

Morg sighed. Lowered his voice and let Durm’s face assume a sorrowful, portentous expression. ‘Your Highness, unwittingly you have put your finger on the very pulse of the matter. Time is the one thing we may not have. To be brutal, and forgive me but there is no other way, we don’t know how long your dear father will remain the WeatherWorker. The bulk of his life now lies behind him, spent lavishly in the service of Lur. For the sake of our kingdom we must ensure the succession. If we don’t, we give Conroyd Jarralt more grist for his mill. And then he will grind and grind and grind until the flour comes out to bake a bread of bis liking. Not ours.’

The cripple had lost all his colour and in his eyes, tears. Stupid, sentimental fool. He’d do better saving his woe for the days to come. Soon he’d have something truly worth weeping for.

‘You’re certain of this?’

Morg spread his hands. ‘Alas.’

‘And once the decision is made, between Fane and myself? What then? Only one can hold the Weather Magic’

Ah. So his little worm was hooked, and wriggling. Morg swallowed a smile. ‘There is an incantation for Transference reversal. Unpleasant, to be sure, but the effects aren’t permanent. Please, Your Highness.’ He gestured at the empty chair. ‘I promise, this is how it must be.’

The cripple returned to his seat at the table. ‘You’re absolutely certain …?’

‘Absolutely, Your Highness. After all, as loyal subjects and men who love our king, we have our duty.’