The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (35 page)

Of course I can’t. He’s Asher.

“My love,” she said. “I want your word on something. No matter what happens on the coast, promise me you’re done with Weather Magic. On the lives of your children, promise me you won’t touch that Weather map again.”

Wearily he shook his head. “Dath—”

“Promise me.”

“All right,” he said, after a terrifying silence. “I promise.”

She smiled, tightly.
I don’t care if he resents me. I don’t care what he does so long as he doesn’t go back to that bloody Weather Chamber.
“Good. Now I’d best get busy packing, since we’re off to the coast.”

“I’ll see to the carriage and horses,” said Asher. “And after that, reckon I’ll wander down and have a few words with Pellen. He likes the company, and he’ll want to know about Pintte and Garrick’s plan.”

She frowned. “He’s supposed to be resting. If you wear him out with politics and gossip, Asher, he’ll never—”

“Trust me, Dath, he’ll be a sight more fratched not knowin’ what’s what. Last thing Pellen wants is to be left out.”

And that was true too. She sighed. “Just be home in time for supper. Or you’ll have Cook out of sorts and you’re not the one who has to listen to her griping.”

She turned to leave a second time, and for a second time he stopped her. “Dath…”

Twenty years was a long time to live with a man. She knew him as she knew herself. Too well for comfort, sometimes. Too well to lie. “You can’t, Asher,” she said softly. “I know you want him to think well of you, always. But ask yourself this, my love. Will it help Rafe or hurt him to know about the Weather map? When there’s nothing he can do with it? When there’s nothing he can do for you?” She took a consoling step towards him. “He might not admit it, but he’s frighted like the rest of us. Rafe knows you. He
loves
you. You’ve not lost him over this. He knows better than anyone you’re not a coward.”

He tried to smile. “You reckon?”

“I do. Now go cheer up Pellen. Give him my best.” She darted back to him and kissed him lightly on the lips. “And don’t forget—I love you too.”

She left him alone then, for he wasn’t a man to weep easy in company. Not even when the company was his wife of twenty years.

Until the day Morg tried to destroy Dorana, the alehouse that stood on this spot was called the Green Goose. According to them as remembered, it had been the favourite watering spot for all the palace and Tower staff. Da used to drink and rowdy and play knucklebones there three or four nights a week, so folk said. But the alehouse burned down on the day Morg died, and the innkeeper had burned with it along with his family.

The new alehouse built in its place was named the Dancing Bear. Goose’s da brewed the ale for it, and sometimes Goose did too now he was trusted alone with the hops and the malt barley and the recipes that won prizes at the annual guild fair.

Still fratched with his father, Rafel brooded over a mug of Goose-brewed pale ale. Two fiddles and a tambourine made cheerful music in the corner, much more to his liking than the noise at Pellen’s ball. Though a lot had changed in the City, this remained an Olken place. No Doranen drank here. And most of those Olken were sneaking looks over their shoulders at the hero’s son, in the corner. Looks that suggested disappointment and dismay, that the hero hadn’t lifted a finger this time to save them.

Don’t blame me. I tried talking to him.

“Hey,” said Goose, sliding onto the bench opposite. His hair was wet. Would it never stop raining? “Got your message. What’s wrong?”

He shrugged. “Nowt. Didn’t feel like drinking alone, is all.” Sour mood easing, just a little, he sat back. “How bad’s the trouble with your da?”

Goose waved at one of the barmaids, pulling a face. “Let’s just say I’m not his favourite son.”

“Goose, you’re his only son.”

“And not his favourite, either.”

“But you did nowt wrong,” Rafe protested. “You were trying to help Solly.”

“Which cost me fifty trins and my name writ down in the Guardhouse, so—” Goose broke off and smiled at the barmaid. “A pint of strong, Flora lass.”

Flora dimpled. “Yours or your dad’s?”

“Mine,” said Goose, grinning. “Or folk might start to talk. A brewer who won’t drink his own ale? That’ll get tongues wagging.”

Flora’s dimples deepened. “One pint coming up, Goose.”

For a moment Rafe admired the saucy swing of her hips as she returned to the bar. Then he looked back at Goose. “Your da’s a bloody fool. He ought to be proud of you, standing up for a friend.”

“Probably he would be, if it didn’t cost me fifty trins,” Goose said, resigned. “You know what my dad’s like about money.”

“Aye,” he said, and swallowed more ale. It was a touch sweeter than what Goose’s da brewed. But then, Goose was a touch sweeter than his da, so no surprise there.

Waiting for his own tankard, Goose looked around the crowded ale-house. There was laughter, there was gaming, the music was loud and bright, but beneath the jollity was a bitter taint of fear. The rain didn’t help, drumming harder than ever on the Bear’s tiled roof, a constant reminder Lur was falling apart.

“I heard what the mayor and Lord Garrick are planning,” said Goose, lowering his voice. “Is it true? Have we got no choice but to trust in them?”

The sweet ale in his belly turned abruptly sour. “Looks that way.”

“But Rafe…” Goose chewed at his lip, as dismayed as all the other Olken in the place. “Your dad’s the WeatherWorker, he—”

“That’s what he was, Goose. I d’know what he is now.”

Flora’s return with Goose’s tankard broke the shocked silence. “Thanks, lass,” Goose said, subdued, and fished some coins out of his pocket for her. After she left them, he leaned across the scarred table. “Rafe, what’s wrong?”

Rafel put down his own tankard and scrubbed a hand across his face.
I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to…
“Nowt,” he muttered. “Leastways nowt I want to talk on.”

“You still feelin’ bad?” said Goose, all quick sympathy. “I thought things had eased off a bit. I’ve heard other Olken, strong mages, say how things have eased off.”

“They have,” he said tiredly. “You’re right, the earth ain’t howling so loud.” Prob’ly ’cause it had nigh on howled itself to death. But he wasn’t strong enough for that conversation. Not tonight. “So aye. I’m feeling better.” For now.

Goose nodded. “That’s good. Rafe…”

They’d been friends so long he didn’t need for Goose to finish. “No. There’s nowt I can do to fix what’s gone wrong. Da won’t let me.”

“Rafe—” Goose rubbed his nose. “Your dad’s only trying to protect you.”

Rage flashed through him. “Did I ask him to?” he said, leaning across the wooden bench, fist thudding. “I never did, Goose. I never bloody asked and now, when I could make a difference? With the power that’s in me?” Sitting back, he gulped the rest of his ale. “I’m no more use than tits on a bull.”

“Any road,” said Goose, at last, uncomfortable. “At least you’re not feeling so sick.” He swallowed more of his own ale. Belched. “I came past the Chapel on the way here. Blazing with lights, it was. Full of folk in service with Barlsman Jaffee.” His gaze drifted around the noisy room. “Seems to me these days we’re either praying or drinking.”

“Those ain’t our only choices, Goose,” he said, and levered himself to his feet. His head buzzed muzzily, sloshing full of ale. “We can gamble, too. Let’s find us a game of knucklebones. I’m in the mood to wager big.”

They joined a round started up by a few lads as worked the Livestock Quarter, and soon enough one or two others, old school friends, joined them. Raucous and riotous, they hooted, hollered and traded cuicks and trins back and forth, tossed the yellowed knucklebones, accused each other of ham-fisted cheating, laughed and pretended all was right with the world.

Then Rafel looked up at the clock above the bar, and saw he was in danger of getting home late for supper. Leaning sideways, he took a deep breath and bawled into Goose’s ear.

“Time’s shifting. I gotta go.”

Cheerfully ale-sloshed, Goose nodded. “All right. But come by the brewery first thing tomorrow, why don’t you? We’re shorthanded—and you’ve got nothing better to do.”

The words were meant friendly and teasing, but they stuck him like pins.
Nothing better to do
. Aye, and wasn’t that the truth?
I ain’t Goose. I don’t want to be a brewer. All I want to be I can’t. And I still don’t know what to do about that.
But that wasn’t Goose’s fault… and sweating in the brewery was one way to kill time and earn himself some coin.

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Once outside the alehouse, he turned up his coat collar. The rain had eased to a mizzle, and the empty cobbled streets were slick and treacherous under foot. Their glimlamps sparked and sputtered, struggling as they’d struggled ever since the night of Uncle Pellen’s ball, and the storm that ripped Lur out of its warm, safe cocoon.

But he didn’t want to think on that, either, so he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and started walking back home. Prodded by what Goose had said, he didn’t take the back streets this time, but crossed over to Market Square to find the Chapel still blazing with glimlight and folks stood on the steps ’cause they couldn’t fit inside. And there was singing. Beautiful singing. Hymns to Barl. He stood in the Square’s shadows, listening, and bit by bit his lingering anger faded. Soothed by sweet voices instead of Goose’s sweet ale.

After a while he realised he wasn’t alone. Looking sideways he saw Da standing a bit distant, listening with him.

“Been sittin’ with Pellen,” Da said, his own gaze not moving from the chapel. “Chewin’ over this and that.”

Uncle Pellen hadn’t set foot out of his house since that night in the Guildhouse. Rafel felt the worry of it tickle his throat. “He feeling better?”

Da shook his head. “No.”

“So Kerril’s right?” he said harshly. “He’s dying?”

“We all be dyin’, sprat,” said Da. “Just some of us faster than others, is all.”

That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. “Thanks, Da. That’s right cheerful of you.”

Da snorted. “Y’know you be late for supper?”

He tipped his face to the cloud-smudged night sky, feeling the mizzle harden, hinting at more rain. “So are you.”

“Aye,” said Da, still thoughtful. “So you and me got that much in common.”

They had magic in common too, only he was s’posed to pretend they didn’t. Anger stirred again—but he was too full of ale and weariness to brangle, so he held his tongue.

“I’m goin’ down to Westwailing,” said Da. “Your ma and Deenie are comin’ too. Reckon you should ride with us. Reckon you should see for y’self what comes of faddlin’ with things as are best left alone.”

“Da
—
”
He swung round. “Why’d you have to put it that way? Why can’t you say you’re going down to Westwailing to show support for the mayor and Lord Garrick?”

“ ’Cause that ain’t why I be goin’,” said Da, with a careless shrug.

“You’re going so you can sneer and say afterwards
I told you so
?” he demanded, incredulous. “Da, that’s mean.”

Da looked at him, his face patchworked with glimfire shadows and his eyes gleaming bright and hard. “I’m goin’ so I’ll be there when things go sinkin’ wrong, Rafel. I’m goin’ so mayhap I can save them fools when arrogance looks like costin’ ’em their lives. I’m
goin’
—” Da stopped. Took a few deep breaths. “I’m goin’,” he said more quietly, “in case there’s a chance I can talk ’em out of this afore they start.”

“You won’t,” he said. “Their minds are made up, Da. As made up as yours.”

“I know,” said Da, his voice almost a whisper. “But I got to try, sprat. How will I live with m’self if I don’t bloody try?”

He sounded so lost. So hurt. Shaken, Rafel stared at him.
That ain’t my da. Asher of Restharven doesn’t sound like that
.

“Come on, sprat,” said Da, and like magic he was himself again. Brisk. Confident. Careless of the world and its feelings. “Best we tittup home again so your ma can crack a wooden spoon over our heads. Fierce set on tidy supper times, your ma. Nasty bad habit that, but she won’t give it up.”

Though he was temper-churned and restless, still he had to laugh. “All right.”

Leaving the Chapel and the singing in the wet night behind them, they started walking towards the High Street, and home.

“Da,” he said, as the voices lifted plaintive towards the hidden stars. “D’you believe in all that?”

“All what?” said Da, steadily tramping.

Suddenly he felt awkward. Embarrassed. But he’d started it, so he’d have to keep going. “You know. Chapel. Praying. Barl’s mercy. D’you think she’s real?”

“She was real,” Da said, after a moment. “She were a flesh and blood woman, Rafe. She lived and breathed and walked these streets.”

“I know
that
.” Why couldn’t Da ever just answer a question? “But now? D’you reckon she’s watching over us now? Hears us praying? Does what we ask?”

Da grunted. They’d reached the steep part of High Street, where it tilted straight towards the palace ground gates. Walking fast was a puffing business.