The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (45 page)

“No, it ain’t bloody true!” said Rafel, his voice cracking. “They drowned. We tried to save ’em but they drowned. If there’s anyone to blame it’s Garrick and Pintte, for ignoring my da and—”

Arlin hit him.
“Olken filth! Shut your mouth!”

As Rafel shoved Arlin, sending him staggering, nearly sending him into the harbour, Dathne leapt for Asher, sprawled senseless on the wet pier. Threeve shouted an angry protest, Pintte croaked an objection, and Sarle Baden threw up his hands and walked away. Five of the fishermen exchanged looks then pushed to separate Arlin from Rafel.

But the sixth fisherman flung out a pointing hand. “Barl save us all!
Run!
”

Two monstrous waterspouts were heading directly for the pier, slashing through the harbour faster than galloping horses.

Dathne looked to the nearest man.
“Help me!”

Ungainly, ungently, they hauled Asher between them by armpit and ankle and began their staggering flight towards the township-end of the pier. Threeve and the other fishermen helped Pintte, Arlin Garrick and Sarle Baden. Rafel refused assistance, grabbing his father’s weskit to help.

“Mama—” he said, almost tripping. “It wasn’t murder, I swear. I
never
—”

“I know you never,” she panted. “Save your breath, Rafe. Tell me later.”

Westwailing’s harbour shore was crowded shoulder to shoulder with folk eager to see what was happening at the reef. They’d turned the day into a kind of picnic. But now, with disaster struck, with waterspouts and whirlpools whipping up what should have been safe waters, the musicians had fallen silent, the children had been sent home, and voices were raised in anxious dismay.

Then as one they cried out—a dreadful shout of fear. Heart hammering, her fingers tight and aching around Asher’s ankles, Dathne risked a swift look behind her… and saw the twin waterspouts plough through Westwailing’s fishing fleet. Saw them smash the wooden boats to splinters, toss them in the air like kindling, like toys. Utter ruination in a matter of moments. Wood and canvas rained down on the wave-swamped stone pier.

“Barl’s mercy!” she heard Threeve sob. “Barl forgive us.”

But it was far too late for that.

By a miracle they reached dry land safely, winded and shocked. The crowd backed away, helped by officials with ready truncheons. Ignoring them, caring nowt for what anyone else said or did, Dathne guided Asher to the grass and knelt beside him. Took his hand in hers and stroked his cold, bloodied face. Rafel knelt opposite, holding his father’s other hand. Somewhere close by, Arlin Garrick was shouting incoherent threats. Sarle Baden was trying to calm him, and Mayor Threeve was calming Fernel Pintte. Dathne ignored all of them. Looked at her son. There was something
different
about him. Something knife-edged and newly forged, though he was exhausted.

He lifted his gaze. Pain in his eyes, and anger, burning shallow beneath the fear. And she knew.

Oh, Rafel. My sweet boy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We thought it for the best. We thought—”

He looked down. “Not now, Mama.”

On the grass between them, Asher moaned softly, then opened his eyes.
“Dath…”

“Hush,” she said, tears falling. “You hush.”

“Rafel?”

Rafel bent low, his anger thrust suddenly deep. “I’m here, Da.”

“Dath, I tried to stop ’em,” Asher whispered. “I tried to save ’em. But they died.”

She stroked his cheek. “
Hush,
my love. It’s not your fault.”

“Dath…” He coughed, weakly. “Dath, I reckon we’re in trouble.”

Oh, she wanted to deny it. She wanted to tell him he was wrong.

“I know,” she said, and pressed her fingers to his lips. “But don’t think about it. Right now you need to rest.” She looked up at Rafel, on his knees, with his deep anger and his surface distress. “There’ll be time to think about all of it when we get home.”

“Home,” said Asher. “Aye. I want to go home.”

“Rafel—” She heard her voice break. “Rafe—” But her son wouldn’t look at her.

Oh, Asher, Asher. What have we done?

“Asher and his family left for Dorana this morning. Did you know?”

Seated by the window of his guest house privy parlour, Arlin nodded. Smoothed his blue silk brocade sleeve, as though its wrinkling mattered.

“I heard.”

“Yes.” Sarle Baden cleared his throat. His coat was plum purple. No more a mourning colour than blue, but then—they’d not anticipated a need for black. “Threeve had no grounds to detain them.”

“Threeve
claims
he had no grounds to detain them.” He shrugged. “What else would you expect? He’s Olken.”

“You can raise the matter in General Council,” said Baden, after a moment. “Perhaps even the Mage Council. You can call for a hearing in Justice Hall.”

It was raining. Again. Beyond the open curtains Westwailing’s cobbled streets were deserted, and waterspouts danced across its dull grey empty harbour.

“No. I’m not returning to the City, Lord Baden.”

“
Not
retur—” Stranded in the middle of the parlour’s expensive carpet, Baden stared. “May I ask—”

Because there are things I must do at home. Things that cannot wait
. “You may not.”

“Arlin—”

He turned his head, just enough. The bruised cut over his cheekbone throbbed. “Lord Garrick.”

Silence. Sarle Baden, Father’s oldest and dearest friend, breathed in and out quietly. Stood still. Only his abraded palms gave a hint of the previous day’s adventure. Briefly, the man closed his bloodshot eyes. He’d been weeping. Or perhaps it was the salt from Westwailing’s ruined harbour.

“Lord Garrick,” Baden said at last, “if you like, I can speak on your behalf in General Council. I can lodge a petition in—”

“No.”

Baden stepped forward. “You can’t mean to leave this matter unpursued. Your father is
dead
.”

Father—and Ain, who’d never smiled at him. Ennet Vail too, who mattered not at all. “Yes, thank you, I had noticed!” he said, and stood. Turned his back on the cobbled streets and the harbour. On the folly that had left him without a body to bury. “Get out, Lord Baden. Go back to Dorana with Meister Pintte. Say what you like to those fools in the City. There’ll be no justice for my father there. He was murdered by a hero’s son.”

Baden swallowed, his eyes sheened with grief. With what he imagined was grief. The man had no comprehension of grief. “Arlin—”

“Lord Garrick!”

“Arlin, you’ve no-one but servants on the family estate. You need more than servants around you at this difficult time. You need—”

“To be left alone.” He nodded at the closed door. “I believe I said you could go.”

“What of your father’s work?” Baden said, his voice hoarse. “His dream of leading our people out of their bondage to this land.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes? What of it?”

“I intend to see that dream fulfilled, Arlin. And he’d want you to help me.”

You intend? I don’t think so, Sarle
. “As you say, Lord Baden, my father is dead. I very much doubt he wants or dreams anything.”

“I see,” said Sarle Baden. Two small words, very clipped. Very tight. “Do you have any objection if I take up his cause?”

Every objection under the sun
. “Sarle, Sarle…” He smiled. “You can leap into a whirlpool for all I care.”

The chamber door slammed so hard behind his father’s best friend that the glass in the window shivered, in danger of breaking.

There was brandy in the privy guest parlour. Disdaining the polite civility of a glass, Arlin drank it straight from the bottle. Felt its fumes sear his nose and eyes. Felt its potency fog his flogged mind.

I am an orphan. My father is dead.

Silly of him to be so surprised, really. Contrary to impressions, his father had been merely mortal. A man. No more and no less. But he was surprised. It had never seemed possible for Rodyn Garrick to die.

I should weep. Aren’t I meant to be weeping? I am the bereaved. He was my father. I should weep.

But there weren’t any tears. His eyes were dry. He was empty. So he drank some more brandy, to fill himself up.

For Deenie, the two-week journey back to the City was the worst of her life.

With Da so poorly, retching three or four times an hour, Rafe drove the carriage the whole way. Mama had wanted to hire someone but Rafe wouldn’t let her, even though he was retching too, and Da was asleep when they talked of it so he couldn’t take her side. Mama was so worried about him she let Rafe win the argument. At least—that was partly why. But there was another reason. Deenie could feel it, bubbling under the surface. She could see it in the way Mama wouldn’t quite meet Rafe’s eyes, and how Rafe was fretted about Da but didn’t sit with him while Mama packed their things.

Rafe was so
angry,
hotter and gnarlier than she’d ever felt him. It had something to do with what happened on the harbour. With the terrible burst of power she’d felt in her brother, that had buried her face in the pillow and made her scream, and scream, and scream. With the power that was in him now, finally set free.

But nobody was talking about that.

They left Westwailing at first light the next day, even though Mayor Threeve came to the Dancing Dolphin himself and begged them to stay so Da or Mama or Rafel or
someone
could make the whirlpools and the waterspouts disappear. But that couldn’t be done. She heard Da telling Mama that, his voice broken and sad, and Mama told Mayor Threeve. He tried to argue, upset and blustery, but Mama stood her ground. Then the mayor started on about the drowned Doranen, and how there’d been an official complaint made, and how if they didn’t want trouble they’d stay as long as they were wanted and then maybe—

And that was when Rafel stormed out of his chamber, crackling with so much power Mayor Threeve nearly wet himself.

“You come here
threatening
us?” said Rafel, looming over the frighted mayor. “What are you? Arlin Garrick’s yapping lapdog?”

Mayor Threeve was twice Rafe’s age and an important man, but he turned pale as buttermilk. “No—no—you misunderstand. I—”

“No, Meister Mayor,
you
misunderstand,” said Rafe, his eyes glittering. “Only a fool would listen to Arlin Garrick right now. His da got swallowed by a whirlpool. He’s half out of his mind with grief. And
my
da nigh on killed himself trying to save Arlin’s da and them other Doranen mages
and
your fishermen. So in the morning we’re going home. The harbour’s your problem. Da told you it was a mistake to fuddle it. You should’ve bloody listened.”

Almost weeping, Mayor Threeve gave up and left.

In the morning it was pouring rain, but Rafel wouldn’t change his mind about driving. He didn’t want to sit in the carriage with Da and Mama he wanted to be on his lonesome, no matter if that meant he got cold and wet and caught an ague. Mama was so hurt, but she pretended she wasn’t. She put Da in the carriage, wrapped snug in a blanket and so poorly, and didn’t say another word.

The rain fell for three days, unceasing. For three days in the steadily rolling carriage, with Da sleeping and heaving and Mama silent, Deenie huddled in the corner and watched the sodden world go by, silent, because her parents weren’t talkative and Rafel hardly rubbed two words together, even when they stopped for the night at this inn, or that one.

They woke on the fourth day to clouds, but no rain. “Mama, I want to sit up with Rafel a while,” she said as they snatched a plain, cold breakfast. “Can I? Please?”

Da roused himself. He still looked awful, his eyes sunken, his face horribly pale. Every time he breathed, it looked like the air hurt him. His lips were dry and cracked.

“Course you can, mouse,” he said. “Rafel won’t mind.”

Except her brother did mind, she could see it in his surly eyes. She waited for him to argue. Was surprised when he didn’t. Asked him why, when they were back on the puddled road home.

Rafel shrugged. “Why should I care? It’s not like I’m going to talk to you. You might as well be luggage.”

And that stung, like he knew it would. Days gone by since the Harbour and he wasn’t one whit less hot and gnarly. She didn’t bite back. She knew that would be pointless. So she sat beside him like luggage, glad to be in the fresh air. Content to enjoy the dank green countryside, the flitting birds in the hedgerows, the breeze in her face, the carriage horses, and wait for him to talk.

Because he would. She knew her brother.

Five hours later, he stirred. They’d bought pasties and cold fresh milk for lunch in Yelton, one of the tiny villages leading to the Flatlands, and he’d let her hold the heavy reins while he ate and drank, now that the worst of his retching was done. Taking them back from her, grunting begrudging thanks, he looked at her sideways.

“Why don’t you bite me?” he said, sounding almost… resentful. “Why d’you let me treat you so mean?”

She could still taste her own pasty, tingly-spiced on her tongue. “You’re upset. I don’t mind.”