The Innocent Mage (14 page)

Or, in his case, a prince’s champion.

He grinned at the thought. Though he’d drown himself before admitting it aloud, he quite liked the sound of the title. For certain sure it’d make Da smile when he found out.

After the cheerful, crowded disorder of the stable lads’ dormitory the solitary splendour of the Green Floor was nearly too much to take in.

And that wasn’t all.

Much to his dismay the summoned tailor had arrived as bidden, breathless with excitement and rushing, with a whole school of underlings in his wake. Before Asher could open his mouth to protest they had him stripped down to his drawers and were crawling all over him with tape measures and fabric samples, cotton and lawn and brocade and wool and linen and velvet and silk and leather, most of them in colours he wasn’t exactly sure a man should wear. When he started to say this the tailor, a small man with busy fingers and a voice like the crack of a bullwhip, rapped him on the knuckles with his shears and told him to hold his tongue, what did a brawny musclebound bubblehead know about the finer points of fashion, pray?

Knuckles stinging, temper seething, he’d held his tongue.

Gar, drat him, had nearly fallen over with laughing before being diverted by a disapproving Darran to deal with a newborn crisis somewhere in the City.

1!

By the time the tailor and his scurrying minions were done there were plans for some twelve different changes ol clothes, plus extra shirts, weskits and trews and two sets ol riding leathers. Even as he stood there being poked and prodded and stuck with careless pins, three of the sweating underlings had set up two treadle sewing machines and a portable cutting table, rolled out bolts of brown and black and blue and green and dull bronze fabrics and, following some quick sketches by their employer, somehow produced three shirts and two pairs of britches for him to be going on with.

When they were done, Asher dressed himself in blue and black and gazed at his unfamiliar reflection in the mirror, shocked to silence. Such fine clothes! He looked practically posh. If his brothers could see him now, they’d puke. He grinned. Well, see him they would in a year’s time. He’d make sure to wear the fanciest weskit he still had left, just for the pleasure of their slumguzzled faces.

While the tailor and his underlings were making their last-minute adjustments the bootmaker arrived. More measuring, A servant was sent to his shop with instructions to bring back some on-hand boots and shoes that would do, at a pinch, until the made-to-measure items were ready. Asher, slipping his feet into butter-soft dark blue leather, couldn’t imagine any boot could be finer. But the grimacing bootmaker said that while such journeyman items might be fine for an Olken off the street, for a personage as grand as — as — the prince’s assistant, well, they were barely up to snuff.

Asher stared. It was his first inkling that perhaps his life was going to change in a lot more ways than he’d bargained for.

Eventually the last bowing and scraping body left and he was alone in his grand new apartments. A message was delivered from the prince: family matters would keep him at the palace that evening; he should feel free to dine whenever he felt hungry.

‘Ha,’ said Asher, staring at the hastily scrawled note. Now what was he supposed to do with himself? In reply his stomach grumbled demandingly, so he went down to the kitchen for his dinner. There, the scandalised cook sent him away with a scolding lecture about the dire consequences of important personages running their own errands.

Suitably chastened and thoroughly educated on the uses of Tower lackeys, he went back upstairs and amused himself by rearranging furniture until his supper arrived.

After his meal, a delectable chicken casserole with baked leeks, and a raspberry fool for dessert, he sat back in his solitary sitting room and sipped the last of the crisp white wine that had accompanied his dinner. Some bright spark had left a pile of books on his bedside table — Gar, most like, being funny — but he couldn’t begin to care about Olken Law as it Pertains to Equal Weights and Measures in Commerce tonight… or, possibly, ever.

Adrift, chartless and lost in unsailed waters, he headed for a familiar port.

As he’d hoped, he found Matt doing the rounds of his stable yard, quietly checking each horse, making sure no rugs had slipped, no bellies were colicking, no legs had filled with heat and swelling unnoticed. Hearing the crunch of boots on gravel, Matt turned. The flickering lamplight from outside each stable shadowed the look on his broad face into a mystery.

‘Cygnet’s a fine animal,’ he said. ‘He’ll take good care of you.’

‘Aye,’ said Asher, and headed for his new mount’s stable. The horse, a shimmering silver grey with eyes like blue glass, shifted in the straw and poked a cautious nose over the stable door. Rippled velvet-soft nostrils and nickered, a flirty little sound inviting apples.

Matt reached into his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, and tossed Asher half a Golden Dewdrop. Catching it one-handed, Asher let Cygnet lip it from his fingers. Inhaled the rich it scent of horse and crushed apple, and for the first time thought that perhaps he hadn’t made such a blundering great mistake after all.

‘I keep thinkin’ I’m dreamin’,’ he said, tickling his horse under the chin. Cygnet’s lower lip drooped, wobbling, and his eyelids half closed in simple pleasure. ‘One minute I’m muckin’ out stables and the next …’ Baffled, almost afraid, he shook his head. ‘And I still don’t see how I’m s’posed to make a success of it.’

There was an upturned bucket outside Ballodair’s stable, Matt eased his way over to it and sat down, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced to cradle his chin. The prince’s stallion came to investigate. Blew in Matt’s close-cropped hair, lost interest, and returned to eating hay.

‘I think,’ Matt said, slowly, ‘by being the prince’s friend.’

‘His friendV Asher stared. ‘Me? Why? He’s got hisself scores of friends, ain’t he?’

T don’t think so.’ Matt’s expression was sober, his voice melancholy. ‘He has … hangers-on. Toadies. Opportunists j who see in him their own advancement and royal favour.’ But friends? No.’

‘Why not?’

Matt looked at him. ‘You know why not.’

Asher tugged gently on Cygnet’s forelock, frowning. Yes, he knew. ‘How’d he get hisself born without magic anyways?’

In the flickering lamplight Matt’s expression echoed the sorrow in his voice. ‘Nobody’s sure. It just happens. Not often, though, and never before in the royal family.’

‘Still, it ain’t his fault. And he ain’t contagious.’

‘No. But he reminds the other Doranen that they and their magic are not invulnerable, or invincible. And they hate him for it.’

‘HateV said Asher, startled. ‘But he’s the king’s son.’

Matt lifted one shoulder. ‘Which is why their enmity is subtle, Asher. A handshake released too quickly. A smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. Nothing a body could point to and say, see? But it’s there, and he knows it. He’s no fool, Prince Gar. He knows it.’ He shook his head. ‘You watch your step, my friend. Like it or not you’re in their wotld now … and there’s more than one kind of shark swimming in the sea.’

Asher snorted. ‘I grew up with sharks, Matt, and six Wangling brothers besides. Reckon I can take care of m’self.’

‘Yes,’ said Matt, and once again his face was shadowed. ‘Yes, you probably can. Now I’d best say goodnight, for I’ve more stables to check and other work besides.’

Til help,’ said Asher promptly. ‘I may be important aow, Barl save me, with folk bowin’ and scrapin’ and fallin’ over ‘emselves to put a smile on m’face, but I ain’t too pretty or proud to lend a hand.’

‘No, there’s no need, you shouldn’t —’ Matt began. Then he stopped. Looked to be making a decision. ‘All right then,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Can’t say I won’t appreciate the company. Thanks.’

Asher grinned. ‘That be thanks, sir, I reckon,’ he said. And laughed as Matt threw an apple at him.

‘ said Dana, Queen of Lur, as her gathered family shared the evening meal, ‘was I imagining things, Gai; or did I hear one of the maids say that you’d hired a young OIken man to replace Darran?’

Her husband’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth, ‘What? You’ve pensioned off Darran?’ King Borne demanded. ‘Barl’s nightcap. He’ll be heartbroken!’

‘I do wish you wouldn’t swear,’ Dana complained gently, ‘At least not at the dinner table. And not in front of Fane,’

‘Oh, Mama,’ Fane protested. ‘Honestly. That’s not swearing. Swearing is —’

‘Inappropriate for the heir presumptive,’ said Dura ‘Exercise a little self-control, madam.’ The Master Magician’s fleshy face, carved with deep lines of experience and the trials of containing strong magics, reflected his displeasure. Beneath sparse grey eyebrows his eyes snapped and sparked, seething power never far from the surface of his skin.

But Fane was not afraid of power. ‘Well, if it’s inappropriate for me, why is it all right for Papa? Papa swears all the time, and he’s the king!’

A lively debate erupted. Gar sighed, sat back in his chair with his goblet of red wine and waited for the storm to pass. Once, just once, it would be nice to dine with his family without some trivial matter starting a battle royal. No pun intended. But Fane had been born under a quarrelsome star and it seemed a day could not go by without her living up to that birthright with a vengeance. Pity the poor fool who ended up marrying her.

After some five minutes of his sister’s vigorous opinionatedness it was their mother, as usual, who held sway.

‘Well, I don’t care if Barl herself rushed about the countryside shrieking rot my toenails, I won’t have that kind of language at the dinner table!’ she declared. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

Borne took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. ‘As crystal, my love.’ His expression rearranged itself into sombre contrition. ‘We are duly chastised.’

‘Ha!’ said Dana, and tugged his beard. ‘If only I thought you were!’

Gar hid his grin in his goblet. Fane groaned. ‘Oh, must you? flirting at the dinner table is —’

‘The prerogative of your parents,’ said Borne, affectionately severe. ‘Stop being tiresome, brat.’ As Fane subsided, pouting, he considered Gar and added, ‘Well? Have you?’

‘Have I what?’ said Gar. ‘Pensioned off Darran? No, of course not. Much as I’d like to.’ He shrugged. ‘But I have hired myself an assistant.’

Fane speared a minted baby potato and nibbled it from her fork. ‘An assistant?’ She was looking especially pretty this evening, with her silver-gilt hair loose and gently curling round her face, and her soft skin glowing in the glimfire light. Her tunic was the particular shade of blue that brought out to perfection the diamond clarity of her eyes. ‘What for? You don’t do anything.’

Gar watched his father’s gaze sharpen and shook his head, fractionally. There was no point. Fane was Fane, and he’d long grown used to her viperish tongue. Voice determinedly light he said, ‘And now I’ll be able to do evf less. Aren’t I lucky?’

Borne frowned into his wine. ‘What kind of assistant are you expecting this person to provide?’

‘The Olken Administrating kind.’ Borne looked up, Gi met his eyes steadily, and added, ‘I thought you might hat it mentioned on Barlsday. Two announcements for the pria of one, so to speak.’

Dana, spreading butter on a fresh piece of bread, smild at him. ‘You always were an economical child. So whoi this person? Do we know him? Her?’

‘Him,’ said Gar. ‘No. You’ve not met. His name is Asfc( of Restharven.’

Borne’s frown deepened. ‘The fisherman you hired on a a stable hand?’ Fane choked back laughter, and he raisedi swift hand, silencing her. ‘Gar, is this wise? Surely Darran-1

‘Darran has more than enough to do already,’ said Gat ‘Besides, he’s not suitable for my purpose.’

Borne’s eyebrows lifted. ‘And a stable hand is?’

‘A man is not merely his employment, sir. Were you to start mucking out stables tomorrow, still you’d be who and what you are.’

‘Yes, dear, that’s true, but even so …’ Dana hesitated ‘You must admit, it’s rather a leap. There’ll be a bees’ hive of gossip once the appointment is made public. It’s unusual I to say the least, to elevate a stable hand so high. You can’t J think there won’t be some … consternation.’

Gar shrugged. ‘People will talk no matter who I choose. I Since it’s impossible to please everyone I decided to please I myself and let the rest of the beehive buzz itself to I strangulation.’

Fane turned to the Master Magician. ‘What do you think, Durm? Gar’s mad to hire some smelly ruffian he barely | knows anything about to be his personal assistant, isn’t he?’

‘My opinion is irrelevant,’ said Durm, politely smiling, ‘given that.this matter is unrelated to magic’

‘Huh,’ said Fane with a toss of her head. ‘Well, I think he’s utterly deranged. I mean, what could a fisherman stablehand possibly know about anything besides horse manure and fish guts? Gar’s going to be a laughing stock. Which means I’ll be a laughing stock too, because it’s my stupid brother who hired this — this —’

‘Darling …’ said Dana, shaking her head.

Ignoring Fane, Gar stared at his father. ‘I assure you, sir, my decision wasn’t made upon a whim. I’ve given this matter a great deal of thought. I chose Asher carefully, and for good reason.’

The king sat back in his chair, one finger tracing the etched base of his wine goblet. ‘Indeed. And while you were ruminating on your choice did you happen to consider the reaction of a man like Conroyd Jarralt, once the news got out?’

‘There you go being rude about Conroyd Jarralt again,’ said Fane, pulling a face. ‘I wish you’d explain why you don’t like him. / like him. I think he’s very charming and terribly good-looking. Even if he is old enough to be my father.’

Gar turned on her. ‘Charm and good looks being in your tiny little book the most important attributes for leadership!’

She flushed and her eyes glittered dangerously. Lips curved in a poison-sweet smile she said, ‘At least he’s not a cr—’

‘Panel’ said Borne. His fist crashed on the tabletop so that all their goblets and the silverware jumped. Wine splashed, scarlet, on the white damask tablecloth. Fane retreated into sulky silence.