The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  The prince glanced up at him. A flicker of recognition lit his eyes and he nodded. Standing straight, he looped the reins over one arm then dusted his hands on his breeches. ‘So it would appear, Barl be praised.’ He kissed the solid gold holyring on his left forefinger. ‘He was a gift from His Majesty.’

  ‘A grand gift,’ said Asher. ‘Glad I could save ’im for you. I be fine too, by the way. You know. ’Case you were wonderin’.’

  The returning crowd gasped and muttered. A City Guard, his cheeks still pale from what might have been, frowned and stepped closer. The prince held up one hand, halting him, and considered Asher in unsmiling silence. Heart pounding, Asher lifted his chin and considered the prince right back. After a moment, the prince relaxed. Very nearly smiled. ‘Not so fine, I think. Your head is split open and your wits are addled from the blow. Have you taken any other hurt?’

  The crowd buzzed its surprise, pressing to get a closer look at the ramshackle newcomer in such close conversation with royalty. Asher touched cautious fingertips to his eyebrow and shrugged as they came away red. ‘This ain’t nowt. Reckon I’ve had worse shavin’.’ Then he scowled. ‘And my wits ain’t addled, neither.’

  Horrified, the City Guard prodded Asher in the back. ‘Lout! Address the prince as “Your Highness” and show some respect or you’ll find yourself in one of Captain Orrick’s cells!’

  Again the prince lifted a hand. ‘It’s all right, Grimwold. I suspect our reluctant hero isn’t from around these parts.’ Smiling, he pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, then unclipped a leather flask from his saddle and doused the fabric with its pale green contents. ‘Wine,’ he explained, offering it to Asher. ‘It’ll sting, I’m afraid, but that’s better than horse sweat in an open wound. Where are you from, by the way?’

  With a grunt – and if the prince wanted to consider himself thanked, then fine – Asher took the handkerchief and dabbed his face with it. The alcohol burned like fire against his raw flesh; he couldn’t swallow the pained hiss fast enough. ‘Restharven,’ he muttered. ‘Your Highness.’ Face clean of blood and dust, he glared at the soiled handkerchief. ‘Y’want this back?’

  The prince’s lips curved in faint amusement. ‘No. Thank you.’

  Was the king’s son laughing at him? Bastard. ‘Got hundreds, have you?’

  Now the smile was in full bloom. ‘Not quite. But enough that I can lose one and not repine. I’ve never been to Restharven.’

  ‘I know,’ said Asher. Then, prompted by the guard’s glower added, sickly sweet, ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘How is it,’ asked the prince, after a thoughtful pause, ‘that you come to dislike me so thoroughly? And after I’ve given you a pure silk handkerchief, moreover.’

  Asher felt his face heat. Hadn’t Ma always said to him, Asher, that unruly tongue of yours will land you in such trouble one day … ‘Never said I dislike you,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t even know you, do I?’

  The prince nodded. ‘That’s very true. And easily remedied, what’s more. Grimwold?’ The silently scandalised guard snapped off a salute. ‘I believe we’ve provided enough entertainment for now. Move the people about their business. I’d like a private word with this gentleman.’ He turned to Asher. ‘That is unless you’ve pressing business to conduct elsewhere?’

  Asher bit his tongue. Stared into a fine-bred face vivid with amusement, and a challenge. He cleared his throat. ‘No. Your Highness.’

  ‘Excellent!’ declared the prince, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then I shall steal a few minutes of your time with a clear conscience! Grimwold?’

  With an obedient nod Grimwold did as he was told. The crowd dispersed in dribs and drabs, murmuring … and Asher was left alone with the Crown Prince of Lur.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Asher spared the grudgingly moving townsfolk a scathing glance. ‘Load of ole mollygrubbers. You fell off your horse, I caught it for you. Ain’t no need for fuss. Ain’t none of their business, I reckon.’

  Arms folded, head on one side, the prince regarded him with fascination. ‘Do you know, not even my enemies are as rude as you. At least not to my face.’

  Asher stared. Enemies? Since when did a prince have enemies? Then he scowled. ‘Rude? I ain’t rude. I’m just me.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the prince, and laughed. ‘And who would “me” be, exactly?’

  It took Asher a moment to realise the prince was asking his name. Smart-arse. ‘Asher.’

  ‘Well, Asher – from Restharven – it’s certainly refreshing to make your acquaintance. What brings you all the way from the coast to the City?’

  Asher stared. Questions, questions and more bloody questions. Next time he’d let the horse bolt and break all its legs, he surely would. ‘A private matter,’ he said. Then added politely, because say what you like, Ma never raised her sons to be rude, ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘I see,’ said the prince, nodding. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  Asher shrugged. ‘Prob’ly not. I be lookin’ for work.’

  ‘Work?’ The prince raised his pale eyebrows. ‘Hmm. So tell me, Asher. Since you come from Restharven, am I right in thinking you’re a fisherman?’

  ‘Aye.’

  The prince pushed aside his horse’s questing nose. ‘Ah. Well, I can’t say I’ve noticed a lot of fish in Dorana, unless you count the ornamental ones in the palace garden fishponds, and I don’t think my mother would approve of you netting those.’ Another smile, reminiscent this time. ‘Besides, I ate one when I was four and it tasted disgusting.’

  ‘I can do other things aside from fishin’,’ said Asher, goaded.

  ‘Really?’ The prince considered him. ‘Such as?’

  Such as … such as … sailing. Except there weren’t no boats in Dorana, neither. Damn the man. ‘Lots of things. I can … I can …’ Punch you in the nose for askin’ damn fool questions. Which most likely would earn him a night in a cell. Oh well. It’d save him the cost of a room at Verry’s if he had no luck in the Livestock Quarter. ‘I can—’

  A voice, polite but with a brisk air of confidence, said, ‘Your Highness?’

  Asher turned. A woman. Middle height. Maybe a year or three older than himself. Thin. Sharp-faced, sharp-eyed, with an intensity about her that could never be restful. No feminine frippery about her, makeup or jewellery or suchlike. Slung over one bony shoulder a string bag half filled with packages. She glanced at him, an air of disinterest behind the good manners, then returned her attention to the prince.

  He was smiling again. ‘Dathne.’

  She offered him a scarecrowish curtsey, all knees and elbows. ‘Forgive me for intruding, sir, but I saw what happened. I trust Your Highness is unharmed?’

  ‘Aside from the odd bruise to my posterior – and my pride,’ said the prince, rubbing one hip. ‘I should know better than to go tumbling off like that.’

  She shrugged. ‘Accidents happen. Sir, if I may be so impertinent … Matt was saying only last night that what with young Tolliver going back to his family’s farm, he could do with another pair of hands about the stables.’

  ‘Was he indeed?’ The prince turned to Asher. ‘Well?’

  Asher stared. ‘Well, what? Sir?’

  ‘My stable meister is a good man. Strict, but fair. All the lads like him.’ When Asher didn’t reply, the prince added, impatiently, ‘I’m offering you a job.’

  ‘I were goin’ to ask around in the Livestock Quarter.’

  ‘Well then,’ said the prince, grinning, ‘I’ve saved you some shoe leather, haven’t I? So. Are you interested?’

  Careful, careful. Only a fool dives headfirst into strange waters. ‘What if I am?’

  The prince shrugged. ‘Then you’re hired.’ He nodded at the woman, pleased. ‘A lucky coincidence, Dathne.’

  Her lips curved in a faint smile. ‘Yes, Your Highness. Would you like me to see him safe to Matt? You’re on your way somewhere, I think.’

  ‘On my way and horribly late,’ said the
prince. ‘So yes. You could take him up to the Tower. Thank you, Dathne.’ Gathering his reins, he slipped one booted toe into the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle with a lithe grace. ‘Tell Matt to get Asher settled in, and have him send for Nix to see to that cut. You can start your duties proper in the morning, Asher. All right?’

  Taken aback by all the brusque efficiency, Asher nodded. ‘Aye. Sir.’

  ‘Certainly, Your Highness,’ said the bony woman.

  ‘And after you leave the Tower, Dathne, you could stop by the palace and see if the queen is free to speak with you. I believe there’s a book she’s looking for.’

  Another curtsey. ‘It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the prince, and nudged his horse forward.

  Asher stared after him, mouth agape. ‘Wait a minute! You can’t just give me a job and then ride off without so much as a—’

  ‘I can, you know,’ the prince said over his shoulder. ‘It’s one of the few advantages of being royal.’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Asher shouted, and hustled after him, ignoring a handful of staring bystanders and the distantly hovering Grimwold. ‘You ain’t said how much you’ll pay me!’

  The prince swung his horse round. ‘Twenty trins a week, plus suitable work clothes, bed and meals.’

  Asher choked. Twenty trins? Twenty trins? Da had only ever paid him seven, and nearly not that, what with all of brother Zeth’s complaining about him being the youngest with no family of his own to feed. He took a deep breath. ‘Thirty!’

  The prince laughed. ‘Thirty?’

  ‘I saved your precious Ballodair, didn’t I? Sir?’

  Another laugh. ‘And I can see your act of derring-do is going to cost me dearly. Twenty-five, and not a cuick more. Tell Matt. Anything else? Say no.’

  ‘No,’ said Dathne, who’d joined them. ‘Good-day, Your Highness.’

  Asher watched the prince ride out of sight, dumbfounded, then turned to stare at the skinny, interfering woman who’d just got him a job in the Prince of Lur’s stables for the unheard-of sum of twenty-five trins a week, plus clothes and bed and board.

  She grinned. ‘Well, well. It looks like I’m stuck with introducing you to Matt, so let’s get it done, shall we? I’m a very busy bookseller and I don’t have all day.’ She snapped her fingers under his nose and turned on her heel. ‘Follow me.’

  The wine-soaked, bloodstained silk handkerchief was dry now. Asher shoved it into his pocket and followed.

  For all that she was a good head shorter than he, Asher found himself scuttling to keep up with the woman’s impatient haste along the rising High Street that led, apparently, to the palace. The roadway was lined with shops; he would’ve liked to stop for a minute, have a stickybeak through their sparkling windows, but the sinkin’ woman just kept forging ahead as though a shark had plans to swallow her for supper.

  ‘So what’s this Matt like then, eh?’ he asked, hitching his knapsack back onto his shoulder for the fourth time.

  ‘You heard His Highness,’ she replied. ‘He’s an excellent fellow. You’ll like him.’ She spared him a sidelong glance. ‘The question is, will he like you?’

  That stung. ‘Ain’t no call for him not to be likin’ me! Reckon I be as good a man any day as some fancy prince’s stable meister.’

  Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’ Taking him by the sleeve she tugged him off the main thoroughfare and down a quieter side street lined with balconied private dwellings. Just as Hemp had claimed, they were toweringly tall and painted all different colours. ‘This way.’

  Asher stopped staring at one high, narrow house painted yellow – yellow – and stared at the skinny woman instead, suddenly distrustful. He pulled his sleeve free and slowed, almost halting. ‘Where are we goin’? I thought we were headin’ for the palace.’

  ‘We are, more or less,’ she replied. ‘His Highness hasn’t lived in the palace itself since his majority. He has his own separate establishment in the palace grounds now. Going this way saves time.’ She favoured him with a sly grin. ‘Mind you, if I weren’t in a rush I would take you the long way round. Make sure you were in a suitably humbled frame of mind before meeting Meister Matt.’

  Asher scowled. ‘What did the prince say your name were again? Mistress Clever Clogs?’

  Surprisingly, that made her laugh. ‘It’s Dathne,’ she said, and bustled on.

  ‘Ha.’ With a leap he blocked her pell-mell progress along the quiet street. ‘And why would you be interested in doin’ a favour for me, eh, Mistress Dathne? You don’t know me from a hole in the ground.’

  Eyebrows raised again, she looked him up and down. ‘Who said the favour was for you? I thought to help Matt out – but if you’re going to be this disagreeable, could be I’ll think again.’

  ‘Y’can’t!’ said Asher, alarmed, feeling those precious twenty-five weekly trins trickling through his fingers. ‘The prince said—’

  ‘Whatever he said can as easily be unsaid. He doesn’t interfere with Matt’s running of the stables, so long as he’s happy with how the horses are looking. And trust me, His Highness is very happy. If Matt says he won’t have you then you’ll be out on your ear, Meister Fisherman, and all for the sake of a little civility. Is that what you want?’

  After a struggling moment, Asher shook his head. ‘Never said that. I just like to know where I stand, Dathne. That’s all. Don’t like owin’ folk. Especially strangers.’

  She favoured him with an enigmatic smile. ‘But we’re not strangers, Asher. And as for owing me … well.’ Pushing him to one side, she started walking again. ‘I’m sure if I put my mind to it, I’ll be able to come up with some way for you to pay me back.’

  Asher stared after her, mouth open. Did she mean …? He hoped not. Skinny lemon-tongued shrews weren’t his catch of mackerel, not by a netful they weren’t. And then he pushed the thought aside, because she was turning another corner and in a moment he’d have lost her, and what kind of an impression would that make, eh, with his twenty-five trins still hanging in the balance?

  Hoisting his knapsack to safety yet again, he hurried to catch up.

  The palace grounds were enormous. Stretching the entire width of the walled City, they were girded by an impressive pale cream sandstone wall with a number of entrances each guarded by a pair of liveried Olken resplendent in crimson and gold. The two sentries decorating the gates that Dathne led him towards straightened at their approach, smiling.

  ‘Morning to you, Mistress Dathne,’ they murmured, waving her under the stone archway with a single, disciplined glance for the unkempt stranger tagging at her heels.

  ‘And to you, Pamfret, Brogan,’ Dathne replied. Taking Asher’s elbow again, she hustled him along a raked blue gravel pathway that wound through lavish garden beds.

  After the hubbub of the market square and their breathless rush up the sloping High Street, the garden’s tranquillity was like a cool draught of ale. Asher reclaimed his elbow and slowed, sucking in the perfumed air. Took a moment to consider his surroundings. To his far right rose the pure white walls of the palace, and to his left, just visible behind a belt of massive oak trees, a single column of midnight blue stone pointed fingerlike to the sky.

  Dathne caught him staring at it. ‘The Prince’s Tower.’

  ‘You mean he lives up there?’

  ‘And works. Why? What’s wrong with that?’

  Skin crawling, Asher stared at the stone spire. ‘Houses ain’t s’posed to be tall,’ he muttered, remembering Restharven’s cosy stone cottages. ‘It ain’t natural. What if it fell down?’

  Dathne laughed. ‘It’s nearly three hundred years old, Asher. If it was going to tumble it would have done so long before now. Besides, the Doranen don’t build anything without stitching it up tight with magic. Trust me, it’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘You’ve been in there?’

  ‘Of course I have.’ She started walking again, fingers pluck
ing at his sleeve to keep him with her. ‘Dozens of times. I often have books the prince finds interesting. He’s probably the finest scholar in the kingdom, you know. Reads the original Doranen texts as fluently as if they’d been written yesterday.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ said Asher, profoundly uninterested. ‘Good for him.’

  She looked at him sidelong, one eyebrow raised, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. ‘Do you like books?’

  He’d never owned a book in his life. He could read, after a fashion; Ma had insisted on enough schooling for that, at least, before the wasting sickness whittled her to bones and eyes and put her in the ground. Once she was dead and gone, though, the sea had swallowed him whole and school had become a haphazard affair, his days there as scattered as flotsam on Bottlenose Beach. He shrugged. ‘Books? Don’t think on ’em much one way or the other.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Too busy fishing, I expect.’

  Was she laughing at him? He glared. ‘Fishin’s a grand life. I ain’t found one grander.’

  ‘Did I say it wasn’t?’ She raised her hands in mock surrender. ‘You’re too easily prickled, Asher of Restharven. I don’t know anything of where you come from. Could be you’re the most important man in the village, and if that’s so then I’m pleased for you. But a word to the wise now. Here you’re the new boy and Matt won’t stand for brangling. It upsets the horses, and in his eyes there’s no greater sin. Is your skin so tender you can’t take a little teasing?’

  Asher felt himself burn. With six brothers unloving and Da pickled and stewed and blinded with grief, he’d learned early to meet aggravation with greater aggravation or pay a heavy price. He scowled. ‘Any brangling won’t be ’cause I started it. A body’s got a right to earn a livin’ without havin’ to sleep with one eye open ’cause some iggerant shit-shoveller can’t leave well enough alone. And if your precious Matt ain’t a man to see that, then I’ll turn round right now and find m’self a different job.’