The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘Who seeks my judgement in this matter?’ asked the prince.

  A young woman seated at the right-hand table stood. She was short and plump, her dress an unflattering shade of custard yellow. ‘I do, Your Highness.’

  The prince nodded. At the small desk Lady Marnagh closed her eyes and twice passed her left hand across the stack of paper before her. Orange sparks ignited, flared and faded. She returned her hand to her lap and glanced at the prince.

  ‘State your name and place of residence for the records,’ he said.

  ‘Mistress Raite of Deephollow Vale, Your Highness.’

  Asher pressed his face to the gallery’s screen. Just barely, he saw orange fire dance across the top sheet of paper. A single line of words glowed for a moment then winked out.

  So. Who needed pen and ink when magic could be had at the snap of the fingers?

  ‘Thank you. Be seated,’ said the prince. ‘Who contests your claim?’

  At the other table a middle-aged Olken man leapt to his feet. ‘Me, Your Highness! I contest my cousin’s ridiculous, ungrateful complaint!’

  He was tall and broomstick thin. His satin suit, frothed with lace at neck and wrists, was a bilious pea-green. Asher pulled a face; looked like colour blindness ran in the family.

  The prince frowned. ‘I requested your name and place of residence, not your legal opinion.’

  Even from halfway up the wall and behind a screen, Asher could see the man’s face turn tomato red. He grinned. So the king’s son had a bite in him, eh? That was interesting. He’d been thinking all that silk and velvet might’ve softened the prince’s sinews.

  Useful to know that wasn’t the case.

  And what kind of a sinkin’ fool was the pea-green man, to set up the prince’s hackles against him in the first few minutes?

  ‘Meister Brenin, Your Highness,’ the cousin said. He sounded perilously close to sulky. ‘From Tolton-by-the-Marsh.’

  As the man sat down again, whispering to one of his cronies at the table, the prince turned his attention to the young Olken woman. ‘Very well. Mistress Raite, for the record, state your complaint.’

  Flustered but resolute the woman stood again. The man seated beside her – husband? brother? too young to be her da, any road – reached for her hand, squeezed it tight, then let go. Asher leaned back in his chair, propped his heels on the railing inside the gallery’s screen and prepared to be entertained.

  The trouble had started when word was sent to Mistress Raite of her Uncle Vorlye’s mortal illness. He was dying, and there wasn’t a herb or potion in the kingdom to save him. Would she be able to nurse the poor soul in his fading days? Cousin Brenin was a busy man, with no wife at hand to shoulder the burden. Of course it meant three hours a day of travel, but they were family, weren’t they? A good woman mindful of Barl’s Laws would surely ignore a little inconvenience for the sake of a dying man.

  What of the hospice in Salting Town, a mere half-hour from Tolton-by-the-Marsh? the prince wanted to know. It was a fine facility; he had attended its dedication by Her Majesty and Royal Barlsman Holze just last summer. The Barl’s Brethren there were devoted to nursing the sick and dying. Uncle Vorlye would have been well cared for, and Mistress Raite not put to so much hardship. Meister Brenin?

  Blustering, Meister Brenin pointed out that the Barl’s Brethren, doubtless holy folk to the youngest novice, couldn’t be held the same as a man’s family, Your Highness.

  Not to mention family wouldn’t ask for a donation of fifteen trins a week towards the costs of ministering to a dying man, was the prince’s dry observation. Asher snickered approvingly; he liked a man with a sense of humour.

  Next, Mistress Raite became a trifle agitated. It seemed that dear Uncle Vorlye, who remained well in his right mind up to the very end, was so touched by her tender care that he saw fit to leave her a little something in his will.

  ‘A little something?’ her cousin snarled. ‘The bloody woman addled his wits, Your Highness! Tricked him into leaving her half his fortune! A scurrilous villainy of wickedness it was, sir, and the District Magister agreed! He overturned that poxy will in a matter of moments and fined the wretched woman accordingly. Only by a miracle did she escape a harsher penalty!’

  ‘Peace, Meister Brenin,’ the prince said coolly. ‘Your turn will come.’ He turned to Mistress Raite. ‘You have good reason for refusing to accept Barl’s Justice in this matter?’

  Mistress Raite’s chin lifted. ‘Yes, Your Highness. I’m innocent. The legacy was two hundred trins, not half his fortune, and I never asked for a cuick of it.’

  ‘Yet the District Magister upheld your cousin’s claim.’

  ‘Yes, he did, Your Highness,’ she agreed. ‘And that would have nowt to do with how the District Magister and my cousin hunt regular together every week through winter, or play catch-ball in the lighter months, or race each other to the bottom of a wine barrel three nights out of six, now would it?’

  Asher dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, impressed. Convicted and custard yellow she might be, but Mistress Raite was a persuasive speaker. He couldn’t see a skerrick of guile in her. Just honest distress.

  Staring down at the prince’s shuttered face he tried to figure what the king’s son was thinking. Was he convinced by Mistress Raite’s tale of woe, or not? There was no way of telling; all thought and feeling were locked tight behind his Lawgiver’s mask.

  The prince was silent for long moments, considering. Then he looked at Meister Brenin. ‘Mistress Raite speaks the truth? You and this District Magister are friends?’

  Meister Brenin looked down his nose. ‘We are, Your Highness.’ His lips curved into a thin, self-satisfied smile. ‘I have many friends, sir. I am a man of influence and standing in Tolton-by-the-Marsh.’

  The prince’s answering smile glittered like a naked sword. ‘We are not in Tolton-by-the-Marsh, Meister Brenin.’

  Asher swallowed a hoot of amusement as Meister Brenin flinched. ‘I was unaware that such a friendship was frowned upon, Your Highness,’ the man said stiffly.

  ‘Friendship is never frowned upon, Meister Brenin.’ The prince’s faint emphasis on the word ‘friendship’ wasn’t lost on his audience; Meister Brenin wilted. The prince let his cold gaze linger a moment longer on the man’s downcast face, then looked at Mistress Raite. ‘You have speakers present who will attest to the truth of your claims?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  The prince nodded. ‘Then let them be heard.’

  One by one, Mistress Raite’s speakers rose and confirmed her version of events. When they were done, excited whispering from the audience drowned the silence and had to be quelled by the guards.

  Called upon to answer the accusations, Meister Brenin lost his temper and swore at Mistress Raite. The prince cautioned him. On second thoughts, Meister Brenin’s speakers declined to exercise their tongues on his behalf. Meister Brenin swore at them, and was given a final warning. Meister Brenin subsided, cowed at last.

  ‘This hearing will pause while I withdraw and consider the charges and evidence laid before me,’ announced the prince. ‘Due to the sensitive matters raised this afternoon, the City Guards will prevent the withdrawal of any person here attending, until my judgement is rendered.’ Taking the hammer, he struck it against the golden bell three times.

  On cue, the guards on either side of the Hall’s double doors took two steps towards each other and extended their arms. There was a thunk of iron against iron as their pikes met in a cross between them. The exit was barred.

  Asher grimaced. The way things were going, there’d be a whole lot of folks sitting with their legs crossed before this day was done.

  Lady Marnagh, released from monitoring the magically recorded proceedings, pushed her chair back and stood. In response, everyone followed suit. Once the last man had found his feet the prince stepped down from his dais. As the platform lifted him to seclusion, Asher whooshed his lungs empty of a
ir and sagged in his seat.

  Well, sink him bloody sideways. If anyone had told him an afternoon in Justice Hall could be exciting, he’d have laughed.

  Abruptly tired of sitting, he leapt up and marched the length of the gallery, arms swinging. Below, the hearing’s captive attendees buzzed like bees in a stick-poked hive. A wise decision, to keep them penned until a judgement was reached. They’d be off and prattling on this in a heartbeat, given half a chance, embroidering and embellishing the plain facts like a pack of ole biddies in a sewing circle.

  ‘Well?’ said the prince’s cool voice behind him. ‘What do you think so far?’

  Asher turned. ‘What are you doin’ here, sir? Ain’t you s’posed to be cogitatin’ your decision?’

  The prince considered him, the faintest of smiles warming his eyes. He was still draped in the gold and crimson robe, but the heavy crown had been set aside.

  ‘You’re not in the least bit in awe of me, are you? Even now.’

  Fidgeting, suspicious, Asher said, ‘Is that another way of sayin’ I’m rude? Sir?’

  ‘Not … exactly. Perhaps forthright would be a better word. Or independent.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I was just surprised to see you, is all.’

  The prince nodded. ‘I’m here because I’m interested in your opinion of how I should rule in this matter.’

  Heedless of protocol, Asher dropped into the nearest chair. It was that or fall down completely. ‘My opinion?’

  ‘Yes.’ If the prince cared that Asher sat while he was standing, he didn’t say so. ‘Why should I believe Mistress Raite over her cousin Meister Brenin?’

  ‘Aside from the fact he’s a fartin’ fool, y’mean?’ said Asher, grinning. ‘And not a one of his fine friends’ll stand up for him?’ When the prince’s grave expression didn’t alter he sobered, and tried to think of a sensible answer. ‘Well … he’s rich, and he reckons that makes him better than folk who ain’t. He used drinkin’ and sportin’ with the Magister to do down a woman who nigh on killed herself, I reckon, lookin’ after his da, when his da should’ve been his concern, and he disrespected his da’s wishes when he did it.’ He snorted. ‘Just to snatch back two hundred trins, which from the sound of it would mean nowt to him, and all to her.’

  ‘I see,’ said the prince, nodding. ‘So even if he were in the right, and she were in the wrong, it wouldn’t matter because he’s rich and he’ll never miss two hundred trins?’

  ‘I never said that,’ Asher protested. ‘Don’t you go puttin’ words in my mouth. Sir. Point I’m tryin’ to make here is he’s mean, as well as twisty.’

  ‘Twisty?’

  ‘He turned the law into a pair of hobnailed boots, and then he kicked her with ’em,’ said Asher slowly, scowling with concentration. ‘That ain’t what it’s for. The law’s for helpin’ folks do the right thing by each other, so’s we can all live side by side without bangin’ each other in the shins over piddlin’ trifles. Or takin’ what ain’t ours just ’cause we want it. And if it can be bought for the price of a wine barrel, it ain’t worth nowt at all.’

  ‘Then if not the price of a wine barrel, Asher, what? What monetary value can we assign to the law?’

  ‘Well … y’can’t,’ said Asher. ‘The law’s priceless. That be the whole point of it. I thought. Sir.’

  The prince took a moment to adjust the folds of his robe. Then, as he turned to leave, he said, ‘This business shouldn’t take much longer. You’ll be home in time for supper.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Asher, bemused. ‘Aye. Right. That’s good, sir. Sir? What—’

  But the prince was gone.

  ‘Sink the bloody man,’ muttered Asher, and jumped up to resume his pacing.

  He’d marched there and back along the gallery five more times when the prince, once again wearing the crown, returned to the Hall and the hearing continued. After thanking the audience for their forbearance, the prince declared himself ready to render judgement. Mistress Raite and her cousin Meister Brenin stood and waited. The Hall was so silent Asher could hear a trapped fly battering at a nearby window, and voices in the street outside.

  Judgement, said the prince sternly, fell in favour of Mistress Raite of Deephollow Vale. She was free to leave the City with her good name intact; all findings previously rendered against her were expunged, and fines made void. The bequest of two hundred trins accepted in good faith would be restored to her forthwith.

  As for Meister Brenin, he was to remain in Dorana, in the custody of the guardhouse, while further investigations into matters arising from this hearing were undertaken. He could expect charges to be laid against him in due course. A summons for his friend the District Magister was even now on its way to Tolton-by-the-Marsh; they would be sharing a cell by sunset tomorrow.

  The golden bell rang out three times. And that was that.

  The prince withdrew to his private gallery. His departure released every trapped tongue in the Hall. As a score of excited conversations dinned the air, two guards took possession of a shocked and silent Meister Brenin. Mistress Raite took a step towards him, hands outstretched, face creased with concern. Her cousin’s soundless snarl scurried her to the shelter of her companion’s arm – husband for sure, Asher thought – and the congratulations of her witnesses and friends. Meister Brenin was escorted from the Hall through the door in the wall behind the dais.

  Lady Marnagh approached Mistress Raite and her husband. After a brief conversation they followed her through the same door. A moment later a young Olken man entered, retrieved the official record from the small table, and left again. With the Hall’s double doors once more unbarred and open, the still excited, still voluble crowd of onlookers dribbled out. The doors were closed behind them, and the remaining City Guards left through the door that had swallowed their fellows.

  Asher was alone.

  He waited. When nobody came to collect him from the gallery, he made his own way back behind the red velvet curtain and down the wooden stairs to the rear of the Hall. There he found the prince in deep and solemn conversation with Lady Marnagh. Both had removed their ceremonial robes. The prince glanced at him, held up a finger, and continued talking. Asher couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Eventually he finished. Lady Marnagh nodded, bowed and without so much as a glance in Asher’s direction returned to the room she’d been in when he and the prince arrived. The door thumped shut behind her.

  ‘Home,’ said the prince. He looked tired.

  The carriage was waiting for them. Sunk in thought, scowling out of the window as it carried them back to the Tower, Asher was only reminded of the prince’s presence when his employer cleared his throat and said, ‘Well?’

  He sounded amused. Startled, Asher pulled his gaze away from the passing faces and buildings. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do you agree with my decision or not?’

  Feeling suddenly cautious, Asher examined his knees. ‘Don’t reckon it be for me to agree or disagree.’

  ‘Asher!’ The prince appeared shocked. ‘Please, don’t go getting shy on me now.’

  ‘Shy? I ain’t shy. I just reckon there’s one of us in this carriage as shovels shit for a livin’ and there’s another what wears a crown in Justice Hall, and last time I looked I didn’t see no crown in my boot-box.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you’re not possessed of an opinion,’ the prince replied. ‘I’d like to hear it.’

  Perplexed, exasperated, Asher sat back and stared. ‘And I’d like to know what’s got you so interested in the opinions of a fisherman stable hand. Sir.’

  The prince grinned. ‘That’s more like it. I’ll tell you what. You answer my question and I’ll answer yours. Fair?’

  ‘Fair,’ Asher said grudgingly. ‘Right then. My opinion, for what it be worth, is it were right to find in Mistress Raite’s favour.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I don’t know why you said she were to get the two hundred trins and nowt more. That miserable blood
y cousin of hers be a rich bastard, and where he’s goin’ he won’t be needin’ a pile of money. Not to mention he caused her a right load of heartache, one way and another. Reckon he should be punished for that.’

  ‘And he will be,’ the prince said quietly. ‘Meister Brenin and his friend the Magister conspired to pervert the course of Barl’s Justice. I promise you, Asher, when this is over they’ll be sorry they ever met.’

  ‘So where’s the harm in makin’ him give her more than the two hundred trins? That sort needs punchin’ in the purse, if you reckon to drive the message right home. I know. We got one just like him back in Restharven.’

  The prince sighed. ‘Remember what you said about the law being priceless? It’s the same with justice. The uncle wanted his niece to receive two hundred trins. The cousin took that money away, and I restored it to her. I also restored her good name in the eyes of the kingdom. That is justice. But to give her more than that would be to flout her uncle’s expressed desire. Worse. It would be to say there is money to be made in defending Barl’s Laws. I can’t condone or encourage that. The Laws must be honoured and upheld because it’s right to do so, not profitable.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Asher. ‘Good point, that.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree.’ The prince sounded sincere.

  Pleased, and determined not to show it, Asher shrugged. ‘Still reckon it be a right shame you didn’t get to kick ’im in the purse strings, though.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine it would’ve been fun,’ the prince said gravely.

  Asher glared. Was that a joke at his expense? The prince’s expression was politely patient, so … prob’ly not. He grunted. ‘All right. I answered your question. Now you can answer mine. Sir.’

  ‘Why do I care so much about your opinions?’

  ‘Aye.’

  The prince looked out of the carriage window. They’d turned into the palace grounds. The Tower wasn’t far away. Reaching up, he tugged on a red cord dangling above his head beside the blue bell-rope. A hinged flap fell open.

  ‘Matcher?’ the prince called through it.

  From above them, the coachman’s startled voice said, ‘Your Highness? Is owt wrong, sir?’