The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  None of that, he suspected, could be said of being the prince’s Assistant Olken Administrator.

  ‘And what happens if I say I’ll do it, and after a week of workin’ hand in glove we be hatin’ each other’s guts?’

  ‘Then you can go back to the stables for as long as you like, and I’ll find somebody else to assist me.’

  Or he could just find somebody else now and be done with it. Let them worry about the politics and the polite conversation and the sorting out of a hundred people’s problems day in day out …

  Except it were fifty trins a week. And Cygnet.

  ‘Look,’ said the prince. ‘It’s a lot to consider, I know. And I’ve sprung it upon you without warning. Why not take the night to think it over? You can give me your answer in the morning. I’ll be exercising Ballodair first thing, you can tell me then. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Asher, relieved.

  The prince nodded. ‘Good. Now we’d best be getting along before somebody panics and sends out a search party.’

  In silent accord they continued along the road. At the entrance to the Tower forecourt they parted, the prince disappearing into the tall blue building, Asher breaking into a jog to reach the stables before Matt lost all patience and had his guts for garters. It was almost dark by then, and clouding over. The warm air pressed damp and heavy against his skin.

  Though the inside of his skull was battered with conflicting thoughts and feelings, within the chaos he felt a fleeting moment of curiosity about the king. Borne the WeatherWorker, decreed by Barl to carry the weight of the Wall and their world upon his flesh-and-bone shoulders. Even now, while the rest of Lur busied itself with heedless living, in the secret place where all such wild magics were conjured the prince’s father prepared to offer himself in the service of his people, Olken and Doranen alike.

  Prepared to call the night’s rain.

  Exhausted, the prince had called him.

  Asher shivered, and jogged along a little faster.

  The stable yard was a puddle of light in the gathering gloom. Unheeded, he stood in the shadow of the sandstone archway and watched the other lads as they bustled back and forth across the lamplit gravel, carrying feed and hay and rugs, scoffing and laughing and tossing jokes to each other in passing. He watched the horses, too, his other new friends. Stared hungrily at Cygnet, gleaming like a pearl.

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ an exasperated voice said behind him, ‘we’ve already got ourselves a scarecrow. And the last time I looked we didn’t need a guard dog. So what d’you think you’re doing standing there with your thumb up your arse while all the lads are running their feet off for evening stables? Which are late as it is, seeing how we were short-handed all afternoon. Where’ve you been, anyway?’

  Matt.

  Asher turned. ‘Justice Hall.’

  ‘Justice Hall?’

  ‘Aye, and it be all your fault. What did you want to go witterin’ on to the prince about me for, eh? All that guff about me bein’ so reliable and hardworkin’ and clever? I never asked you to praise me to royalty, did I? Never said I were lookin’ for work other than what I got here? If y’had to say somethin’, why not that I’m no better or worse than I should be? Eh? It’s the truth.’

  Matt walked past him and into the yard proper. ‘Prince Gar offered you another position?’ His voice was calm, conversational, but there was tension in the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers held tight to his belt.

  ‘Aye.’ Asher took a step forward himself so he could see Matt’s face. ‘Some blather about bein’ his right-hand man up in the Tower. He’s bein’ announced as the Olken Administrator, see. Says he wants, me as his official assistant.’ Too late, he remembered. ‘Oh. Damn.’ He pulled a face. Lowered his voice. ‘Weren’t s’posed to mention that. Don’t tell anyone, eh?’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Matt. ‘I’m good with secrets.’

  ‘Aye, well, so’m I s’posed to be, if I do this job. And there’s me blurtin’ out the first one he trusts me with!’

  Matt half smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry over-much. It gets easier as you go along.’ The smile faded, and his gaze shifted until he was staring far into the distance at the mellow golden glow of Barl’s Wall rising out of the mountains. For a moment some strong and secret emotion bleached the colour from his tanned face so that all of a sudden he looked old and weary. Then the moment passed and he was himself again, wry and purposeful and full of spirit. ‘What he’s offering you … it’s a big compliment. And a big step. Did you accept?’

  ‘I said I’d think on it,’ said Asher, shrugging. ‘And I will. But I don’t know, Matt. Aye, the money’s bloody good and the work sounds interestin’, I s’pose, but … I’m happy here. I ain’t one of them fancy folderol Olken as works up in the Tower, like Darran or that pissant Willer. Reckon I’ll stick out there like an eel in a bowl of goldfish. I mean, I don’t want to go makin’ a bloody great fool of m’self, do I?’

  ‘I reckon it’s only natural to feel a little fear when a prince makes you an offer like this. There’s a lot at stake.’

  ‘This ain’t got nowt to do with fear!’ said Asher, offended. ‘I be weighin’ the fors and againsts, is all, like any sensible man should.’ He kicked at the raked gravel. ‘Like I said, this be all your fault. Reckon he never would’ve thought of me if you hadn’t flapped your lips at him.’

  Matt took a deep, considering breath and let it out with care. ‘If His Highness is as good a judge of a man as he is of horseflesh, Asher, and I suspect he is, then he knows the right one for a job when he sees him. I doubt I had much to do with this at all. Some things are just … meant to be.’

  The mosquitoes were starting to whine; Asher slapped one to death against his bare forearm and scowled at the smear of blood it left behind. ‘So y’reckon I should say yes, eh?’

  ‘I reckon,’ said Matt, unsmiling, ‘you should talk it over with someone else. Could be I’m not the best person to ask.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who else do you trust?’

  Asher tugged at his bottom lip, thinking. ‘Reckon I trust Dathne,’ he said reluctantly. ‘She drives me near to distraction with her pokin’ and proddin’ and expectin’ me to widen my horizons, read all those books she keeps on givin’ me and then answer bloody questions after, but I trust her. She may be slumskumbledy but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, I’ll give her that.’

  Matt looked away. ‘Yes. You could talk to Dathne. I’m sure she’ll tell you …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What she thinks,’ said Matt, and looked back again. ‘She’ll be down at the Goose in an hour or so. And you’ll be finished around here by then.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Asher. Confide in Dathne, eh? Dathne was so sharp it was a wonder she didn’t cut herself twice a day. Sharp, and never short of an opinion. She’d surely have an idea or three of what he should do. What all this could mean. And over the weeks she’d become an unlikely friend. ‘Mayhap I will ask her at that.’

  Matt clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good. Now help the lads finish off evening stables, will you? It’ll be raining any minute, and I’ve got the red mare to physic, a loose buckle to sew back on a rug and an order for feed to write up. I don’t have time to stand around gossiping, and neither do you. Even if this does look to be your last night getting your hands dirty with the rest of us.’ He smiled, then, just a little, to take the sting out of his words … but Asher could sense a chill beneath it. Where it came from he didn’t know.

  And he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, either.

  Two hours later he was sitting in a booth opposite Dathne, spooning the Goose’s fragrant mutton stew onto slabs of fresh brown bread and telling her all about the prince’s remarkable offer, this time without a mention of what the job was actually called.

  Like Matt, Dathne was impressed. Unlike Matt, she was admiring too.

  He liked that.

  ‘And you didn’t say yes on the spot
? Asher!’ Reaching across the benchtop, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. ‘You must be fevered.’

  Despite the stomach-growling goodness of the stew, he scowled. ‘Reckon I be the kind of fool what jumps into new water without testin’ the depth first, do you?’

  Dathne shrugged. ‘No. But are you the kind of a fool who turns down fifty trins a week just because he thinks he’s a better man than a prince in pretty clothes?’

  He tossed his spoon into the stew pot and banged his fist beside it. ‘I never said I thought I were better. Reckon he’s all right, for a Doranen.’

  ‘If he’s willing to pay you fifty trins a week, would it matter if he wasn’t?’

  Asher pulled the pot close again and shovelled in the last few mouthfuls. Buying some time. ‘It might.’

  ‘So you do want the job?’

  ‘Don’t reckon as I’ve decided one way or another yet.’ He brooded into the empty pot. ‘It does matter, him bein’ a good man. And he is. Y’could see Justice Hall were important to him. Getting it right. Being fair. He cared about that. Y’could see he takes it serious.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ she said encouragingly.

  ‘Aye!’ he retorted. ‘But that ain’t really the point, eh? I only just got m’self settled good and proper in the stables. All this choppin’ and changin’ be enough to make a body seasick, I swear!’

  Dathne took a deep draught of ale from her tankard, smacked her lips together and considered him with her head tipped to one side. ‘So do you really want to know what I think, or am I just here to be shouted and banged at?’

  Asher felt his cheeks heat. ‘I ain’t shoutin’. Might’ve banged once or twice. Whole thing’s took me by surprise, all right?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Dathne, rolling her eyes. ‘If it’s living in the Tower that’s got you worried, don’t be. For a prince, His Highness maintains a remarkably informal household. I’m sure you’ll fit right in. Of course Darran won’t like you, but who cares? He won’t be paying you.’

  Asher’s jaw tightened aggressively. ‘Who said I be worried? And I don’t care if that ole Darran likes me or not.’

  She smiled. ‘Good for you. So … is it you’re afraid you’ll fail?’

  ‘No, I ain’t afraid I’ll fail! I ain’t failed at a single thing I ever put my mind to, startin’ with lacin’ my own boots when I were a spratling of three. Why’s everybody thinkin’ I be afraid?’

  ‘Well, it’s only natural, isn’t it?’ Dathne eyed him over the top of her tankard. ‘A rustic young fellow like you thrown in the deep end with Doranen royalty. Put in charge of all kinds of important, secret things. Surely it’d be odd if you weren’t afraid.’

  A hot bubble of outrage swelled in his chest, then burst into angry words. ‘Rustic? You reckon I be rustic?’

  Dathne’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Me? Of course not. But then I know you, don’t I?’

  He banged the benchtop again and leaned close. A few heads turned at nearby booths, curious. He ignored them.

  ‘You know bloody nowt if y’reckon I be afraid to do this job just ’cause I were born in a small fishing village days and days from this here fancy big city!’ he said hotly. ‘Let me tell you a thing or two about fishin’, missy.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Dathne, and put down her tankard. ‘I’m all ears.’

  Her gentle sarcasm was lost on him. Eyes burning, fists braced on the benchtop, he leaned even closer. ‘The coast of this kingdom be the only place left what sees weather the way it used to be. The way it were afore the Doranen came. Uncalled. Untamed. Wild. The spells Barl put in Dragonteeth Reef keep us invisible, and that be all. They don’t stop nature. We get storms along the coast, blowin’ in from the open ocean, blowin’ over the coral and teeth-first into our faces. Water twisters what can suck up a whole boat and all her crew to the last man or boy and spit ’em out again in pieces. Hailstones big as your head. Giant waves just itchin’ to slap you down like a hand of iron. Winds that’ll blow you right clean out of your boots, and sleet to slice y’to the bone.’

  ‘It sounds terrifying,’ murmured Dathne.

  ‘Aye, it bloody well is! But it don’t stop us. We respect it, but we ain’t afraid.’ He jabbed a pointed finger at her. ‘And that be why the WeatherWorker comes to us every year for Sea Harvest Festival. ’Cause the WeatherWorkers know we be different from other Olken. Aye, and from all the Doranen too. The WeatherWorkers know us fishin’ folk face the weather their precious magic can’t tame, and we survive it.’

  She stared at him, her intensity so fierce it fairly crackled in her hair. ‘You’re proud of that, aren’t you? Proud that your people are the closest to what we all were before the Doranen came.’

  ‘Course I am,’ he retorted. ‘Who wouldn’t be? The storms what blow inland run smack bang into the Weather Magic no more’n half a mile from the water, and it kills ’em stone dead. They never reach the next nearest town or village. So aside from us fishin’ folk, there ain’t a man, woman or child in this whole kingdom knows what wild weather be like. What Lur used to be. Those folk livin’ close enough to the coast to find out, Olken and Doranen, they hear thunder on our horizon and hide ’emselves under their beds till it’s gone.’

  ‘You’re scornful … but can you blame them?’ said Dathne. ‘Is it their fault they weren’t born fishermen? Thanks to Barl and the WeatherWorkers, the people of this kingdom have lived for more than six hundred years in peaceful prosperity, looking upon the weather as a friend. A gift. As a tool to be used, like any hammer or nail or needle. Not as something unsafe, or lethal. Even if you could, would you change that? Give the kingdom back its wild weather? Break the chains of magic and abandon us all to chaos? To hurricane and earthquake? Famine, flood and drought?’

  Scornful. Frowning, all pent-up indignation released, Asher sat back and rubbed the tip of one forefinger across the grain of the wooden benchtop. ‘Don’t be daft. Why’d I want to do a thing like that?’ He looked up. ‘And I don’t blame no-one for nowt. I’m just sayin’ it ain’t right to go around disrespectin’ folk ’cause they ain’t all City-born and sophisticated, like.’

  ‘I never said I disrespected you. And it’s good to know you don’t disrespect yourself either. Asher …’ Dathne hesitated, her dark eyes sombre. ‘The day we met, I said you were too easily prickled. And you were. Has that changed? Because there’ll be people who say, to your face and to your back, that they could do this job better. That the prince should’ve asked them. That you’re an upstart rustic who should’ve stayed in the stables or, better yet, on your da’s leaky little boat far away from here. And instead of shouting, or thumping tables or even, Barl forbid, thumping them, you’ll need to smile and walk away. Can you do that?’

  He glowered at her. ‘My da’s boat don’t leak. And I don’t care two tubs of fish guts what other folks say. I be good enough for the prince, and that’s all I care about. I can do whatever he asks.’

  Considering him thoughtfully she said, ‘Does that mean you’ll say yes?’

  He shook his head. Shrugged. ‘I d’know …’

  Reaching across the table, she patted his arm. Her touch through his thick cotton sleeve was warm and familiar. It shivered him, somewhere deep inside. ‘Oh, come on,’ she coaxed. ‘At least give the job a try. All bluster aside, you know you want to. If only to prove to all those folk you don’t care about that they’re wrong. And he said you could go back to the stables if it didn’t work out, didn’t he?’

  He sniffed. ‘Talk’s cheap.’

  ‘I’ll agree that nothing is certain save sunshine and rain,’ she said carefully, ‘but for what it’s worth, Asher, I believe Prince Gar is a man of his word. And I think you do, too.’

  He couldn’t deny it. ‘I s’pose.’

  She sat back again, eyebrows raised. ‘Look at it this way. If you don’t give this new job a chance you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been. And you’ll be a lot poo
rer while you’re wondering it. Fifty trins a week? That’s not a sum to be sneezed at.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Asher. ‘Easy enough for you to say. You ain’t the one lookin’ at lace on his collar and seven forks to eat a bowl of soup.’ He scratched his chin, then shoved his emptied stew pot to one side. ‘Reckon I’m done here.’

  She smiled. She had a nice smile, when it wasn’t pretending to be an unsheathed dagger. ‘You’re welcome.’

  With a nod, he slid out from behind the benchtop and shouldered his way across the Goose’s crowded dance floor.

  Dathne watched him go. ‘Missy?’ she said to herself, remembering, and laughed.

  Asher opened the door and was lost to the mizzling night. He didn’t see Matt lurking nearby in the shadows, waiting for him to leave.

  Dathne looked up as the stable meister approached her habitual corner. Her eyes were triumphant.

  ‘So.’

  ‘Just tell me,’ said Matt, easing onto the seat Asher had abandoned, ‘that you had nothing to do with it.’

  Her straight black eyebrows shot up indignantly. ‘Of course I didn’t! But at least now you have to admit that what I did do turned out to be the right thing. He’s about to enter the House of the Usurper. Prophecy continues.’

  Matt sighed. ‘He said he’d take the job, then?’

  ‘No. But he will. I told him he should, and he wants to. All that lovely money.’ She laughed softly, and swallowed some more ale. ‘And though I suspect he’d die before admitting it, he’s proud as punch the prince has asked him. In fact, my friend, I’d say nine-tenths of that young man’s backbone is nothing but pride.’ She paused, her expression thoughtful. ‘Which isn’t such a bad thing, provided it’s put to good use.’

  Matt rubbed his eyes. ‘There’ll be folks none too pleased to see a stable lad elevated so far above the rest of us. He’s bound to lose some friends over this. Or worse, make enemies.’

  Dathne shrugged. ‘He’s not here to be popular. He’s here to fulfil Prophecy.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘What? That I told him what would serve my purposes before his?’ Another shrug. ‘I’m not here to be popular either, Matt.’