by Karen Miller
Vengeance will not serve us, child.
Dathne took a deep, rib-creaking breath. Let it hiss out again between her clenched teeth. ‘Our survival, Lur’s survival, rests on the nerve of an idiot whose arrogant recklessness has brought us to the brink of disaster. We hang by a thread, Veira. At all costs, the damage must be contained. Vengeance has nothing to do with it.’
Perhaps not. But anger does. Do not let it lead you astray.
‘Are you saying I have no right to be angry?’
Of course not. Nor should you think yourself alone in your fury.
Which was true. Through the link, beneath the muffling pain for an old friend’s agony, she could feel Veira’s rage. Though frightening it also gave her a strange measure of comfort. Allowed her to step away from her own feelings and focus on what was most important.
‘We can’t allow this to distract us from our purpose, Veira. No matter the public outcry, the increased scrutiny, the fear and doubt this will rouse in the rest of the Circle … we must hold firm. Tonight’s vision was sent to me for a reason. It’s a warning, a harbinger of the evil yet to come. We ignore it at our peril and the ruin of every man, woman and child in this kingdom. Nothing can be allowed to sway us from the path upon which we toil, or failure and death are certain.’
You speak wisely, as befits the Heir of Jervale.
Dathne didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse. All she knew for certain was she could easily fold flat to the floor, crushed by the increased weight of her responsibilities. ‘As soon as I know anything, Veira, I’ll contact you so you can keep the Circle calm and focused. That must be our priority if we’re to survive the coming days.’
Indeed, child. I shall await your sending.
The connection between them broke. Exhausted, Dathne wrapped her Circle Stone once more and replaced it at the bottom of the blanket box. Though her empty belly was growling she had no heart for food. All she wanted now was sleep. Her mind and body cried out for it. Even Matt would have to wait; she’d tell him about Timon and his mad foolishness in the morning. There was nothing he could do about it tonight. Nothing he could do at all, so why worry him?
Stripping herself naked in her tiny bedroom, letting her skirt and blouse and stockings and underthings fall where they liked, she crawled between cool cotton sheets and closed her eyes. Her last conscious thought was a prayer:
Please, Jervale. Let me not dream.
CHAPTER NINE
Asher stood in his underclothes and stockinged feet in front of his open wardrobe door, filled to the gills with the fine breakfast he’d shared with Gar in the Tower solar. Washed and shaved and smelling faintly of spice, he stared at the clothes dangling from their hangers. What to wear, what to wear? Not the blue shirt or the black britches, since he’d worn them yesterday. The green was good, a sea colour, reminding him of home. But on the other hand the bronze was a fine strong shade for a man. And it would go well with the chocolate-brown britches, snug and soft and cut to fit him like a second skin.
He’d never given much thought to clothes before, except as useful coverings for bare skin. Never considered himself much above average-looking. But now, buttoned up in his whispery silk shirt and his lined wool britches, stamping into shiny black boots that came right up to his knees, he thought he looked mighty fine. In fact, once he’d finished tugging his forelock to all the fancy lords in the Privy Council Chamber he just might wander down to town and see if there was some kind of book or other he could bring hisself to buy from Madam Hoity Toity the bookseller. Not that he wanted to spend any of his precious trins on books … but what other reason was there to go into Dathne’s bookshop?
A pity none of the weskits was ready yet. A fine brocade weskit would finish him off just perfect.
Downstairs, waiting for Gar in the Tower’s ground floor foyer, Asher winked at a scurrying chambermaid, what was her name again? Cluny? A blush tinted her cheeks, and he grinned. Oh yes indeed. Mighty fine.
‘And what do you think you’re doing, loitering about the place like a reprobate?’ a snippy voice demanded.
He turned. Darran, all sour lemons and spite, coming down the Tower’s spiral staircase. Experimenting, Asher discarded his first, instinctive response and smiled instead. ‘Mornin’,’ he said expansively. ‘As it happens, I be waitin’ for Gar. We’re off to see the Privy Council any tick.’
Darran crossed the foyer’s gleaming tiled floor silently, like a cat who’s lost its collar and bell. ‘You are attending a Privy Council meeting?’
‘Seems so,’ said Asher with exaggerated cheer. In truth he felt as incredulous as Darran sounded, but he’d not be admitting that any time soon. Off to the Privy Council to hobnob with the king … could his strange life get any stranger?
Darran sniffed. ‘I see.’ From the way his adam’s apple bobbed furiously in his scrawny throat it looked like Gar’s secretary wanted to say a lot more than that, and none of it complimentary. After a short, silent struggle the ole crow nodded. ‘Well. I’m sure you’ll find the experience educational. Have you ordered the carriage?’
‘Carriage?’ echoed Asher. ‘To go from here to the palace? Why would we be wantin’ a carriage? Our legs ain’t broke. We’ll walk.’
Darran’s lips curved in a thin smile. ‘Oh dear. You do have a lot to learn, don’t you? His Highness does not walk to official duties. He travels in a manner commensurate with his position.’ Crossing to a marble-topped display table he picked up a small shiny handbell and tinkled it sharply. ‘If you can’t arrange even this small matter without supervision, I don’t imagine you’ll be remaining as His Highness’s assistant anything for long. Observe.’
Seething, Asher watched as a young boy dressed in black and green livery darted out of an adjacent room, skidded to a halt before Darran and bowed. ‘Sir?’ he piped.
‘His Highness shall be leaving the premises shortly. Kindly repair to the stables and—’
‘No, don’t bother,’ Gar called out as he descended the staircase. ‘Off you go, Remy. I won’t be needing a carriage this morning.’
The lad Remy bowed again and scuttled back into his messenger-boy bolthole. Scandalised, Darran turned to the prince, offered a punctiliously correct bow of his own and protested. ‘No carriage? But, Your Highness—’
Gar had changed from his casual breakfast attire of shirt, loose trousers and bare feet into a gold-beaded tunic of stiffened dark green brocade, dull black silk britches and black leather half-boots. His hair was caught back from his face in some kind of gold and green enamel clasp, and a gold and emerald circlet bound his brow. To Asher’s eyes he had the air of a man preparing to ride into battle. That wasn’t a good sign …
Smiling, the prince touched one hand lightly to Darran’s shoulder. ‘It’s a fine morning for a walk. Besides, after the copious amount of bacon Asher ate for breakfast he needs the exercise.’
Ha. Very funny. But then so was the look on ole Darran’s face.
‘I see, sir,’ Darran said limply. ‘You know your own mind, of course. Shall I send a carriage to fetch you then, once your business at the palace is concluded?’
‘Let’s see, shall we? If I want one I’ll let you know.’
Darran bowed. ‘Certainly, sir. You can send Asher with a message.’
Asher held his tongue, just. Gar sent him a sidelong glance, brimful of repressed hilarity. ‘I might just do that, Darran. Now don’t let me keep you from your business.’
In other words, buzz off, busy little bee. Busybody. Still experimenting, Asher sent the secretary on his way with a wide, wide smile, and was rewarded with a venomous flash of temper, swiftly smothered.
‘Y’know, he really don’t like me at all,’ he said happily. ‘But I don’t mind. I don’t like him neither. Starin’ down his snooty nose at me just ’cause I ain’t all flash and folderol.’
Gar sighed. ‘Don’t be difficult. I’ve told you, he does me valuable service.’
‘Ha,’ said Asher.
/> Now Gar was looking him up and down. ‘You seem presentable at any rate. Now come on. We can’t afford to be late.’
Instead of taking the road to the sprawling splendour of the palace, Gar chose a grassy pathway winding through carelessly scattered gardens and past older, abandoned apartments and residences that once had been home to other kings and queens of Lur. Long dead now, they were all laid to rest in tombs on the far side of the palace grounds.
Asher stared at the forlornly empty buildings and shook his head. ‘Seems like a bloody great waste to me. Perfectly good rooms and whatnots, ain’t they? Why don’t folk live in ’em any more?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gar, shrugging. ‘Too many ghosts, perhaps. All those memories, pressing down. Sometimes people just want a fresh start … and who can blame them?’
Aye. Maybe. And speaking of which … ‘Thanks for not havin’ me mentioned in the dispatches to the coast,’ he said as they left the old palace behind. ‘Reckon I’m grateful for that.’
Gar’s sideways glance was curious. ‘That’s all right. I still think you’re mad, but …’
‘You wouldn’t if y’had my brothers,’ Asher said flatly. ‘This news’ll keep just fine till I’m home again.’
‘Yes. Well. As I said before, it’s your decision.’ Gar waved a dismissive hand. ‘Now, about this Privy Council meeting … there’s no need to be nervous.’ Another sideways look. ‘Are you nervous?’
Asher flicked a fly away from his ear. ‘Well …’
‘Don’t be. They won’t bite. At least not while I’m there.’ Gar pulled a face. ‘Or not very hard anyway.’
‘And that’s s’posed to make me not nervous, is it?’
Gar grinned. ‘Of course.’
‘Ha!’
‘Besides, this is really just a formality. As my assistant you’ll have more to do with the General Council, which takes care of the day-to-day business of running the kingdom. Guild issues, common legal matters, that sort of thing. Privy Council meetings are more … rarefied. You won’t often be required to attend.’
Asher hid his relief. Last thing he wanted to do was front up to the king and his personal advisers on a regular basis. ‘Suits me.’
‘I know the privy councillors are the most powerful men in the kingdom, but they’re still men. Not ogres. That being said, however …’
‘Oh aye?’ sighed Asher. ‘Here we go. What?’
Gar was frowning. ‘His Majesty has many virtues but they don’t include a wink and a shrug at inappropriate informality. No matter what happens this morning, remember that you are addressing the king or one of his chosen confidants. You may not …’ He hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘Our interactions, Asher, are characterised by a degree of familiarity that would never be tolerated by His Majesty. Whatever you do, don’t make the mistake of confusing us.’
Like there were much chance of that happening. Asher rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’ Then, as they took a short cut through yet another arrangement of perfumed flowerbeds, he added, ‘You sorry you hired me now, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Gar said, flushing. ‘I just want your introduction to the Privy Council to proceed smoothly. You must realise that whatever I do reflects upon the king. And whatever you do reflects upon me.’
That was fair enough. But … ‘If that’s true, then how come you don’t care if I speak my mind around the Tower and everywhere else? Folks ain’t deaf, Gar. They’ll hear what I think, and they’ll hear I ain’t one for mincing my words. And they’ll flap their lips about it too.’
‘That’s entirely different. All my people know I encourage – insist upon, in fact – open, honest and vigorous debate. But the Privy Council is different. Privy Council meetings are … political. Even when they’re not. Every word, every gesture, can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and some people will always interpret things in the harshest light possible.’
Asher considered that. ‘You sayin’ it ain’t just you that’s got enemies?’
This time Gar’s glance was chilly with warning. ‘No. His Majesty is beloved by all his subjects.’
‘Come on, Gar,’ said Asher, gently derisive. ‘Y’reckon the Doranen are the only folk with a taste for playin’ politics? My da used to represent Rest-harven in the Coastal Alliance. I’d lay odds on the Westwailing Fishermen’s Board agin your precious Privy Council any day of the week. So, who’s the rotten fish in the barrel?’
That made Gar smile, if only briefly. He hesitated, then said, ‘Keep your eye on Conroyd Jarralt. In Privy Council and out of it. If he can do you a bad turn, he will.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s Conroyd Jarralt.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s all you need to know. For now. Asher—’ Gar slowed, and stopped. Asher stopped beside him. ‘Think of Privy Council meetings as an elaborate game. One in which waving the flag of your indifference to almighty Doranen prestige will lose you points. Not win them, as it does with me. I’m asking that you watch your step. That’s all. If you don’t, well, chances are we’ll both be sorry that I hired you.’
So. The prince was nervous about the Privy Council meeting too. Mayhap even more than just nervous. Resisting the urge to clap Gar on the shoulder, Asher started walking backwards, arms outstretched. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I ain’t about to let you down.’ He pressed a hand to his heart. ‘My solemn word.’ Which he’d keep, sink or swim. No way was he about to lose those fifty trins a week.
‘Good,’ said Gar with a brief smile. ‘I knew I could count on you.’
They hurried on, and five minutes later reached the newest section of the palace where Gar’s family lived and worked. The pure white sandstone gleamed in the sun like freshly fallen snow. Some twelve storeys high, it was topped with blue and crimson roof tiles and sparkled at regular intervals with elaborate stained-glass windows. A grand sweeping courtyard, scattered thickly with blue and white gravel, stretched from the base of the centrally placed white sandstone steps and ground-level balcony, down to the mouth of the winding tree-lined driveway that led towards the City.
Side by side Asher and Gar ran up the steps, past the ceremonial guards and into the royal residence.
The palace’s interior shocked Asher to a standstill. All height and breadth and radiant stained glass, it made Justice Hall look … plain. Cut flowers in ceramic vases splashed colour over every flat surface and sweetened the cool air. Exquisitely carved crystal birds wrought in shades of rose, sapphire, ruby, amethyst and emerald, tipped in gold, adorned indigo-marble display stands.
Two wide and winding polished timber staircases reached like arms to left and right of the grand entrance, embracing visitors, inviting exploration. The floor beneath Asher’s feet was a riot of tiny blue, white, crimson and gold tiles in patterns his eyes could barely take in. The walls were papered in dull gold and bronze stripes. Breathtaking oil paintings, portraits so lifelike he’d swear their subjects were breathing, glowed at eye level, demanding admiration.
He had to guess they were members of the royal family, because there was Gar, years younger, with his arms round the neck of a fat black pony. A man and a woman – the king and queen? Had to be, ’cause there was Princess Fane. Maybe just six or seven years of age, but still beautiful. Bronze lamps jutted between the precisely placed frames, blazing with the same strange light he’d noticed in Justice Hall. Not candles. Not oil.
‘Glimfire,’ said Gar. ‘It’s magic, which is why you won’t find it in the Tower.’
Asher scarcely heard him. ‘Sink me bloody sideways!’ he breathed. Recalling his own family’s stone cottage back home, all shabby shadows and crowded cosiness, he shook his head in wonder. He’d easily fit his bedroom in here three times over. ‘You used to live here?’
Mellow laughter spun him to his right. Descending the staircase was a tall Doranen man, lean and proud, with lines of experience – or pain – carved deep into his face. His ceremonial
likeness hung on the wall scant feet away. In the flesh, though, he was simply clad in a dark blue silk tunic and trousers. His eyes were green, like Gar’s, but older. Seasoned by years and sights unseen by other men. An immaculately trimmed beard framed his strong jaw. A crown of twisted gold announced his rank. The royal house’s emblem, a lightning bolt crossed with an unsheathed sword, was stitched in gold thread onto his collar points.
Asher swallowed. He’d seen the king before, down in Westwailing at festival time, but only from the arseend of a huge crowd. Gar’s da had been little more than a blond stick-figure then, waving indiscriminately at the thousands of fisherfolk gathered to celebrate Sea Harvest. Up close, he was magic made flesh. The aura of raw power surrounding him dimmed everything beyond it to tawdry tarnishment.
Gar bowed. ‘Your Majesty. Good morning.’
Somehow, Asher managed his own inadequate bow without falling over. ‘Y’Majesty,’ he muttered.
King Borne approached and stretched out one ringed hand. ‘You must be Asher of Restharven. My son has spoken most highly of you, and of his hopes that you’ll prove invaluable to him in his work. Welcome to Dorana City.’
Asher stared at the king’s hand. Now what? Was he supposed to kiss it? Shake it? What?
Gar chuckled. ‘Barl save me. I believe my new assistant is lost for words.’
‘No, I ain’t,’ said Asher, rallying. He took the king’s hand and shook it. To his surprise it felt cold and thin, with something close to a tremble deep between the slender bones. All that power, and in the end Lur’s monarch was still only human. Somehow he hadn’t expected that. ‘Thank you, Y’Majesty. Reckon I be about the luckiest Olken in Lur. I won’t do wrong by His Highness. Or you. I promise.’
The king withdrew his hand. ‘I’m sure of it, Asher.’ A glance passed between himself and his son and his pale lips softened into a smile. ‘Now, shall we make our way to the Privy Council chamber? We have a full morning’s work ahead of us.’
