The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  ‘I ain’t the one to tell you that,’ said Asher. ‘I’m from the prince, to make sure they’re treatin’ you fair.’

  Spake’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh. I see.’ With a grunt and a grimace he got to his feet, one hand pressed to his middle.

  ‘Well?’ said Asher. ‘Got any complaints, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Spake.

  Asher glanced over his shoulder. ‘Sure you ain’t just sayin’ that cause he’s listenin’?’ He jerked a thumb at Bunder.

  ‘No,’ Spake said again. He was very pale, and there was a twitch beside his right eye. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Hungry?’

  Spake shuddered and glanced at the bucket. ‘No. They gave me something a while ago but it’s just made me sick.’

  Dathne felt a wave of despicable relief. Surely that would help muddle the cause of death, hint at something wrong before ever she got there … unless the cakelets made him ill, too, before the draconis could do its work. She tried not to frown. It couldn’t be helped, she’d just have to hope for the best. The best, as she stood here face to face with the man – the boy – she was plotting to kill. She could easily have been sick herself. Not for the first time she wished she’d been born anything, anyone, other than Jervale’s bloody Heir.

  Asher said, ‘Well, there’s some cakelets here for you, and a book anyways. It’s bound to be a long night, you might as well have somethin’ to take your mind off things. And Dathne’s cookin’s got to be better than prison slops. But then you’d know that, eh, what with her bein’ family.’

  Spake stared, clearly puzzled. ‘Family? I’m sorry, I don’t think I—’

  Damn. ‘Distant family,’ she said quickly. ‘Cousins of cousins, several times removed. You’ve probably never heard of me except in passing mention.’ She took a hard breath then, and let it out again softly, instinct warring with caution. ‘Although … I think we both know Aunty Vee …’

  The young idiot didn’t make the connection. With a kind of hopeless courtesy, Spake raised a hand. ‘No, no. Thank you, but—’ He blinked. ‘Did you say Aunty Vee?’

  ‘Aye, y’fool. Be you deaf as well as gormless?’ Asher said roughly. ‘Go on, take ’em, whether you know her or you don’t. She needn’t have brought anythin’ for you, Spake. And you might be glad of somethin’ in your belly afore the sun comes up.’

  She wouldn’t, she couldn’t, raise her voice to cajole the boy further. She’d done enough, invoking innocent Veira’s name. But she held up the string bag, of a size to slide between the prison bars, and took a step forward. Just then somebody hammered on the door behind them and burst through it, shouting. Unprepared, bellowing, Bunder rocketed forward and sideways. Crashed straight into Asher, who yelled and crashed into her. She went down hard beneath his weight. Landed on the string bag and the cakelets and the book, crushing them all together in a sticky mess.

  The guard whose fault it was stood panting and red-faced in the doorway. ‘Captain Orrick says you’re to come at once! There’s folks barged into the guardhouse and he says he wants the prince’s man to send them away again or he’ll fill the cells to bursting and a pox on all their guildmeister heads!’

  Winded, groaning, her ribs bent almost double and her thoughts in shrieking disarray, Dathne lay on the cell floor as Asher and Bunder found their feet and cursed the stupid guard who’d skittled them.

  ‘Bloody idiot, Torville!’ Bunder raged. ‘You might’ve broken all our bones!’

  Asher reached down a hand and pulled Dathne to her feet. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m better than the cakelets,’ she said, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This had been her one and only hope of saving the Circle from Edvord Spake’s arrogant son. Now all their lives were in his foolish, trembling hands … and she didn’t know how she felt about it. She kicked the string bag with the toe of her shoe. ‘They’re fit for nothing but rubbish now.’

  He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, Dath. It were a kindly thought, and that’s what counts.’

  Picking up the string bag she took out the book, which had escaped the worst of the mess thanks to the tea towel she’d wrapped around the cakelets. After swiping her sleeve over it she thrust it through the prison bars. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Timon Spake, taking the book. He looked at its cover and read the title. ‘Heroes of the Old Days. I’ve never read this one.’

  ‘It’s very good,’ she said, and fixed her grim unblinking gaze upon him. ‘It’s about brave men facing dire consequences with courage. Men who keep to their oaths despite all danger and temptation.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Timon Spake. Nothing showed in his face, but in his sad, troubled eyes questions were dawning. ‘It sounds … inspirational.’

  ‘It is,’ said Dathne, still holding his gaze. ‘It surely is.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You could do worse than follow their example.’

  ‘You must come now!’ Torville insisted in the doorway, sounding shrill. ‘Captain Orrick insists!’

  So they left the prisoner to his book and his thoughts and hurried back to the guardhouse lobby, where pandemonium ruled. Somehow a great gaggle of well-dressed City Olken had forced their way past the guards in the street outside and were now all shouting and stamping their feet and banging their fists upon the desk. Captain Orrick was standing behind it on a chair, trying to make himself heard above the din.

  ‘Here!’ he shouted as Torville practically shoved them through the door. ‘Here is Asher, His Royal Highness Prince Gar’s Assistant Administrator! If you damn fools refuse to listen to me, then listen to him! For if you don’t I swear I’ll see you all locked up for a month of Barlsdays!’

  Dathne dug her elbow into Asher’s ribs. ‘Go on then, introduce yourself. After all, they had to meet you sometime, didn’t they?’

  ‘Ha. Don’t reckon Gar had this in mind when he mentioned me gettin’ to know a few people.’

  The largest well-dressed Olken pushed to the front of the crush around the desk. ‘Who do you say he is? I have never seen this man before!’

  Cornered, Asher shot Orrick a dagger-drawn look then lithely leapt on top of the desk. ‘You heard ’im! I be Asher, Prince Gar’s Assistant Administrator, as was newly appointed and announced last Barlsday. Who are you?’

  The large man swelled inside his velvet and furs. ‘I? I, sir, am Norwich Porter, Meister of the Brewers’ Guild!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Asher. ‘Got yourself the prince’s acceptance to the banquet, have you?’

  Norwich Porter goggled at him. ‘What? Well … yes … as a matter of fact it arrived—’

  ‘Well, you can set an extra place for me. I’ll be there, and so will His Highness – provided you quit all this caterwauling and get on home where you belong!’

  Norwich Porter’s face flushed dark red. ‘How dare you, sir! We are going nowhere, nowhere, do you hear, until we get satisfaction! We represent the will and the wishes of all the Olken guilds and we demand—’

  ‘You ain’t in the right place to be demandin’ nowt!’ said Asher. ‘Who do you think you are, eh, come bargin’ into the City guardhouse, blusterin’ and bossin’ Captain Orrick, here, who’s doin’ the job your taxes pay him for. The job His Majesty King Borne told him to do just this mornin’. In Privy Council. Where I heard him with my own ears.’

  Dathne, smothering a smile, thought Norwich Porter was going to fall to the floor in a foaming, spluttering heap. All around him his fellow guild meisters and mistresses gasped and protested and waved their fists. Asher, bless him, was supremely unimpressed.

  Norwich Porter said, incredulous, ‘You dare – you dare – by what right do you stand there and insult—’

  ‘What insult? I’m just tellin’ you what’s what.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Porter retorted. ‘I shall tell you what’s what. It is rumoured that Captain Orrick has in custody a vile, treacherous, evil law-breaker. We will have him brought to justice! We will see him for ourselves! We—’
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  ‘Will end up in the cell next door if you don’t quit flappin’ your lips and listen!’ shouted Asher. ‘Aye, there be a man here. He’s accused – only accused, mind you – of a terrible crime. First thing tomorrow he’ll stand afore king and Privy Council and then we’ll know the truth of it. Until then he ain’t standin’ afore anybody, least of all a rabble what comes in here over lawful restraint tryin’ to usurp the king’s privilege!’

  A shocked silence fell. After a moment, Norwich Porter cleared his throat. ‘I can assure you, sir,’ he said stiffly, ‘that nobody here intends to usurp the king’s privilege.’

  ‘No?’ said Asher, one eyebrow raised. ‘You could’ve fooled me.’

  Norwich Porter deflated a little further. Glanced uneasily at the guild officials on either side of him and took a small step back from the desk. ‘You say this man is to stand before His Majesty and the Privy Council?’

  Asher smiled, fiercely. ‘Aye. Unless you got an objection, which I’d be more than happy to pass along to the king.’

  Behind Norwich Porter, the other guild meisters and mistresses exchanged furtive looks and began unobtrusively inching towards the front doors. Facing defeat, Norwich Porter rallied himself for one last blow. ‘And you, sir. Asher, you call yourself? Precisely how are we to know you are who you say you are?’

  ‘Aside from bein’ introduced by Captain Orrick here?’ Asher smiled again, and Norwich Porter winced. ‘Come and say hello at your banquet next month. I’ll be the one sittin’ next to His Highness. Chances are I might remember you.’

  Dathne had to turn away, the urge to laugh was so strong. She doubted Guild Meister Porter had ever received so public a set-down in all his life.

  Giving ground, Norwich Porter tried to gather the shreds of his dignity. ‘You are rude, sir. I shall be sure to mention that to His Highness the next time we speak.’

  ‘Well, you can if you want to,’ said Asher. ‘Only I figure he’s noticed already. Ain’t stoppin’ him from payin’ me, mind.’

  As the guild meister, by this time almost completely deserted by his peers, gasped and gobbled a string of incoherent threats and imprecations Orrick got down from his chair and came round to the front of the desk. ‘Guild Meister Porter, these are fractious times. I appreciate your concerns but the City Guard has everything under control. Do your duty, sir, you and your fellow meisters and mistresses, and tell your members outside to go home. There is nothing to be done here this night.’

  With a final glare at Asher, Norwich Porter and the handful of remaining guild officials with him departed.

  With a pleased smile Asher leapt down from the desk. ‘So,’ he said cheerfully. ‘That be what they call public speakin’, eh?’

  Orrick favoured him with a considering look. ‘Public bullying, more like.’

  Asher shrugged. ‘Silly ole farts, the lot of ’em. Ain’t they the ones s’posed to be settin’ an example for the rest of us?’

  Orrick’s lips twitched. ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Well, a fine bloody example that was.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Orrick. His grey eyes were warm with amusement. ‘It certainly was.’ To Dathne’s surprise, he held out his hand. ‘Well done, Meister Asher of Restharven. Welcome to Dorana. I’m sure you’ll do very well here.’

  Despite her protests, Asher insisted on walking Dathne home, Cygnet clip-clopping at his side, even though the gathered crowd had mostly dispersed by the time they left the guardhouse. She bade him goodbye at her bookshop door and for a few moments watched him climb onto Cygnet and trot away up the street, back to the Tower.

  Once inside her small apartment she put the string bag and the ruined cakelets in the hearth and burned them. Then she made herself a solitary supper and after that went straight to bed. She wasn’t going to tell Veira what she’d almost done that night. It was one secret she’d take to her grave. Because she didn’t wish to hurt her friend and mentor. Because she didn’t want to argue the merits of an action that in the end was not taken. And because if she never spoke of it, ever, she might one day be able to forget what she’d found herself capable of doing.

  Asher found a note pinned to his bedroom door when he finally got back to the Tower. See me. Cursing under his breath, he climbed the spiral staircase up to Gar’s suite. Bloody worry-wart of a man. Spake wasn’t going anywhere, was he? Couldn’t this have waited till after he filled his empty belly?

  ‘Spake’s fine,’ he said, wandering into the prince’s library. ‘Scared spitless, but fine. So—’

  Gar’s raised hand stopped him. ‘Deverani, deverani,’ he murmured, staring at an unrolled parchment on the desk before him. He glanced up. ‘Contextually speaking, which is the closest modern Doranen word, do you think: undone or released?’

  Asher blinked. ‘You’re askin’ me?’

  ‘Well … yes,’ said Gar, and shook his head. ‘Though I don’t for the life of me know why. Did you want something?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Asher, and thunked his shoulder against the nearest handy bookcase. ‘Dinner. But there’s this note on my door, see, and—’

  Gar’s expression clouded. ‘Oh. Yes. Sorry. I was deep in the Fourth Century.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Asher. From the look on the prince’s face he wished he was still back there. ‘Spake’s fine. I saw him, spoke to him. He ain’t complainin’.’

  ‘Did he say anything at all?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘He didn’t … I don’t know, confess? Explain why he’d want to—’ Breaking off, Gar pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘No,’ said Asher. ‘But then I didn’t ask him, did I? Don’t see what difference it makes any road. Who cares why? Why ain’t goin’ to change things, is it?’

  Gar sighed. ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘All that matters now is Orrick’s doin’ his job fair and proper. You got nowt to fret on where that’s concerned.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gar, again staring at the parchment. ‘That’s … good.’

  Asher sniffed. ‘Mind you, things got a mite interestin’ for a moment, seein’ as every guild meister and his best friend was crammed into the guardhouse tryin’ to drag the fool outside and hang ’im from the nearest lamppost …’

  Gar’s head snapped up. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Asher said quickly. ‘Me and Orrick sorted ’em out.’

  ‘Which means, I suppose, that by lunchtime tomorrow I’ll be up to my armpits in outraged Olken guild meisters?’ Gar stifled a groan. ‘How in Barl’s name did they find out?’

  Deciding not to take offence, Asher shrugged. ‘You weren’t never goin’ to keep it a secret.’

  ‘Not a secret, no, but I’m sure His Majesty would’ve liked at least one day’s grace!’ Gar pressed ink-stained fingers to his temples. ‘I know I would.’ He sighed. ‘Oh well. What’s done can’t be undone. And you’re sure Spake is comfortably situated?’

  Briefly, Asher debated telling him about the small cell and the prisoner’s sickness and his terror, barely leashed. About how young he was and how unlikely, how pathetic, a criminal. But what was the point? Gar couldn’t change any of it. And he’d see for himself soon enough, when the boy was brought before the Privy Council for examination.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, pushing away from the bookcase, ‘he’s fine. Now, if there ain’t anythin’ else, I’ll see about my dinner. Reckon I be halfway to starved and—’

  ‘Wait,’ said Gar. ‘There is something.’

  Caught in the doorway, Asher swallowed an impatient groan and swung around. ‘Aye?’

  ‘I want you there tomorrow. At Timon Spake’s hearing.’

  ‘Me? Why me?’ Asher demanded, incredulous. ‘I don’t need to be there. That’s Privy Council business, it’s got nowt to do with me. Besides, that Lord Jarralt – one look at me and he’ll shout the guardhouse down.’

  Gar’s eyes were cold, his expression unyielding. ‘He can shout till his head falls off for all I care. By this time to
morrow there’s a very good chance Timon Spake will be dead. Executed by command of the Privy Council. I want an Olken witness. Justice must not only be done, it must be seen done. I want someone there who can tell whoever may ask that this man’s life wasn’t taken from him lightly. I want you, Asher. And I won’t take no for an answer.’

  Silence. Staring at Gar, Asher knew he stood at a crossroad. If he refused this order it was all over. He might as well hitch a ride on the next wagon back to Restharven because nobody would hire on a man who walked away from His Royal Highness Prince Gar. And if he accepted it …

  If he accepted it, there’d be no turning back. Whatever else he became in the future, however rich he was when he finally returned home or how many boats he bought and sailed and sold, he’d always be the man who once had served the son of a king … no matter what was asked of him. A man whose dreams of independence were paid for, in part, by the blood of a guilty fool.

  Question was, could he live with that?

  Well, Timon Spake was doomed, whether Asher of Restharven was there to see him die or not. And Gar was right about one thing, sink him. They did need an Olken witness to Spake’s trial, someone who could stand on top of the tallest building in the kingdom and shout for every Olken man, woman and child to hear: See? See what muckin’ about with magic gets you?

  That was important. It might mean the end, once and for all, of such mad foolishness. Could be that by being there, by seeing first-hand how fair the Privy Council dealt with such a blasphemous criminal and then telling what he saw, he’d save lives. That was a good thing, right?

  Besides, if he did walk away, who would profit? Who’d be saved then? Timon Spake would be just as condemned. Asher of Restharven would be forced home poor, back to the bruising domination of his brothers. And Da would go to his grave never knowing the comforts he deserved.

  With a sigh deep enough to make his ribs creak, he nodded. ‘Right, then. Seein’ as how you’re so set on it, reckon I’ll see you in the mornin’. What time?’