by Karen Miller
Stung, Darran dipped his head. ‘Sir.’
Gar glared at his dusty boots. Despite some lingering misgivings, he’d been looking forward to this expedition. Over dinner last night his father had called it ‘a wonderful adventure. An experience to be savoured.’ And had added, grinning, ‘So get out there and savour it.’ Which, all nerves aside, he’d had every intention of doing. But then there’d been his mother’s fraught confession, and now this.
Damn Asher anyway. And Willer. Idiots, the pair of them. After all this time you’d think they’d have found a way to get along. Or at least squabble in a way that didn’t inconvenience him. He swallowed another mouthful of wine.
‘Frankly, Darran, I see no point in prolonging this unfortunate business. Least said, soonest mended, and so forth.’
Clearly Darran didn’t agree. His sparse eyebrows lowered and his lips pursed. ‘Naturally, sir, if you prefer to declare the incident closed—’
‘I do.’
‘I see, sir.’
Struck with conscience – after all, Darran did have a point – Gar softened his tone. ‘Look. Rightly or wrongly, what’s done is done. We’ll just have to keep them apart as best we can until Willer’s bruised pride has mended. And it’s not as if he were hurt or anything. A trifle bounced, perhaps. But nothing life-threatening.’
Darran favoured him with a frosty smile. ‘As you say, sir.’
Unaccountably, it made him feel defensive. ‘For the love of Barl, Darran, we both have better things to do than concern ourselves with such trifling matters. I’m bored with the whole stupid affair. Don’t trouble me with it again.’
Darran bowed. ‘Your Highness.’
‘Just … go and relax, Darran. You’ve been run off your feet the last few days and it’s only going to get worse once we reach Westwailing. Take a moment to enjoy the fresh country air. You deserve it.’
Another bow. ‘Your Highness is too kind.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied, teeth gritted. ‘Now don’t allow me to detain you any longer. Given our early start and brisk pace, I’m sure you’re hungry and thirsty.’
As dismissals went, it was mild. Darran offered him a third bow, meticulously calculated to convey respect laced with a deep and grievous disappointment, and withdrew.
A scant moment later Asher entered. ‘You settle the ole crow then?’ he asked, pouring himself a goblet of wine.
‘Yes. And for Barl’s sake, stop calling him that!’
Asher shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do. And as for Willer—’
‘What about him?’
‘I want you to apologise.’
That snapped Asher’s spine straight. ‘What? Why? How many times do I have to tell you, Gar, I never locked him in that bloody storeroom!’
‘I’m not saying you did.’
‘Fine,’ said Asher, truculent. ‘Then I ain’t got anything to apologise for, have I?’
Gar’s fingers tightened on the stem of his goblet, but he refrained from throwing it: the wine was too good to waste. ‘It was unkind and unnecessary of you to make him a public laughing stock. I don’t care how annoying you find him, you’re the Assistant Olken Administrator. People look up to you. You can’t go around indulging intemperate whims like that. There are repercussions.’
Asher was staring. ‘Gar … it was a joke.’
‘A bad one. Willer is a member of my staff. When you embarrass him, you embarrass me … or had you forgotten that?’
‘What are you talking about? I was just poking fun at him. It was harmless.’
Snapping, Gar put down his goblet. ‘A year in my service, of dealing with the meisters and mistresses of the guilds and Conroyd Jarralt and still you haven’t … Nothing you do is without the potential for harm. Now find Willer and tender him your apology. Or else get back on your precious Cygnet and return to the Tower. I don’t care which. The choice is yours.’
Asher collapsed into the other chair. ‘You’re serious.’
‘Congratulations! Light dawns at last!’
‘Gar …’ Asher sat back, his face a mask of baffled concern. ‘What’s got into you? What’s going on?’
Damn. After a year of working together Asher knew him too well. The urge to confide, to share the burden of his mother’s fears, was almost overwhelming.
What’s going on? Not much. My mother’s falling to pieces, my sister’s a selfish bitch and my father’s committing slow suicide for the sake of his kingdom. That’s all.
He couldn’t do it. Not only was it unfair to Asher, to crush him with such knowledge, it would be in some strange way a betrayal of his father.
Forcing a smile, he shook his head. ‘There’s nothing going on. I’ve got a headache. From hunger, probably. Please … do as I ask. Apologise to that tiresome prat so I’m not forced to spend the next few weeks enduring a pissy Darran and a whinging Willer. I’m not asking you to declare undying devotion! Just say you’re sorry. I hardly think it’s going to kill you.’
‘Ha,’ said Asher, standing. ‘I ain’t so sure about that.’
‘Well, if I’m wrong and you do drop dead at his feet, I promise there’ll be a lovely funeral.’
‘And don’t think I won’t hold you to it!’ retorted Asher, glaring. Then he sat again, abruptly, his expression softening into concern. ‘Look. I’m sorry, all right? I never meant to raise a ruckus. I thought it were funny. Thought it might give you a laugh. Things’ve been a mite fraught lately, and …’ He shrugged. ‘Guess I were wrong.’
The unexpected apology disarmed Gar. Doused his anger and stirred guilt. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he replied, frowning at his fingers. ‘I know I’ve been short-tempered lately. Unapproachable. This business with the king … it frightened me.’ He managed a faint smile. ‘And I don’t much care for being frightened.’
‘Who does? But your da’s on the mend now. He’ll be right as rain in another few days. So you can relax, eh?’
He made himself smile. ‘I’ll relax after you’ve said your sorries to Willer.’
Asher pulled a face and stood again. ‘Aye. You’ll relax and I’ll lose my bloody appetite.’ He shook his head. ‘Apologise to Willer. Ha! The things I do for you …’
With a meaningful grimace he took himself off, wine goblet dangling negligently from his fingers and splashing vintage Brosa red to the carpet like fat drops of blood.
Gar sighed. Reached for his own goblet and drank deep. Asher and Willer and Darran on the same expedition … three spiky peas crammed into the same small pod. Barl save him from temperament. And then, suddenly recalling Willer’s plump satin buttocks, upended over Asher’s saddle and wriggling like two pigs in a blanket, he snorted into his wine. Choked. And laughed till he was breathless.
Asher stamped his way over to where Flavy Bannet was guarding corn cobs boiling in a tub of water and licking his greasy fingers. Five enormous platters of carved meat steamed on the bench beside him, and loaves of bread wrapped in hot cloths sat next to bowls of salad greens.
‘Oy,’ he said, stomach rumbling. ‘Never you mind shoving food down your own gizzard, Flavy. The prince is nigh to fainting with hunger. How long afore this lot’s ready?’
Flavy gave a guilty start and smeared the rest of the grease down the front of his apron. ‘Five minutes, Asher.’
‘Aye, well, if it’s five and a half, you and me’ll be having words, right?’ He filched a slice of venison and slouched off to find Willer.
The prissy little sea slug was in the travelling coach, writing in a big leather-bound book. His hysterical account of the historic expedition, most like.
‘What do you want?’ Willer snapped, pen poised and dripping ink. Noticing, he hissed and fumbled with salt and blotter to undo the worst of the damage.
Asher scowled. ‘I don’t care what you say, it wasn’t me who shut you in that bloody storeroom. Like as not you shut yourself in there by accident when you went poking about for biscuits to stuff in your pockets.’
&nb
sp; Willer sat up. ‘How dare you! I am no thief! I went into the storeroom to—’
‘D’you think I care why you went in there?’ said Asher impatiently. ‘Just shut up and let me apologise, would you?’
‘Apologise? You?’ Willer’s voice was curdled with contempt. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word. And why should I accept? You don’t even—’
‘One more squeal out of you afore I’ve finished,’ threatened Asher, ‘and you know what you can do with your bloody apology. Right?’
Willer sneered. ‘I know what you can do with it. We both know you’re not sorry. The only reason you’re grovelling to me now is because His Highness is making you do it.’
Asher felt his fingers tighten on his goblet almost to breaking point. ‘And how would you know that, eh? Been spying again, Willer? Been creeping and crawling like a little rat, listening to conversations that ain’t none of your business?’
Willer flushed a blotchy red. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Ah ha. Now this was more like it. This was a damned sight better than apologising. Grinning, Asher propped one foot on the carriage’s unfolded bottom step, rested his elbow on his knee and trapped Willer inside the carriage.
‘Thought I never noticed you, eh?’ he said conversationally. ‘Must reckon I’m as blind as a bat and deaf as a post to boot. I’ll give you this much, Willer. You’re a persistent little slug. A year now you’ve been tryin’ to get me in trouble with Gar, haven’t you? Or Darran, or the guild meisters, or the Council, or anybody else you reckon’ll listen to your lies. Hanging round meeting rooms once everybody else has gone. Chatting up the guild meisters’ assistants. Sneaking little looks at messages and letters not addressed to you. Accidentally on purpose eavesdropping over conversations that ain’t none of your concern. Looking and looking for something what’ll get me fired, or worse. All the time thinking yourself so clever, ’cause nobody ever noticed. Well I noticed, Willer. I’d have to be thick as two short planks not to and, trust me, I ain’t.’
Willer’s face had drained from blotchy red to sickly white. ‘You’re the liar. You always lie. That’s what you are. A rotten born liar.’
Still grinning, Asher downed the last half-swallow of wine and dangled the goblet thoughtfully. ‘You must think I’m as stupid as you are, Willer. Ain’t you worked it out yet? You can’t hurt me. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. And not just ‘cause Gar’s my friend, although he is and that’s a part of it. Mainly you can’t hurt me ‘cause you’re a piss-weak little sea slug, and the only reason I ain’t squashed you afore now is ‘cause I don’t care for slug slime on my boots.’
Willer leaned close, his writing forgotten. The inkpot tipped, spilling blue all over the plush red velvet carriage cushions. Willer didn’t notice. There was spittle in the corner of his down-turned mouth. His eyes gleamed brimful of hate and his soft hands were clenched tight as a tantrum by his sides.
‘You’ll mind your step if you know what’s good for you, Asher. You think I’m the only person who despises you?’ he hissed. ‘A lot of people despise you. They’re just not brave enough to come out and say it. And do you know why they despise you? Because you think you’re untouchable.’ His voice was shaking, virulent, and his pink skin shone damp with spite. ‘And you think you’re as good as His Highness. Well, you’re not. You’re still one of us. You’ll never be one of them.’
Asher laughed. ‘I don’t want to be one of them. That’s your problem, Willer. Not mine.’
Willer recoiled as though he’d been slapped. ‘That’s blasphemy! You take that back, Asher. Take it back!’
Shaking his head, Asher straightened and took his foot from the carriage step. Stared at Willer, who was breathing in such harsh, strangled gasps he looked near to suffocating.
‘You’re a sorry little man, Willer.’
Willer lunged off the carriage cushions. Book, pen and inkpot went flying. Wheezing, trembling, he clutched at the carriage doorway as though his fingers were round Asher’s throat.
‘Not as sorry as you’ll be one day, I promise you!’
Stepping forward again, Asher reached up to Willer’s smooth, soft cheek. Patted it gently. ‘Don’t threaten me, Willer. It’s a waste of breath, ‘cause you ain’t got the brains or the balls to see it through.’ And laughed as Willer jerked away from him. Losing his balance, the slug fell to the carriage floor, where he stuck tight between the seats like a sausage in a bun.
Whistling, tossing his empty goblet from hand to hand, Asher sauntered back to the prince’s pavilion, where Gar was wolfing down meat and bread and hot buttered corn. The food was neatly laid out in dishes and platters on a cloth-covered table. At the rich, heady aromas Asher’s empty insides contracted and saliva flooded his mouth. He was bloody famished. He nodded to the little pot boy doing double-duty as a serving man and watched greedily as a plate was piled high with food for him.
‘So,’ said Gar around a mouthful of venison, ‘you saw Willer? He’s all sorted out now?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Asher, taking his plate from the pot boy, hissing as he burned his fingertips on a fat yellow corn cob. ‘He’s well and truly sorted.’
Gar, holding out his goblet for another serving of wine, wasn’t paying attention. ‘Good. Now eat quickly, would you? We have to get back on the road.’
Asher rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Your Highness. Whatever you say, Your Highness.’
And laughed as Gar threw a bread crust at him.
Luncheon concluded, they packed up their wagons and continued on their way. The Flatlands unrolled behind them as they chased the sinking sun. As the last of the dusk surrendered to the stars they reached the hamlet of Flat Iron and the Hooting Owl Inn, where it was arranged they’d spend the night. For the first time in his life Gar went to bed without the glow of Barl’s Wall gleaming through his bedroom curtains. Strange, it felt, and unsettling, but the long day’s riding took its toll and he fell into a weary sleep.
He woke again, hours later, to the sound of rain thrumming the slate roof overhead. For a moment he was confused. How could it be raining? The king was still too weak to WeatherWork. Durm had forbidden it for at least another week; his father had groused about it last night over his invalid’s dinner of steamed chicken and mashed carrots.
Then he realised. Fane. Of course. This was the perfect opportunity, wasn’t it, to get her feet wet, no pun intended. She’d had the Weather Magic for three months now, had undergone the Transference ceremony amid much excitement and celebration and private gloating. Once she’d recovered from the exhaustion that followed the acceptance of such strong magic they’d had a special dinner, just the family and Durm. His father had glowed with pride and his mother had wept. At the time he’d thought that was pride too but now, after their conversation on the Tower’s front steps, he wasn’t so sure.
‘Your father has been bleeding to death, drop by drop, since the day he called his first rainfall.’
One day, perhaps sooner than ever he’d imagined, there’d be no blood left for his father to shed. The thought terrified him. Pounded his heart and stifled the air in his lungs. His mother was wrong. She had to be. She was panicking for no good reason. The king was perfectly fine. Well on the mend. Hadn’t Nix said so? And Durm? Surely Durm, his father’s trusted friend and adviser, wouldn’t lie. Not about that.
But then …
If his mother was wrong, why had Durm put Fane through the punishing Transference ceremony a full year earlier than planned? Why would she be up in the Weather Chamber now, bleeding, proving her worth, making it rain, if not to hurry the day when she could be named WeatherWorker in truth? When she could take the crown from their father’s head, the burden from his shoulders, and in doing so save his life.
Save his life, and spend her own.
As Fane’s gentle rain whispered down the chamber windowpanes, Gar tossed on his pillows, racked with doubt and dark imaginings.
Her first WeatherWorking. He should be pl
eased. Proud. She was his only sister, and despite everything he did love her. Sometimes anyway. As often as he could. As often as she’d let him. Already she’d sacrificed so much for the good of their father’s kingdom. Slain her childhood, slain whatever dreams she once might have had about her life. He should remember that instead of dwelling on the wounds she inflicted. Should be desperately grateful that her imminent elevation to WeatherWorker meant their mother’s dire predictions would never come true.
He was so jealous he could vomit.
Exhausted, he lay in the dark and listened to the rain until it died and the sun broke free of the horizon.
Within half an hour of breakfast the next morning they were on their way once more. Headed for the long road that led, eventually, to the narrow stretch of coastline supporting the fishing towns and villages of Westwailing, Restharven, Dinfingle, Bibford, Chevrock, Rilling-coombe, Tattler’s Ear and Struan Caves. All of Lur’s fisherfolk were to be found in those eight places. Nowhere else along Lur’s three-sided coastline was habitable. For mile upon mile the land stopped abruptly, falling away to the water in sheer cliffs jagged as broken glass. According to Asher, not even a madman would risk a boat and his life in the savage surf that battered itself to foam and ribbons on the rocks that ringed the kingdom.
Gar, not disbelieving exactly, still found it hard to credit. He was the product of an orderly existence. The promise of such excessive disorder was breathtaking. He began to feel truly excited by the prospect of seeing for himself the wild and untamed water that had somehow managed to produce a man like Asher.
The second night of the journey saw them safely bedded down in the town of Chillingbottom, commercial hub of the prosperous horse-farming region known as the Dingles, although nobody, not even Darran, seemed to know exactly why. The third night saw them welcomed with parade, brass band and flatteringly excited locals into the paper-making town of Slumly Corners named, apparently, for the paper-pulping mill around which the township had grown. On the third and fourth nights they camped in the middle of Grayman’s Moor. Darran complained that his pallet was lumpy.
