by Karen Miller
Zeth heaved another sigh. ‘’Fraid so. But don’t you go feelin’ too bad about it. He died screamin’ your name.’ He shrugged. ‘Course, his heart were already broke long afore the mast felled ’im. You could say he were a walkin’ dead man, really. Ain’t that right, boys?’
Shoulder to shoulder his brothers nodded and muttered, thunder on the horizon.
‘Over and over the same old questions,’ said Zeth. ‘What’s happened to my Asher? Where’s he gone? Why did he leave me? I’ll tell you, boy, it grew a mite wearisome after a while, and that’s for sure. Afore long Da weren’t altogether right in the head no more. My word, it was the saddest sight I ever saw. That proud ole man, weepin’ night after night into his ale pot and sobbin’ your name.’
‘No,’ whispered Asher. ‘That’s wrong. I left a message. I asked—’
‘Message?’ said Zeth. ‘Don’t know nowt about any message, boy. Now just you keep your mouth shut, why don’t you, and let me finish? As I were sayin’. Day after day, for weeks on end, Da fretted on you. Drove us all mad. Then one night a storm blew in from beyond the reef. Howlin’ and wailin’ and peltin’ us with ice. Da swore he could hear your voice on the wind, callin’. He got to the boats afore we could stop him. Sailed out to find you. Wishus and me, we went after him, but there weren’t nowt we could do with him in one boat and us in another. He were sore distracted lookin’ for you, Asher, and distraction on a boat be an unchancy thing when there’s bad weather about. Prob’ly you might remember that.’ Zeth’s cruel gaze raked him up and down. ‘Then again, dressed so fancy like a Doranen, might be you don’t.’
Asher swallowed. There was a roaring in his head, as though the killing storm had returned. ‘I don’t understand. The night I left I gave Jed a message for him. Jed swore blind he’d deliver it so’s Da wouldn’t worry.’
‘The night you left, boy, Jed fell down drunk and cracked his head like a hard-boiled egg.’ Zeth’s eyes were wide with mock sorrow. ‘There be nowt for Jed these days but sittin’ on street corners, droolin’.’
No. No, not Jed. Childhood friend. Partner in many a crime. Freckle-faced and easygoing and always game for a lark … ‘You’re lying. You’d say anything you could to hurt me, Zeth.’
The mock sorrow gone now, Zeth straightened out of his comfortable slouch and took a step closer. His eyes were empty of everything but hate. ‘I got better ways to hurt you than words, little brother. You should’ve told us yourself what you had planned.’
Asher held his ground, just. ‘You would’ve stopped me. Or tried anyways.’
‘Course we would’ve!’ Zeth snarled. ‘You got no business leavin’ the family. You owe your life to the family, your breath and your body belong to us. We say what’s to be done with ’em. We say where you go and what you do. Them’s the rules.’
‘Your rules,’ said Asher. His voice sounded strange, as though it belonged to somebody else. ‘Not mine. Not any more.’
‘Da’s dead ’cause of you, boy,’ said Zeth. ‘You might as well have stuck a guttin’ knife in his heart. You should’ve. Would’ve been cleaner. Kinder. Quicker. But no. You had to kill him slow.’
The air in his lungs had turned to ice. He couldn’t breathe. ‘I ain’t killed nobody. I’m goin’.’ Turning his back on them, he reached for the inn’s front door.
Zeth growled. ‘Boys …’
Like wolves in the Black Woods they were on him. Clenched fists pummelled him. Vicious kicks felled him. Fingers snarled in his hair, his clothes, dragged him across the floor and tore the fine vest and shirt off his back. Face down they hauled him up the hard wooden staircase and pinned him to it like a bullock to the slaughter block. There were too many of them and they were too strong, he couldn’t escape; nothing had changed, he might as well be a child again and helpless before them as their grieving father drank away all memory of his dead wife, deaf to his youngest son’s cries for help as his brothers paid him back for eight years of their mother’s love and their father’s careless indulgence.
The sound of Zeth’s copper-studded belt sliding free of his trousers closed Asher’s teeth on his battered lip. Drew blood. Amid his other brothers’ eager encouragement, the first blow fell.
When at last their fury was sated and there was nothing left in the world but torn flesh and pain, they dragged him outside and threw him and his stripped-off clothing into the gutter. It was dusk and Harbourmaster Street was empty.
‘From this day on,’ said Zeth, standing over him, panting down on him, ‘you be no kin of ours and Restharven ain’t your home. Don’t look for shelter anywhere else neither, for we’ll be bannin’ your name up coast and down. Your fishing dreams are over, little man. Go back to the City and your new blond friends. You be not wanted here.’
Asher stared up at his hateful, hating brother. Hot words crowded his throat, clamoured for release. You can’t and By what right? and He were my father too!
All he could do was moan.
One by one his brothers spat on him to seal the sentence. Then they went back into the Dolphin and slammed the front door behind them.
Floating on a scarlet sea, Asher barely felt the spittle as it trickled through his hair, down his cheeks, between his parted lips.
Da, he cried, though no more sound escaped him. Da …
Ages later he sat up beneath a starry sky, inch by painful inch, and pulled on his torn shirt. The weskit was beyond saving so he left it in the gutter. Then, wincing at every step, he dragged himself to the nearest ale house. Sat in a dark corner, ignored by the other patrons who’d gathered to share wild stories and lucky escapes, and spent all his money on glorious cider and beer. Once his purse no longer jingled, the barman pushed him into the street and locked the door behind him.
It was late. So late it was early. He laughed aloud at his own clever wit; the harsh sound bounced off the nearest stone wall, echoing. The streets were deserted. All the windows he could see were dark and cold, no friendly lamplight, no warm waiting welcome. Ah, well. Best he got back to the mayor’s house. There was a bed there for him at least. For now. And now was all that mattered. He couldn’t think past now. Couldn’t think at all.
Weaving his way along the uneven pavement he stopped twice to empty his belly onto the cobblestones. Bending over made his head pound like a galloping herd of horses. After the second heaving he had to sit down for a while. Standing up again was … interestingly difficult. There was pain in him somewhere but all that lovely cider and beer kept it far, far away. He’d need to drink some more soon, to sternly discourage its approach.
After a wrong turn or three he found the servants’ entrance to the mayor’s house. The door was locked. Of course. He didn’t have the strength to knock, so he kicked instead. Bang, bang, bang. Eventually the door creaked open. Maggoty Darran stood there, nostrils all pinched in, eyes slitted and beady. What a welcome. Maybe he could be sick again, all over the ole crow’s shoes. Would that make him go away?
‘Where in Barl’s name have you been?’ Darran hissed. ‘It’s the middle of the night! His Highness has been worried sick!’
‘Suck on a blowfish and die,’ he said, and pushed his way into the house. Tripped over something. A chair. Fell down. Oooh. That hurt. Def’nitely he needed another drink.
After a couple of false starts he found his feet again. Bed. He wanted his bed. There was a staircase in front of him. He didn’t like staircases. With a grunt, he started upwards. Behind him came Darran, wittering.
‘How dare you come back here in this condition! After everything His Highness has been through, how dare you insult him in this fashion!’
At the top of the stairs, turn left. No, right. No, left. Along the corridor, what a nice wall, holding him up. If he fell down now he’d never stand again. He needed a bloody drink …
‘– disgusting, that’s what you are—’
If he hit Darran, would that shut him up? He’d get into trouble but what did that matter? What did anything matter any more? He
swung around, fist clenched. ‘Shut your trap, you manky ole maggoty man!’ he growled. ‘Shut it afore I shut it for you!’
‘How dare you!’ Darran gasped. ‘You should be flogged for this!’
He grinned. ‘Too late.’
Darran wasn’t listening. ‘You should—’ He swallowed the rest of the sentence. Collected himself, and bowed. ‘Your Highness.’
Asher shuffled round a bit and looked blearily behind him. Gar, tying the belt of his quilted blue dressing-gown as he walked towards them, scrapes and bruises stark on his face, expression grim.
‘Hey!’ he said, and waved. ‘Blondie!’
‘He’s drunk, sir,’ said Darran.
Gar raised his eyebrows. ‘No. Really?’ Then he sighed. Dragged a hand over his face. ‘Go to bed, Darran. I’ll deal with this.’ Darran hesitated. Mouth all pruned up. ‘Go, I said!’ Gar snapped, and Darran withdrew.
‘Nighty-night!’ Asher called after the ole scarecrow.
Gar grabbed him by the shirt front. Shook him. It was a wonder his head didn’t fall clean off his shoulders. ‘Shut up,’ said Gar. ‘And come with me.’
Stumbling, protesting, he fumbled along the corridor at Gar’s heels until they reached the prince’s room. Gar opened the door, pushed him inside and closed the door behind them. ‘You stink of vomit and beer,’ he said. Curt. Clipped. Eyes and face as hard as a brother’s.
Asher shrugged, adrift between the chamber door and the window. ‘Aye. Well. S’what happens when you spend the night drinkin’ ale and pukin’.’
‘I’m not interested. Get yourself cleaned up and sober. We leave for the City at first light.’
‘What d’you mean, “we”? I don’t work for you no more, remember?’
‘You work for me until I say otherwise.’
Asher blinked at him, swaying gently. ‘Why go back to the City? We only just got here.’
There was a muscle leaping along the side of Gar’s clenched jaw. ‘The king is dead.’
Asher winced. He really needed another drink. The pain was getting closer and his mouth tasted vile. ‘How d’you know he’s dead? Did Zeth tell you?’
Gar said, ‘I don’t know any Zeth. Now be quiet and listen. We—’
‘Cause if Zeth didn’t tell you, then—’
Gar shoved him, hard. ‘I said be quiet! What’s the matter with you? Didn’t you hear me? My father is dead!’
That was funny. That was so funny, he had to laugh. ‘He is? Well, what d’you know? So’s mine! You an’ me finally got somethin’ in common, eh? Aside from the no magic business, I mean. Fancy that.’
Gar hit him.
Well. Now he really needed another drink. He touched his fingertips to the corner of his mouth. Found blood. Stared at it. Wiped it off on the front of his shirt and headed unsteadily for the door.
‘You’re not leaving,’ said Gar.
‘Watch me.’
As he reached for the door handle Gar pushed him aside, hands flat to his shoulderblades. Pain flared, roared, drove the air from his lungs in an anguished grunt of protest. He fell against the wall, clutching at it to stop himself from falling. Eyes screwed tight shut he pressed his bruised cheek to the pretty wallpaper and waited for the flames to die down.
‘What is this?’
Reluctantly he opened his eyes again. Looked at Gar. The prince was staring at his hands. There was blood on them.
‘Nowt.’ He was tired all of a sudden, so terribly tired. ‘Nothing.’
Gar looked at him. ‘Show me your back.’
‘No.’
‘Show me your back or I’ll call Darran in here to help me make you!’
And he would, too. Bastard. Wincing, Asher peeled off his once fancy fine silk shirt. Dropped it to the mayor’s expensive carpet. Closed his eyes and leaned against the wall for support.
Gar sucked in a quick, sharp breath. ‘Who did this?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Asher.’ Gar’s voice demanded instant obedience. Ha. ‘An assault on you is an assault on me. I want his name.’
He never should have come back. Not to this house. Not to Westwailing. ‘Leave it be.’
‘His name, Asher.’
Somehow he opened his eyes. ‘I fell down.’
Gar stared, incredulous. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I fell down.’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘I fell down!’
Infuriated, Gar shoved him a second time. He toppled like a stack of bricks, like the roof tiles on the storm-shattered houses of Westwailing. Landed hard, half on his back, and it hurt so much he started laughing because it was that or cry, and he didn’t want to cry.
Gar stood over him, fists clenched. ‘This isn’t funny!’
‘I know,’ he said, and hid his face against the floor, and kept on laughing.
The sound of bare heels stamping across the carpet. The door, wrenching open. ‘Darran? What are you doing out here? I told you to go to bed!’
‘I know, sir, I’m sorry, sir. Sir, is everything all right?’
‘No. I need a pothecary. Find one, wake him up and bring him to me. Now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The door, closing again. Thump thump of heels. A slithery swish and a bump as Gar slid down the wall to sit on the floor beside him. A quiet voice. ‘Your father’s dead?’
He stopped laughing. ‘Aye.’
‘In the storm?’
‘An accident. Eight months ago.’
‘I’m sorry. How did you—’
‘My brothers told me.’
‘Your brothers did this?’
‘They blame me.’
And they weren’t the only ones. He died screamin’ your name. From somewhere beyond the chamber door, the muffled buzz of voices. Gar said, very quietly, ‘Your brothers did this …’
The carpet smelled of dust and salt. ‘This is nowt, I’m shunned, Gar. Zeth and the rest of ’em, they’ve banned me. No fishing boats for Asher. Not in Restharven. Not anywhere in Lur.’ And what was the pain in his flesh compared to that?
A sharp intake of breath. Tense silence. Then: ‘For how long?’
‘Forever.’
More slithery sounds as Gar shifted against the wall. ‘Can they do that?’
Not only could, but had. It was done, and by common fisherfolk law not to be undone. ‘Aye.’
‘No. It’s not right. Fishing’s a dangerous life, how many times have you told me that? Whatever misfortune befell your father, Asher, it wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry. I’ll fix this.’
In the cavernous coldness within, a small warm flame. ‘You can’t. It’s Olken business. Fishermen’s business. You’ll make no friends stirrin’ that pot. Leave it be.’
‘Even though they beat you half to death?’
‘It ain’t that bad,’ he said, lying. ‘Reckon I’ve had worse.’
‘Really?’ Gar scoffed. ‘When?’
He sighed, even though breathing hurt like fire. ‘Leave it, Gar.’
‘How can I? Here you are, beaten to a bloody pulp, denied your heritage, the means by which you choose to make your living, exiled from your home … and by your own damned family, Asher! Leave it? How can I possibly do that?’
‘Because I’m asking you to.’
Gar muttered something under his breath. He sounded angry. Resentful. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘You don’t have to.’
Silence. ‘Well …’ Gar’s voice was laced with doubt. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘Damned sure.’
‘In that case … what will you do now?’
Stay curled up on the floor forever and ever. Drag his sorry carcase to another alehouse and drown it in an ocean of alcohol. Find a Doranen magician to turn back time so none of the past year had ever happened. So Jed wasn’t a drooling gapwit and Da was still alive.
‘I don’t know,’ he said roughly, swallowing tears.
Another silence. Then: ‘I really do have to leave at first light
. Her Majesty will need me.’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll take Mishin with me. Or Fitch.’
‘You’ll take me.’
‘Asher, you can’t—’
With a grunt and a groan he rolled over. Sat up, teeth gritted. ‘You’ll take me,’ he said again with all the force he could muster. He sounded like a half-drowned cat, mewling.
Gar was shaking his head. ‘You’re out of your mind. Look at yourself. You can’t ride all the way back to Dor—’
Despite the pain he reached out and grabbed a handful of Gar’s dressing-gown. Bunched it in his fist and shook as hard as the dregs of his strength allowed. ‘I have to!’ he said raggedly. ‘I can’t stay here!’ Perilously close to breaking, to begging, he loosened his fingers and let his hand fall. ‘I can’t stay here.’
Gar hesitated. Nodded. ‘All right. All right, you can come. Provided the pothecary says you’re fit.’
‘Sink the pothecary. I’m fine.’
Gar sighed. Shook his head. ‘Of course you are.’ Then added, hesitantly, ‘You don’t have to stay in the City afterwards. Not if you don’t want to. I gave you my word you could leave my service after a year and of course I’ll keep it. I’m sorry I was so angry before. It was unjust.’ He frowned. ‘Unprincely.’
If he leaned against the wall his back would burst into flames. Pulling up one knee, he rested his aching head. ‘No. You were right. I should’ve said something. Anyway. It don’t matter now.’ He sounded bitter. He couldn’t help it, and didn’t much care.
‘You are welcome to stay, of course,’ Gar said, abruptly formal. ‘I still need an Assistant Olken Administrator. If you stayed it would save me a lot of work, showing someone else the ropes.’
Face hidden, Asher smiled, a sarcastic twist of lip. If he stayed? What choice did he have now but to stay? Where else was there for him to go? He couldn’t be a fisherman any more. Assistant Olken Administrator was the only work he was fit for now. A dry life the only one that wanted him.
He lifted his head. ‘I’ll stay. You’re mad if you think you’ll find anybody else to put up with Darran and Willer.’
