The Awakened Mage (18 page)

The ones who even now were saying:

“Poor Willer. Passed over twice. First in favor of the fisherman and then for that odd woman—you know the one, all skin and bone, hangs on the stableman’s sleeve, the bookseller. Yes, her. Without even his own precious superior to argue his case.”

“No! You mean to say Darran supports the appointments? Gracious! Ah well. They do say every man finds his level, and it seems poor Willer has found his. But who’d have thought it would be so low?”

Moaning, he took another deep swallow of ale.

Of course it was foolish to feel hurt by Gar’s decision. He should have expected the slight;
everyone
knew that where Asher was concerned, the pri— the king had all the perspicacity of a newborn babe.

What he
hadn’t
bargained for was Darran’s betrayal. After three years of faithful service, of uncomplaining drudge-work and utterly reliable discretion, of forgone private pleasures and curtailed private plans, to be publicly humiliated like that. To be ranked as just another dispensable pen-pusher. To see Darran standing shoulder to shoulder with that unspeakable Asher, their mutual implacable foe, and hear him praise the lout without stint or sarcasm.
“Our good friend Asher, who’ll serve His Majesty and the kingdom superbly as Olken Administrator.”

Trembling with rewoken outrage, Willer tried to drown tormenting memory with more ale but instead spilled the tankard’s remaining mouthfuls down his shirt front. “Damn!”

He tried in vain to catch the eye of one of the Goose’s three slatternly barmaids, but the useless wenches were too busy inviting Matt’s stable lads to ogle their dubious charms. Defeated, he slumped further in his seat and brooded into the emptied depths of his ale pot.

Somebody squeezed into the corner booth with him. Without asking. The cheek! “Kindly find another place to sit,” he said haughtily, not looking up. “I do not care for—”

A full tankard of ale thudded onto the benchtop before him. Now he did look up, into a face unknown to him. Long, thin, middle-aged. Olken. Unpleasant. The face smiled. “Evening to you, Meister Driskle.”

He frowned at the impertinent oaf. “Do I know you, sir?”

“No,” said the man. His clothing was covered by a long gray cloak, and in one hand he held a matching tankard of ale. “But I know you.”

“Many people know me. I am a well-known man.”

“You are,” agreed the stranger. “And an honor it is to be sitting here with you.” He nodded at the tankard he’d placed on the bench. “Will you share a toast with me, Meister Driskle? To our new king, may Barl bless his days among us!”

Well. One could hardly refuse to toast the king …

“And to the memory of his family, Barl give them rest!”

Or his late parents and sister… “And to the swift recovery of our revered Master Magician!”

Not even Durm, though life was surely more peaceful without him.

Feeling a trifle bleary, Willer squinted at his new friend. “Who
are
you?”

The man smiled. “The servant of someone who’d like a word or three, Meister Driskle. If you’ve the time just now.”

He sniffed. “If this is some clumsy attempt to weasel a favor from a man with royal influence, then—”

“Oh no, Meister Driskle,” the man in gray said. His eyes were amused.

“Then what does this ‘someone’ want? Does he have a name? I’ll not set one foot outside this wretched tavern if you won’t tell me who—”

The man smiled. Lifted a finger and pulled down the edge of his cloak to reveal his collar. It was embroidered with a black and silver falcon: the emblem of House Jarralt.

Willer thumped backwards in his seat. “What is going
on
here?”

The man smiled more widely still and winked. His finger crooked, beckoning. Dumbfounded and mizzled with ale, Willer struggled from behind the bench and followed House Jarralt’s gray-cloaked servant out of the rackety inn and into the street, where a dark, discreet carriage drawn by four dark, discreet horses stood by the curb. The servant opened the carriage door, and Willer peered inside the curtained, glimlit interior.

There was only one occupant.

“Lord Jarralt!” he gasped. Snatching off his hat, he hastily offered an awkward, unbalanced bow. “How may I be of service, sir?”

Lord Jarralt was dressed in sober grays and blacks. He waved one ringless hand, indicating he desired his visitor to join him. Awed, Willer clambered up the carriage steps and bumped himself onto the empty black velvet seat opposite the Privy Councilor. His heart pounded painfully beneath its muffling layers of flesh.

“You may leave us, Frawley,” the lord said to his gray-cloaked servant

Willer flinched as Frawley clicked the carriage door shut There came the crack of a whip, the slip-sliding clatter of shod hooves on wet cobbles, and the carriage moved off. To where or in what direction it was impossible to tell.

“My lord,” he said, breathless, “I don’t understand. Is something the matter? The king, is he—”

Jarralt lowered his upraised, silencing finger. “For the moment our beloved king is unharmed, Willer. And may I say how well it becomes you, that your first thought was for him and his safety. I am… impressed.”

Willer nearly swallowed his tongue. He didn’t know which was more exciting: that Lord Conroyd Jarralt knew his name, that he was sitting in the grand man’s carriage or that he’d just been paid an extravagant compliment by one of the most powerful and prestigious Doranen in the kingdom.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, my lord. How may I serve you? Your man was most circumspect…”

“I am pleased to hear it” said Lord Jarralt. “Our business is of a private nature. I wouldn’t like to think of it as … food for public consumption.”

Was that a warning? Yes. Yes, of course it was. “Oh, sir, you may rely on my complete discretion! I know the value of silence, I assure you. Why, in my capacity as private secretary to His Majesty, I—”

“Silence,” said Lord Jarralt. “Yes. Silence is often useful and so frequently underrated. It can even be a weapon, if wielded wisely. Do you follow me, Willer?”

He snapped shut his teeth and nodded eagerly.

Lord Jarralt smiled. “Excellent.”

Questions crowded Willer’s mouth like pebbles. Why am I here? Where are we going? What is it you want of me? Why are we meeting in secret? He was choking on curiosity, could barely breathe. His hands clutched the brim of his hat so tightly he thought his knuckles would crack.

Lord Jarralt said, “You don’t like Asher, do you.” It wasn’t a question. Still unspeaking, he shook his head.

“You’re not alone. Tell me … were you asked to describe him, what would you say?”

What would he
say?
What
wouldn’t
he say? Feeling oppressed by all the savage words clamoring to be set free, he tittered. “I’d say he’s—he’s a bilious headache, my lord.”

That made Lord Jarralt laugh out loud. “A bilious headache! Yes. How true. But he is more than that. He is a noxious weed grown rampant and unchecked in our garden, this precious Kingdom of Lur. I’m told he’s been appointed Olken Administrator. A tragedy, to be sure.”

Willer swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

‘To be truthful,” Lord Jarralt mused, fingers tapping idly on one knee, “I thought it might be you, but… alas. Doubtless Asher is to blame. He’s poisoned the king against you.”

A pang of hope seized Willer’s heart. He leaned forward, his crushed hat falling heedless to the carriage floor. “Oh, my lord,” he breathed. “I’m so afraid. His Majesty is so good, so kind, so trusting. I fear he has nurtured a viper in his bosom unawares. While Darran thought as I do I had some hope of Asher’s villainy finally coming to light, but now
Darran
has fallen under his spell too. I don’t like to seem immodest but I think I am the only one who can see—”

“Modesty is best reserved for those who have much to be modest about,” said Lord Jarralt. “For men like us, Willer, men of accomplishment and vision, it is a pointless conceit. You have no need to fear. You are not the only one who sees Asher for what he truly is.”

Willer released a silent sigh of ecstasy and sat back in his seat. The cold void within him was gone now, filled to overflowing with a bubbling warmth. _Men like us. _”My lord, I am relieved beyond words to hear you say so. But what can we do? We are two lone voices, crying in the wilderness.”

“I know,” said Lord Jarralt, and smiled so sadly Willer thought his heart might break. “It is a lonely road we walk, Willer. I take it you love our new king?”

Willer gasped. “Of
course!”

Lord Jarralt twitched aside the curtain from the carriage window and for a long moment stared through it into the night-dark landscape beyond. Where they were now, Willer had no idea. The horses’ hooves no longer pounded cobblestones, he could tell that much. It meant they must have traveled beyond the City. Did it matter? Not at all. This incredible conversation had already taken him further than he’d ever gone in all his life.

“Gar is of an age to be my own son, you know,” said Lord Jarralt, sounding almost wistful. “It’s how I’ve always thought of him. And like any father, I worry. Imagine a host of dangers that might at any moment befall him.” His gaze flickered. A warning, or an invitation?

Willer took a deep breath to calm his booming heart “You think the king is in
danger,
my lord?”

Jarralt let the curtain fall again. “What do you think?”

Willer stared. “
I—I
don’t know.”

“I think you do. You said it yourself. A viper in the bosom.”

“Yes … I did…” He frowned. “But Asher saved his life in Westwailing.”

Lord Jarralt smiled. “Or so we’re told.”

“I suppose,” Willer said slowly, “the story could be untrue. We only have Asher’s word, after all. The king’s recollection can’t be relied upon, he was drowning at the time. And the truth is a mirror, isn’t it? What you see in it depends very much on who’s looking, does it not?”

Lord Jarralt sighed. “I am a plain man, Willer. Plots and puzzlings and devious designs are foreign to my nature. Therefore allow me to speak plainly, in the hope that you will speak plainly in your turn.”

“I will, sir.”

“Speaking plainly, then, I am afraid Asher wields an undue influence over the king. I am afraid His Majesty has been duped. Deceived into believing the lout is harmless. On the contrary, he is baleful. He holds the Doranen, Barl’s own people, in contempt. And now that his power is unparalleled in the kingdom I am afraid he will use it to manipulate our gentle, trusting new king for his own ends.”

“What ends, my lord?” he said, trembling.

Lord Jarralt shrugged. “What is the ambition of every noxious weed?”

The question seemed to suck all the air out of the carriage’s interior, so that Willer struggled to keep his lungs inflated. He felt hot and cold, terrified and vindicated, brave and confronted, all at the same time. ‘To take over the garden,” he whispered.

“Exactly.”

“But, my lord…” He was anguished. “We have no proof.”

“What is proof, my friend, but a coat of paint required by fools who cannot see that a house unvarnished is still a house?”

“I know … I know … but His Majesty will never believe us without it.”

“That’s true,” Lord Jarralt admitted. “So we must find it. Or, should I say,
you
must find it.”

He sat back. “Me, my lord? How? I have no magic, no authority. I’m a mere Olken, a cog in the royal wheel, I—”

Lord Jarralt smiled. “Willer, Willer… don’t sell yourself so short. You are far more than that. You are brave. Wise. Dedicated. Most importantly, you are
there.
Within the royal household. In the right place at the right time to do what must be done. To discover the proof that will rescue our dear king from this monstrous Olken. I know it will be difficult, torture even, but you must slay your pride. Swallow your repugnance for Asher, mask your legitimate loathing of him, and stay as close as you can so his actions might be observed. Can you do this, my friend? Tell me you can. Tell me I am not mistaken in your nobility, your dedication to doing what is right no matter the personal cost.”

He could scarcely breathe. “You are not, sir, I swear you are not!”

“You will report every discovery, every suspicion, to me and me alone,” Lord Jarralt cautioned. “No one else can know what we are about. In time, Asher’s true nature will be revealed, of this I have no doubt. But for now he has the king—indeed the kingdom—hoodwinked.”

“Hoodwinked and bamboozled,” Willer agreed. “To my daily pain.”

“But not forever,” said Lord Jarralt. “One day, Barl grant it be soon, Asher will stumble and you will be there to witness it. You, Willer, will save our king and kingdom from disaster and so earn the love of all men unto the end of time. But only if you say yes. If you don’t, we shall see calamity unknown since the days of Morg and you will be known throughout eternity as the man who helped to kill a kingdom. As Blessed Barl is my witness, I know this to be true. So now we come to it, Willer. Now we reach the point of no return. Will you serve our beloved Lur, my friend? Will you join me in this holy quest to slay the monster Asher?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Willer, still breathless with emotion. “Oh, yes. I will!”

Drifting on a drug-soaked sea, Morg cradles Durm’s fragile life tenderly, like a mother her babe in arms, and sings to it a song of survival. The fat fool’s flesh is reluctant to heal. With every labored breath Durm fights him, willing himself to die. Morg sweats and strives to deny him the victory.

Pother Nix is his unwitting ally, as determined as Morg to see this ruined carcass claw its way back from the brink. The tiny part of Morg not consumed by the battle is amused; would Nix fight so hard if he knew who it was he struggled to save?

Little King Gar is also an ally. Every day he comes to sit with Durm. Pours love and hope and healing into Durm’s slumbering ears and prays out loud for a miracle.