The Innocent Mage (44 page)

She waved a hand. ‘I’m fine. Which is more than I can say for my poor shop. It’s a mess, all the books off the shelves. Windows broken. Half the floorboards have sprung loose. Unless I can find a Doranen willing to lend me a magical hand it’ll take days and days to —’

‘But you’re all right,’ said Matt, with his dead stable hand cradled against his chest. ‘No bones broken. No need for a healer.’

He was in shock, she realised. Ridiculously, it was the last thing she’d expected. Matt was her rock, her foundation, the shoulder she leaned on, the hand that she field in moments of quiet desperation. She needed him. And he needed her, at least for the moment. Kneeling, disregarding his uncoordinated resistance, she gently prised Bellybone from his grasp. Hoisted the limp form over her shoulder and got to her feet. He hadn’t been a big man, most stable hands weren’t, but still he was heavy enough to make her back and shoulders ache. But that was all right. She could manage.

‘Come on, Matt,’ she said gently, looking down at him. ‘We need to lay poor Bellybone somewhere cool and quiet and you need to get back to your horses. The other lads will be looking for you. It’s Meister Matt they’re needing now, more than they’ve ever needed him before.’

Wincing, Matt stood. Without a word took Bellybone from her, turned, and started walking back to the stable yard. After a moment she fell into step behind him. She could just make out the dead youth’s eyes, half closed, as his head rested in the hollow between Matt’s neck and shoulder.

Damn you, Asher, she thought as a shiver ran through her from head to toe. Damn you, damn you, damn you. You’d better be all right…

Hands trembling, Darran added mustard powder to the bowl of freshly boiled water in front of him. The steam spiralling into his face turned abruptly acrid, stinging runny mucus from his nose and tears from his eyes. Well, at least he’d have an excuse now. Old fool, he scolded himself, and stirred the browny yellow water with a wooden spot anxiously provided by the mayor’s cook. He’s not dead. You’ve not failed Their Majesties this time. He’s not dead. Think on that, not on what might have been. He added more mustard to the mix and sloshed it vigorously, blinking and sniffing.

In the deep armchair behind him Gar shifted inside his enveloping blanket. Was that a cough? Had the prince caught a chill, or worse, from his fearful immersion in the ocean? You should have stopped him, Darran. Who cares what tradition dictates? You should have put your foot down. You knew it was foolhardy for him to risk himself on all that open water with only that Asher for protection. You know what he’s like. Any dangerous thing, he’ll do, and has done, ever since they told him he was — ever since he realised he would always be … different.

Oh, how he remembered that day. Seared into memory, it was, and even into nightmares sometimes. Five, the prince had been, tall for his age and splendid, just like the early paintings of his mother that hung in the palace’s Hall of Memories. Silver-gilt hair and eyes that mirrored every blossoming hope, every dead dream. ‘No,’ he’d screamed, ‘I’m not a cripple, I’m not I’m not I’m not!’ Then he’d run away from his parents, from the Master Magician, from his unbearable life, to the stables. ‘Let him go,’ the king had said, his deep voice ripe with sorrow and regret. ‘The sooner he learns he’ll not outrun this, the better.’ And had punished the prince only for galloping his pony into the ground.

He’d been a junior secretary then, and privy to the calamity only by accident and a handful of urgent letters. For himself he’d have cut the pony’s blue-black throat and drunk the steaming blood for breakfast, if it could have changed the terrible truth. If it could have given the prince his ‘magic.

From the armchair, another ominous throat-clearing sound. Barl knew the prince was hardy enough, not in the least prone to distempers and ill humours and the like. But this was different. This was a near drowning and something more terrible besides … a bad chest, or even worse, was a distinct possibility.

His innards clutched again, fear yammering at him, twisting him. Old fool! He needs you! Control yourself! He took a deep breath and then began to cough himself, from the mustard fumes. The prince’s footbath was thickening nicely. Perhaps a drop more water …

When it was just so, and perfect, he blotted his face and hands dry with a towel, picked up the bowl and turned a bright and resolutely calm smile on his employer. ‘Here we are, sir. A nice hot mustard bath to ward off any chills.’

The prince’s face still lacked colour, the bruises and scrapes he’d suffered standing out like spilt ink on snow. The minute they’d brought him up from the harbour, battered and bloody and stiffening with salt, he’d been put in a hot bath and ruthlessly scrubbed clean. Darran cast yet another prayer of thanks Barlwards, that the prince had been largely insensible throughout the entire unpleasant ordeal.

Inside his nest of blankets Gar lifted heavy-lidded, glowering eyes. ‘Where’s Asher?’

Years of training kept his expression unchanged. ‘He’s fine. Now if you’ll just put your feet in the bowl, sir, you’ll feel much better.’

‘I don’t want a damned mustard footbath, Darran!’ the prince snarled. ‘Unless you want to drink it, take it away!’ On his marked face a look all too reminiscent of the Master Magician’s, when that terrible man was not pleased with the chaff that served him.

Darran put the bowl back on the table. He’s upset, he’s just upset, of course he’s upset. His hands were shaking again. He doesn’t mean it, you know he doesn’t, he never does. He hasn’t thought, he doesn’t understand …

‘I failed them, Darran.’

He turned. ‘Failed who, sir?’

The prince was staring out of the chamber window. Hi expression was desolate. Disconsolate. ‘Asher’s people, Oi the boat. In the town. As the storm hit us the mayor beggei me to do something. To save them. I couldn’t. I failed Useless, useless cripple …’

‘I’m sure you’re no such thing, sir!’ Darran’s heartbi stuttered in panic. ‘I’m sure not even Master Dunn himself could have stopped that dreadful storm.’

But the prince wasn’t listening. ‘And I lost the heirloom circlet. It’s somewhere at the bottom of Westwailing Harbour.’

‘Never mind, sir. I’m quite sure that given a choice Their Ma—’ He stopped. Breathed deeply for a moment. ‘The queen would much rather have you back safe and sound than a circlet.’

‘The king presented it to me on my twelfth birthday,1 There was grief in the prince’s face now, and in his voice, raw as an open wound. ‘I swore to him I’d look after it, I swore —’

‘It doesn’t matter, Your Highness,’ said Darran, trying to soothe. It was hard; he felt jagged with his own distress. ‘Not compared to —’

‘Of course it bloody matters, you stupid old man!’ Gar shouted. ‘That circlet was a treasure, a priceless part of Lur’s history. It was a gift from my father! How can yon stand there and say it doesn’t —’

‘Because you matter more!’ Darran shouted back. ‘Don’t you understand that, you foolish, foolish boy?’

Shocked silence. Horrified, Darran turned away, fists pressed against his chest. Behind him the prince shifted in ! his blankets. ‘Darran …’

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t speak. Had reminded himself over and over that his was the privileged place of servant to the royal family. The creed, unbreakable, was see all and say nothing. He was a man in the autumn of his life, this prince young enough to be a grandson. The onus was on him to behave as was proper, to indulge the hot blood of youth, to wave an indolent hand at intemperate outbursts. To understand and forgive, no matter what the provocation. That was maturity. That was the code.

Without permission his body turned and his mouth opened. His voice emerged, sounding thin, frightened, not his voice at all.

‘I remember the day you were born. Your gracious mother placed you in my arms with her own fair hands. You were so tiny. You smiled at me. I know you don’t remember, but you did.’ Memory curved his lips into the answering smile he’d blazed at the little thing.

The prince stared, startled and discomfited. Uncertain, and in need of a wiser man’s guidance though he couldn’t seek. ‘Darran …’

It was the vulnerability that shattered the last of his resolve. ‘I thought you were drowned!’ he cried. ‘I thought I would have to take your broken body back to your mother! Or worse, tell her — tell her you were lost beneath the waves, not even your body to —’

The hot tears behind his eyes burst forth, unstoppable. Flooded with shame he turned away again, hands pressed to his face. Disgraceful, this was disgraceful … but oh, how dreadful it had been with the storm upon them and the screaming and the howling and the clouds and rain and lightning and thunderbolts, the hail, the blood, the shrieking children, the waves as tall as trees and taller, pounding them to the ground, pounding them to pieces on the cobblestones, and the prince alone out there on the unprotected ocean! Moaning, he pressed his thin fingers to his lips and willed away the raw and recent horror.

‘Darran, you musn’t,’ the prince said, his voice strained. ‘I’m not drowned. I’m not even hurt, not to mention. Just a few bumps and bruises. I know you had a nasty shock, we all did, but we can’t go to pieces now. There’s too much to do.’

He could only nod, couldn’t trust his treacherous voii The prince said, shifting inside his blanket, ‘You know what that storm means, Darran. You know what must hi happened.’

No, no, no. It wasn’t true. Couldn’t be true. Fresh tes brimming he turned, looked at the king’s son, whose on eyes were brilliant with unshed grief. ‘We don’t kno anything for certain,’ he whispered.

‘I know,’ the prince said starkly. ‘Barl save me Darran. I know. Such a cataclysm can only be the resul of … it has happened before, twice — I fear only am conclusion can be drawn! His Majesty is … His Majesty has …’ His expression fractured then, exposing a wasteland of loss. A hand came up to cover his face,

fingers white and pressing.

On a choked sob Darran went to him, heedless of protocol, of propriety, of every rule he’d ever followed, every boundary he’d never crossed. He put his arms around the prince’s shoulders and held him. ‘There, there,’ he said, helpless, washed in his own tears. ‘There, there.’

At length the prince withdrew, pain banished, a new and harder resolve in his eyes. ‘How bad is it in the township, Darran? The truth.’

Oh, how he’d dreaded that question. Prevaricating, he stood and moved away. Smoothed his rumpled vest, his limp collar and sagging sleeves. Took deep, mustard-scented breaths until his heart was racing only a little.

‘Bad enough,’ he replied, and on another breath turned and faced his prince again. ‘Perhaps half a hundred dead. There seems to be some difficulty in agreeing on a final tally. Some drowned, some struck with debris. Some … trampled underfoot in the panic to escape the foreshore.’ Despite himself he shuddered, seeing again an old woman crushed to a pulp in the first mad stampede. ‘Injuries, of course. Aid stations have been established in several locations. Doranen healers have been sent for, but Barl alone knows how long they’ll take to reach us, even if any are to be found. This is an Olken part of the world, sir. They have their herbalists and their pothecaries, fine people, doing all they can. Of course it’s not the same as having a proper Doranen physicker, but they seem to be managing tolerably well.’

‘What of damage to property?’

‘As you can imagine, sir, it is extensive. Trees down, roof tiles blown off, windows shattered. Boats sunk to the bottom of the harbour.’

‘The Crown will see them right,’ the prince said, and pulled his blanket closer. ‘Whoever has lost what is dear in this calamity, he or she shall be recompensed.’

Aching, Darran passed a shaking hand across his eyes. My boy, my boy, and who will recompense you? His heart broke anew at the thought. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said. ‘I have set Wilier to starting the tally in anticipation of such a commitment.’

Incredibly, a faint smile. ‘Your efficiency does you credit, Darran.’ Then the smile faded. ‘I must return to the City. Tomorrow, at first light. The rest of today I will inspect as much of the damage as I can. Pay my respects to the bereaved. I’ll need you to work with Asher to ensure my speedy leave-taking come the dawn.’

‘Leave tomorrow?’ Aghast, he stared at the prince. ‘But that’s impossible! Recall that you nearly drowned, Your Highness! You mustn’t exert yourself before a proper medical inspection, by a proper Doranen pothecary! You need rest, sir, and embrocations for your bruises!’

The prince waved an impatient hand. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. The pothers are for those with real injuries. You’re making far too much of a few cuts and scrapes. I’ve had worse falling off my horse out hunting and you know it.’

Grimly determined Darran straightened his spine hard and said, lips pinched with disapproval, T cannot support such behaviour, sir.’

The prince lurched to his feet, blanket clutched haphazardly about his chest, eyes blazing. ‘I haven’t asked you to support it! I’m telling you what I intend to do! My mother needs me and I will go to her, is that clear?’

Somehow he stood his ground in the face of royal anger. ‘You are needed here, sir.’

‘I know,’ the prince replied. ‘But the queen takes precedence. You will act in my stead, with my voice, my hand. Do whatever needs to be done. I’ll support any decision that you make, without reservation. But I am returning to Dorana at dawn.’

He was beaten and he knew it, so he bowed punctiliously. ‘As you wish, Your Highness.’

‘No,’ said the prince, and his face was bleak as winter. ‘As I must. Now. Where’s Asher? I need to talk to him.’

‘I don’t know where he is, sir,’ he said, scrupulously neutral. ‘He left the premises against my express request, Something about making sure his family was all right.’

The prince paused in midscowl. Let out a deep sigh. ‘Of course. I should have thought. Are they all right?’

Darran lifted an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir. All I do know is he had no business leaving without your permission. He has duties, obligations —’

‘Oh, for Barl’s sake!’ the prince snapped. ‘He has family, Darran. For all we know one or all of them could be among the injured. Or the dead. Of course he went to see if they’re all right!’