The Innocent Mage (13 page)

The Olken nodded. Darran waited for him to speak, waited a little longer … then realised with an unpleasant jolt that an abrupt jerk of the chin was the only recognition he was going to receive. How … offensive.

He looked this Asher up and down. A rough, unprepossessing fellow. Capable enough, most likely, in a purely brutish fashion. His face was scarred: a faded white line ran irregularly along his right cheekbone. It gave him a threatening, brawling air which was echoed in the muscled breadth of his shoulders and the blunt, square power of his hands, hanging relaxed by his sides. How old was he? Hard to say … Contemporary to His Highness, it was safe to assume, but with a wealth of dubious experience in his dark, calculating eyes. His complexion was weathered, suggesting a lifetime’s exposure to a climate harsher than most in the kingdom. The chin was firm. Stubborn, even. And in him raged a crackling vitality, a brooding force of personality that hummed the air around him like an invisible dynamo.

Darran, who prided himself on being a swift and accurate judge of character, felt his spine stiffen. Here was trouble.

His Highness placed a hand on the ruffian’s shoulder. ‘Darran, this is Asher of Restharven. He’s the man who caught Ballodair for me after I fell off in the market square, you recall? I offered him a job as thanks, and he accepted.’

Slowly, Darran nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I do recall the incident.’ He shifted his gaze a fraction, let it rest on the ruffian’s calm

face. Was that dumb insolence he could see lurking hi the mask? He thought it was. The hairs rose up on the bad| of his neck.

Oh yes indeed. Here was trouble all right, anl| everything that trouble implied.

The prince slid a sidelong glance at the fellow. ‘Well, Fill decided he was being wasted in the stable yard, so F?t| invited him to work with me here, in the Tower.’

Wilier made an incautious, strangled sound in his throat.I Darran burned him with a look. ‘Really, sir?’ he said| fighting the impulse to clench his hands into fists. ‘H interesting. If I may ask, sir, in what capacity will this-| will Asher be working here?’

Again the fleeting, mischievous smile. ‘Well,’ said His 1 Highness, ‘once upon a time he’d have been known as tk| Prince’s Champion.’

That startled a reaction out of the ruffian. ‘Eh Champion? You never said nowt about me bein’ champion. Sir. Champion of what anyways? Folderol and| footlin’ about?’

Darran shuddered. Barl save them all, that accentl Thick enough to cut with a knife! And the disrespect. Apf He felt his stomach roll queasily. His world was unravelling right before his eyes and he had the most awful suspicion k was powerless to stop it.

The prince laughed. ‘Don’t you like it? I do. Champk. I think it sounds quaint.’

‘Quaint,’ the brute echoed, voice dripping with disgust ‘Ain’t no call for quaint, I reckon.’

‘No? Well … perhaps not,’ His Highness said regretfully.

‘Champion,’ the dreadful man said again. Then k smiled, a scornful twist of his lips. ‘Got that from one of them books Dathne’s always fetchin’ you, eh?’

His Highness appeared completely unperturbed. ‘As i matter of fact, I did. We had champions prancing all over the unttyside a few hundred years ago, particularly during that patch after King Trevoyle died without an heir. But once the dust settled and all the bodies were buried it was decided i’d do without them for a while, and that was that. So, in deference to the past, we won’t actually call you my lampion. Not in public, anyway. I reserve the right to use the Me in private, though, if ever I’m in a mood to irritate you.

Instead, we’ll call you my …’ He fell silent, thinking.

Mistake! Darran wanted to shout. Call him your mistake, come to your senses and toss him back on the dung heap where he belongs! It’s not too late!

The prince stirred. ‘Do you know, I believe I’ve a mind not to worry about the past and its refined sensibilities after all. Trevoyle’s Schism was a long time ago. A champion’s job was to stand at his lord’s right hand, defending him from all harm. He spoke with his lord’s voice in matters of local dispute and calumny and was relied upon to provide his lord with intelligence, information and advice whenever it was required.’ Again, the mischievous grin. ‘He was also expected to die on his lord’s behalf … but probably we won’t need to worry about that.’

The jumped-up stable hand was staring. ‘Oh, aye? Reckon that’s a relief. Sir. But if you got to call me something, Assistant Olken Administrator‘11 do. Reckon the lads are goin’ to give me a hard enough time about this as it is, without you taggin’ me as a champion.’

Darran swallowed an anguished cry. Assistant Olken Administrator? His Highness had decided to appoint himself an assistant — without consultation? “Without guidance? Had appointed this man, this awful man, to the post? What was he thinking}

The prince frowned for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. I hadn’t considered that. Very well. Darran …’ Feeling ill, Darran said, ‘Sir?’

‘As of today, Asher is the kingdom’s Assistant Olken Administrator.’

He flinched. Hearing it said like that, baldly, with no suggestion of doubt or equivocation, not even a hint of needing a wiser opinion, a moment to think … the, effort of controlling himself would likely give him a hernia. Driven to desperation he said, delicately, unwisely, ‘Sir, does His Majesty …?’

The prince’s answering look was dangerously bland ‘Does His Majesty what, Darran?’

Know? Approve? Permit? Darran cleared his throat. If he wasn’t extremely careful, the next sound he heard would be that of thin ice cracking. He took a prudent step back to safer ground. ‘Well, sir, it’s just your official appointment has yet to be announced.’

‘The news will be made public on Barlsday,’ said the prince. ‘Along with the announcement that I have chosen an Olken to work with me in this important undertaking.’ He smiled, but his eyes remained chilly. ‘As one who pays such close attention to politics, Darran, I thought you of all people would appreciate the gesture.’

‘Yes! Yes, sir, naturally I do!’ And would appreciate it even more had the chosen one been anybody but this smirking lout. If the prince had thought to ask his vastly experienced private secretary who best would fill such important, such political shoes … But the boy could be so impulsive. As surely as Barl came over the mountains, this would end in tears and tantrums, he could feel it in his bones.

‘I’m pleased that you agree,’ said the prince. ‘And now, if there’s nothing else that can’t wait, I’ll give my new assistant a guided tour of the Tower.’

Darran throttled a gasp. ‘You, sir? Surely that is something more properly done by —’ The protest withered and died in the face of His Highness’s cool gaze. ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. I have no further pressing business for you at this moment, sir.’

‘Good. I, however, do have some for you,’ said His Highness. ‘Reschedule the remainder of today’s appointments and then inform my tailor and my bootmaker that I shall want to see them here as soon as possible, for Asher’s fittings. Oh yes, and advise the palace provisioner that Asher and I will come and see her at some point this afternoon about furnishing the Tower’s Green Floor to his tastes.’

Darran nearly moaned aloud. His Highness was lodging the brute here} In the Tower} But nobody lived in here, saving His Highness. Staff lodged elsewhere, mainly the palace, and walked to work.

Lodging the ruffian here was an unprecedented mark of regard.

His Highness was staring. ‘Darran?’ ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’ ‘Naturally, you won’t refer to Asher by his new title.

Yet.’

After a quick glance to make sure Wilier was taking notes, Darran nodded. ‘Certainly, sir.’

The prince frowned. ‘You’ll need to inform the kitchen, too, so we all have enough to eat. And something else — oh yes.’ He stopped his headlong rush towards disaster and looked at the lout. ‘You’ve not changed your mind about Cygnet, have you? You’d not prefer another horse?’

Darran choked. A horse} On top of everything, His Highness was giving this peasant a horse} Worth an absolute fortune} Oh dear Barl preserve them.

‘No, sir,’ the lout said. ‘Cygnet’ll do me just fine.’

‘All right then,’ the prince said, nodding. ‘Darran, let Matt know he’s just lost himself a stable hand, and that Cygnet henceforth belongs to Asher. Now, is that everything? Yes, I think it is.’

‘Wages,’ said the lout, scowling.

‘Ah, yes. How could I forget that?’ Taking the pen back from Wilier, His Highness found a scrap of paper, scribbled on it, folded it in half and held it out. ‘Here is Asher’s revised wage, Darran. It’s a confidential matter, you understand?’

Darran took the proffered note with numb fingers. ‘Of course, Your Highness,’ he said woodenly. ‘Your Highness, a question, if I may be so bold.’

The prince frowned. ‘Of course. Since when do you need my permission to ask a question?’

Since you foisted this uneducated braggard upon me ani called him your champion1. Somehow, Darran managed a deferential smile. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I find myself a trifle confused as to the correct etiquette involved. To be blunt, sir, does this — your — does Asher report to me? Or do I report to him?’

‘Neither,’ replied the prince. ‘You both report to me. 0a occasion, Asher will have cause and leave to speak with my voice. You will know when he does so. Otherwise I expect you to work together as equals with separate duties. Is that clear?’

Darran inclined his head. ‘Quite clear, sir. Thank you. And just one final point, a very small point I know, but it’s best to be clear on these things from the beginning, don’t you agree?’

The prince sighed. ‘What?’

‘Where, precisely, does Wilier fit into these … new arrangements?’

‘Wilier?’ His Highness said blankly. ‘He doesn’t. Willer’s your assistant. Asher’s mine. But if he should require any help, of course Wilier will give it to him happily. Won’t you, Wilier?’

Wilier flushed. ‘Yes, Your Highness. Of course, Your Highness.’

The prince nodded. ‘Excellent. Well, we’ll leave you now to get those messengers organised. Thank you for your time, Darran.’

Darran bowed low, despite the scarlet ache in his middle. ‘Not at all, sir. My time is yours to command, as always.’

The office door closed with a thud behind the prince and his boorish companion.

Wilier, choking, spewed forth a laugh laced with horror and spite and collapsed into his chair. ‘Darran, I can’t believe it. Can you believe it? His Highness has gone mad\ Should I send for Pother Nix?’

Because the situation was so dire Darran decided not to flay Wilier for his undisciplined outburst. In truth, it was something of a relief to know that his feelings were so perfectly shared. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he opened the slip of paper the prince had handed him and looked at the amount of money His Highness was prepared to throw away every week on the loutish ruffian he had, so incredibly, so inexplicably, taken into his employ.

Fifty trins.

Only twenty-five trins less than he earned himself after a lifetime of loyal service and immense personal sacrifice.

Hot thick hatred stirred. Who was he, this ruffian, this lout, this stranger, to march into all their lives and turn them topsy-turvy in such a fashion? Prince’s Champion? Champion troublemaker, more like. Champion disturber of the peace. Champion error of judgement, and if he could say so he would, save that he knew his prince well enough to recognise the signs of an unwise idea firmly rooted. Knew, to his everlasting despair and from bitter personal experience, that no amount of wisdom or sage and loving advice would breach the determined certainty of royalty bent upon indulging an intemperate whim.

‘Darran?’ said Wilier.

He refolded the scrap of paper into a tiny lump with swift, furious precision. ‘What?’

‘Pother Nix. Shall I send for him?’

‘Of course not! His Highness isn’t ill, he is merely … enthusiastic. That ill-bred lout won’t last a week.’

Wilier chewed his lip. ‘But what if he does? What if he lasts, I don’t know, forever?’

Darran felt his stomach lurch. ‘Nonsense. I can assure you, my dear Wilier, that he won’t last anywhere near that long. You and I will see to that.’

‘We will?’ said Wilier, a delighted smile lighting his pasty face. ‘Excellent!’ Then the smile collapsed. ‘Um … how?’

With a contemptuous flick of his fingers, Damn disposed of the little paper wad into the rubbish basket. ‘I don’t know, precisely. Not yet. But I’ll tell you this, my friend: if we give Asher of Restharven enough rope you can be sure that sooner or later he’ll hang himself.’

As he climbed the spiralling Tower staircase behind the prince, Asher chuckled. ‘Dathne were right. Reckon that Darran don’t care for me at all.’

The prince sighed and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Don’t take it personally. Darran doesn’t care for anybody overmuch; he was born under a disapproving star. But he’s served my family all his life and he really is very good at his job, so I bear with his foibles. You’ll just have to bear with them too.’ A sudden chuckle. ‘Do you know, I think this is going to be fun.’’

Asher snorted. ‘Well, I reckon it’s goin’ to be somethiri. Don’t reckon I’d swim a long way to call it fun.’ He frowned with sudden thought. ‘Eh. What am I s’posed to call you, anyways?’

The prince swung about, walking backwards. ‘Well, in public you continue to call me “sir” or “Your Highness”. Around here, and whenever it’s just us, you’ll call me Gar, of course. Why? What did you think you’d be calling me?’

‘Mad,’ said Asher cheerfully. ‘As a gaffed fish.’

By the time the late-setting summer sun had sunk into shadow, a bewildering array of things had happened. Asher had an entire floor of the Tower to himself, acres of space, with a bedchamber and his very own privy closet and a sitting room and library — a right waste of space, that —

and an office even, since Gar seemed to think he’d be up to his eyebrows in work soon enough.

More than that, each room was now filled with furniture chosen from a vast array of beds and tables and sofas and desks and cupboards and whatnots stored in an entire wing of the palace. Even as the last stick of it huffed and puffed its way upstairs on the stout backs of various servants, there were maids with dusters and polishing cloths and sheets and pillows and towels and who knew what else rushing in to make his new accommodation fit for a prince.