The Innocent Mage (26 page)

Slowly, the old man nodded. Dipped his head in a bow. ‘As you say, Your Majesty,’ he replied, and stepped back.

The king looked at the Mayor of Basingdown. ‘And you, sir?’

Fletcher’s face was the colour of skimmed milk. ‘I — my wife — my girls —’

‘You may go,’ said Borne.

Then came a flurry of activity as Orrick’s paperwork was removed along with the table and chairs. Lady Marnagh took her records and departed. Mayor Fletcher went with her. More guards entered the chamber, carrying armfuls of straw and a roughly shaped wooden block and basket. The king turned his head. ‘Holze.’

‘Certainly, Your Majesty,’ murmured Holze, and went to the prisoner.

Asher, disregarded and disbelieving, watched as the Barlsman knelt beside Timon Spake. Rested a gentle hand against his cheek and began to speak softly in his ear. Whatever he was saying seemed to give the boy a measure of comfort. He began to nod. To cry more freely. Holze sang a hymn and the boy joined in, haltingly, his forehead lowered to Holze’s white silk shoulder.

Asher looked at Gar. Wasn’t it about time he spoke up? Said something along the lines of, ‘Well done, Asher, you can go’? His da had just pronounced sentence of death on that stupid, beardless youth. Any minute now they were going to chop off his stupid head, right in front them, in front of him, and when he said he’d witness the hearing that didn’t include the head-chopping bit afterwards.

As though reading his mind Gar looked at him. Shook his head, the very slightest of motions. Spoke not a word, but instead let his face do the speaking for him. You wanted him dead. You can watch him die. Stunned, furious, Asher felt his sweaty hands clench into fists. This wasn’t his fault. Timon Spake was the criminal here, not him, so why was he getting punished? Why did he have to see poor bloody Timon Spake get his head hacked off? That wasn’t fair. Well, one thing was bloody certain. Fifty trins a week didn’t cover this kind of aggravation. No amount of money covered this kind of aggravation. The prisoner’s entrance door opened again and a tall man in black, wearing a black mask and carrying a wicked-looking axe, stepped into the chamber. Asher felt his stomach heave, all his partly digested breakfast rising hot and acid into his throat. He was sweating in earnest now, rivers of horror pouring down his back, his chest. He could hardly breathe, and there were little red spots dancing before his eyes.

The straw had been spread on the flagstone floor to the far right side of the chamber. Well beyond spraying distance of king and Council, Asher realised. The wooden block squatted in the middle of that yellow, absorbent sea and the basket waited on one side. Now Holze was kissing Timon Spake on the forehead. Was helping him to his feet so he could take the faltering steps that would place him within reach of that block, that basket. Now Spake was kneeling again, Holze’s tender hands helping him down, down, to the thick and golden straw. The headsman was taking his position. The boy, bound in chains, convicted out of his own mouth, bent over. Lowered his head. Stretched across the wooden block. It was rough. He must be getting splinters in his throat. Holze withdrew. The room was hushed, no speaking, no sobbing. Time stood still.

The headsman looked at the king. The king nodded.

The axe came down, a single strong and steady stroke, The blade bit through flesh and bone and deep into the rough-hewn timber of the block. Timon Spake of Basingdown died. The golden straw around him turned red, the airless chamber filling with the rank iron smell of fresh blood. Hervy Wynton vomited.

Asher didn’t, but only just.

The king rose from his tall chair. His hands were steady, his face untouched by tears or anything else. He went to Hervy Wynton, who was wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘You may take Timon home now, Meister Wynton,’ he said softly, ‘Lay him to rest with kindness. He wasn’t a bad lad. He lacked judgement. But Barl’s Law must hold for all of us, the wise and the foolish alike. My sorrow to his father.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ whispered Hervy Wynton. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’

Borne turned away from him. ‘Captain Orrick?’

Orrick, seemingly unmoved, bowed. ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’

‘Assist Meister Wynton. Then see that word is spread throughout the City. Justice is served. Barl’s Law is upheld. This business is done, and done. The king’s mercy on Lur’s people and Barl’s blessings as well.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

Borne and his Privy Council left the chamber. Asher, his legs unsteady, followed them out of the guardhouse and into the fancy courtyard out the back, where all their carriages were waiting. The air was clean and fresh.

Unbloodied. The sun was shining. There were people in the streets beyond, perhaps the same people who last night had gathered and muttered and called for vengeance. They were bustling now, preoccupied, going about their daily business. As though nothing had changed. As though no-one had just led. When they found out, would they be sorry? Or would they dance with delight?

Gar turned to him. His expression was cold. Distant. I’m returning to the palace with His Majesty. You can take the carriage back to the Tower if you like. I won’t need you again today.’

Dumbly Asher stared at him. Took a deep breath and rediscovered his voice. Even to his own ears it sounded strange. Thin, and unfamiliar. T don’t want the carriage. I’m gom’ to walk for a bit.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Gar, shrugging. ‘I’ll send it back to the stables then.’

As Gar turned away, Asher reached out his hand. Brushed his fingertips against the prince’s elbow so that he looked back. ‘Did you know that were goin’ to happen?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Did you know Spake were goin’ to be killed right then and there?’

Gar’s glance flickered towards the king, who was climbing into his carriage. Durm, dismissing the groom, held the door open for him. Holze and Jarralt were already tucked neat and tidy into their own carriages, waiting for Borne to take his leave so they could retreat as well. The prince shook his head.

‘No. Of course I didn’t. But Durm was right. Today. Tomorrow. What difference did it make? He was always . going to die.’

Asher watched him wave their carriage away, climb into the king’s carriage and pull the door shut. Watched the dark brown horses respond to Matcher’s whip, and trot away. He turned on his heel and started walking.

As the bookshop door closed behind another customer Dathne let her head drop to her hands and groaned aloud. It was tempting, so damned tempting, to hang her ‘closed’ sign in the window and shoot home all the bolts, even though it was barely an hour past lunchtime. And she’d do it, she really would, if one more person rushed in to her today and gasped, ‘Have you heard? There’s going to be a trial. They say he planned to bring down the Wall! Barl have mercy, what is the world coming to? I hope they hang him from the top of the guardhouse. I hope they beat him first. I hope they make him pay. To bring such shame on innocent Olken. To make the Doranen question our loyalties. Our gratitude, What a wicked man. What an evil deed.’

Her head was pounding with their fear, their indignation, their fervent desire for swift punishment and an even swifter return to normality. A pretence that none of this had ever happened. Her mouth was sour with it, her insides knotted. As if she didn’t have her own fears. As if she weren’t on tenterhooks, waiting. Wondering. Dreading. Every time the shop door opened she looked up expecting to see a City Guard with her own death in his face.

When it did swing wide again and the little warning bell jiggled and rang, the noise scraped her raw nerves like fingernails down a plaster wall. Swallowing a scream she pinned a smile to her lips and looked up.

Asher. Smart as new paint in a fancy weskit and brand-new shirt and breeches, although, looking more closely, they seemed a little the worse for wear. Something dreadful lurked in his eyes. She slid out from behind the shop counter, one hand reaching for him. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

He looked at her and her heart twisted. ‘It’s over,’ he said. There was an undercurrent of savagery in his voice. ‘He’s dead.’

It was like a fist to the stomach, violent and unexpected. ‘Spake?’

Ignoring her outstretched fingers he began to pace, mds shoved deep into his breeches’ pockets, stretching them all out of shape. ‘He confessed. The king had his head cut off on the spot.’

She had to sit down. Groping her way back behind the counter again she bumped herself onto the shop stool and tried to steady herself. ‘Oh.’

Adrift, staring at the bookshelves but seeing something else entirely, Asher shook his head. ‘There was so much blood. Didn’t expect that. Spent most of m’life beheading fish, y’know, and pullin’ their guts out for good measure, but they hardly bleed at all. Don’t know why.’ He shuddered. ‘Spake bled. He bled everywhere. All over the floor. Up the wall, even. Made a right bloody mess. Ha.’ Frowning, he shook his head. ‘Weren’t like he was a big bloke, either. Scrawny little runt really. Hardly fair to call ‘im a man, even though he was sixteen, and legal’

She remembered to breathe. Timon Spake was dead, and the Circle lived. ‘I know.’

Asher’s dark expression melted into something softer. Sorrier. ‘Stupid bastard. Why’d he want to go fartin’ about with magic anyways? Stupid, stupid bastard.’

A little colour was seeping back into his face. Going to him, she took his hand. It was like ice. ‘Tell me what happened,’ she coaxed, tugging him towards the little sofa by the window where customers liked to sit and browse and chat. ‘Tell me everything.’

After he’d finished she poured a glass of brandy down his unresisting throat. Then she poured one down her own. He said, vaguely, T never asked you what you thought.’ ‘About what?’

He waved his.hand. ‘Spake.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ she said, cramming the cork back into the brandy bottle. ‘He’s dead. It’s over. Life goes on.’

Brooding, Asher stared into his empty glass. ‘£ Gar. I didn’t need to see that. Bastard. Reckon I’ve got s good mind to —’

Dathne went cold. ‘You can’t,’ she said, snatching the glass from him. ‘You have to stay. We Olken need you here working with the prince, now more than ever. You can’t quit, Asher.’

He glanced at her and his lips twisted in a lopsided smile. ‘I know. I need the money, don’t I?’ He stood, ‘Thanks for listenin’, Dath. I needed it.’

‘You’re going?’

He shrugged. ‘Got some more walkin’ to do, I reckon. Got to see if I can’t leave what happened a bit further behind me.’

He bent to kiss her cheek, and she let him. ‘If you need to talk more, you know where I am.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Reckon I do.’

She locked the door behind him then dashed upstairs and contacted Veira.

You have news, child?

She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. ‘It’s done, Veira. Timon Spake is dead, and we are safe.’

Dead? Already? How?

Quickly she explained. ‘I’m as surprised as you. I never dreamed it would be dealt with so swiftly.’

Poor Edvord. This will finish him. He was only hanging on for the boy. For us.

‘It seems he knew best in the end. His son kept the faith, Prophecy will continue.’

Edvord can take comfort from that, at least. But what of Asher?

‘What of him? He’s shaken, but he’ll be all right.’

The link between them fell to humming silence as Veira considered. Tread softly, Dathne, she said at last. This may go deeper than you know. He’s seen first-hand the consequences of what we do. When the time comes for him to join us …

‘He’ll join us,’ she said. ‘Prophecy says so.’

Another silence. Is that Seeing, child, or hoping?

‘Seeing,’ she said, with far more confidence than she felt, remembering Asher’s revulsion and his milk-white face.

Jervale grant it be so. Thanks, child, for the news. I’d kst be with Edvord now.

‘Veira!’

Yes, child?

‘We are going to be all right now, aren’t we? With Timon dead, the Circle will be safe?’

There was another, longer silence. Shocked, through the link Dathne thought she could feel Veira weeping.

Tm sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I forget sometimes. You knew him. You know us all. This must be so hard for you …’

It is hard for all of us, child. Prophecy is a cruel master. As to your question … yes, I think we are safe. Our secret is unspoken, our existence still unknown. But I’ll warn the others to have a special care. You tread lightly, too, and Matt.

‘We will, Veira. I promise.’

With the link severed, Dathne went back downstairs, reopened the shop and let business and the swiftly spreading news of the blasphemer’s just desserts crowd out all her other clamouring concerns.

They were safe. Prophecy continued. Now all she had to do was wait.

When Asher finally wandered into the Tower yard, his feet blistered from walking so far in new boots and his guts still burning from the brandy Dathne had bullied him into drinking, Matt came to greet him. All around them the lads scurried about their afternoon chores as the horses hung their heads over their stable doors, whickering hopefully for food. Butterflies danced above the flowerbeds.

Seeing him, the lads laughed and waved. Bellybone catcalled, grinning, and wagged a rude finger. Asher wagged back but couldn’t quite manage a return grin. Suddenly, sharply, he missed the rough simplicity and uncomplicated companionship of the stables.

‘Where’ve you been?’ said Matt, looking him up and down with appraising eyes. ‘The carriage got back from town ages ago.’

Asher scraped a line in the gravel with his heel. ‘Walkin’.’

‘For three hours?’

‘So? Ain’t no law against it last time I looked.’

Sighing, Matt hooked his thumbs into his scarred leather belt. ‘You’ve been avoiding me lately. Why?’

Asher shrugged. ‘Didn’t want to talk about Spake.’

‘Who says I did?’

‘You sayin’ you didn’t?’

Matt pulled a face, admitting defeat. ‘Word is Spake’s dead. Executed.’

‘I know. I was there.’

Matt’s expression changed. ‘You all right?’

Asher smiled, tiredly. Was he all right? No. Not really. ‘Y’know, you be the first one to ask.’ He sighed. ‘I’m fine. Just… when I got up this mornin’ I surely didn’t count on…’ He shrugged again and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. ‘That.’