But he didn’t dare. If something went wrong…
Goose said once, when they were talking on magic, that a lot of Durm’s books had ended up in the General Council library. His da, who’d been a councilor then, could’ve brought some home if he’d wanted. Only he had no interest in Doranen magic, which had nowt to do with hops and ale, and Goose said he didn’t want a clip over the ear for asking, thanks.
But compared to
these
books of magic, those others were nothing. He didn’t care any more that he couldn’t get his hands on them. These books, with Durm’s name scrawled and faded on the flyleaf, they were
special
. And one day he’d read them and learn every spell. One day he’d do every last bit of magic in them. And then he could feel like a real mage
every
day.
But not today. He couldn’t stay in Da’s library any longer. Through the closed door he could hear Biddy singing, loud and out of tune like always, as she dusted her way down the Tower staircase. If she found him in here there’d be such a ruckus…
Reluctantly, he started to close the trunk’s lid. Then his eye caught sight of a fat scroll tucked down the side. It looked much newer than the other scrolls he’d rummaged through. Holding his breath he eased it out, undid the ribbon keeping it closed and let it unroll just enough to see.
His heart thumped so hard it nearly leapt out of his chest.
Tollin’s account of his expedition over Barl’s Mountains.
He felt like dancing. Like shouting. Like laughing out loud. Not caring any more that Biddy was dusting closer, he let the scroll unroll itself properly.
And it turned out there were three copies of the same account bundled together. The writing was small and cramped and squiggly, so that Tollin’s memories would fit front and back on one long sheet of parchment.
Rafel stared at his discovery, feeling sweaty sick. Everything he ever wanted to know about Tollin’s adventures, that Da and Mama would never ever tell him, that not even ole gossipy Darran would tell him…
I could take one. I could. Why’d they need three for? They don’t need three. And if I keep it proper hidden, no-one will find out
.
All those books and scrolls of magic. All the truths Da wouldn’t share. The magic that was kept from him. The things he didn’t know.
Da shouldn’t keep secrets. Not about me.
Quickly he took one of Tollin’s scrolls, folded it over and over and shoved it inside his shirt, down the waistband of his trews. Then he rolled up the other two, tied the ribbon tight round them again, shoved them back into the trunk then closed its lid with a soft thump.
And then he realised—he had to lock it again.
Oh.
With his eyes closed and his mind still, feeling that lumpy folded parchment slowly warming against his skin, he picked up the undone ends of Da’s lock and… put them back the way they were. Not sure how he was doing it, knowing only that he was. That he could feel exactly which bit went where, and how, so Da would never know what had happened.
When he was finished Rafel opened his eyes, shaken and blinking as the buzziness in his mind faded. The trunk was locked again. It was time to go. He and Goose were meeting at the City gates to spend the day on horseback. If he didn’t hurry he was going to be late.
Closing Da’s library door behind him, he heard Biddy’s clomping footsteps on her way down the staircase. Any ticktock she was going to find him.
He bolted.
“Hey! Hey! Race you!” Goose shouted as soon as they were safely through the City gates, and dug his heels into his pony’s ribs. Eyes rolling, ears flattened, the pony swished its tail and bolted.
Rafel stared after him, mouth dropped, then let out a bloodcurdling yell. Stag needed no more urging. With a snort and a kick-behind he pounded after Goose’s pony. Lucky thing the road into the City was empty just then, for between them they’d have easy run a fancy carriage into the ditch.
Laughing, breathless, the wind whipping his face, Rafel galloped after Goose. Heels drumming, elbows flapping, lurching left and right in his saddle—Stablemeister Divit called his best friend a sapster—Goose veered off the roadway and across the open meadow towards the river where it pooled and puddled near Dragonshead Bridge.
Goose’s pony was a game one, but Stag was bred down on the Dingles, on the horse farm King Gar started when he was a spratling prince. The best bloodlines in Lur came from Kingsfarm: Cygnet, and poor dead Ballodair, and every horse in the Tower. His first pony, Flea. Then Dancer. Now Stag.
Standing in his stirrups, knees gripped tight to Stag’s barrel ribs, he buried his fisted hands in the pony’s black mane and shouted into one turned-back ear. “Go on! Catch him, Stag! Catch him! Go on!”
He felt the pony stretch out long and low beneath him and saw clottings of green turf fly past, dug loose by Stag’s hard shod hooves. They were gaining on Goose… gaining… gaining… there was the bridge… there was their favourite patch of flower-scattered meadow… there was the deep riverpond, known to locals as the Dragon’s Eye…
“Ha!” he shouted, triumphant, as Stag surged past Goose’s wallowing beast. “Beat you, Goosie! Beat you! Ha!”
Goose’s wail of defeat made him laugh and laugh. Which was mean, he knew it was mean, but he couldn’t help it. He liked to win.
Their race over, they let the hobbled ponies graze the grass and flowers, kicked off their boots and socks and sat on the pond’s low grassy bank dangling their bare feet above it. Nearby flowed the Gant, wide and slothful. The snow up high hadn’t melted yet, so the springrace was still a few weeks away. A long stone’s-throw distant stood Dragonshead Bridge, and the sound of the river slipping and sliding around and past its stone supports was sleepy and comfortable. The Eye sparkled in the sunshine, early dragonflies dancing across its still, mirror surface.
Rafel breathed out a huge sigh of satisfaction. Aside from practising his magic, there was no better way to spend a free day than with Goose and the wide blue sky, nowt else. What with Darran dying and all, it felt like years since he’d been let loose to amuse himself.
And there’s Tollin’s adventure inside my shirt. I got such a tale to tell
. “One of these days,” said Goose, his long black hair flopping, “I’m going to win a race agin you.”
“Y’reckon?” he said, grinning.
Goose slumped. “Prob’ly not.”
“Prob’ly you’re right,” he said, still grinning, and idly kicked Goose’s knobby sockless ankle. “Get yourself a Dingles-bred pony, you might stand a chance.”
“Don’t you spit on Taff,” said Goose, firing up. “He’s a good pony, he is.”
Rafel looked sideways to where Stag and Goose’s pony were tearing at the meadow, their slipped bits jangling, nudging and jostling jealously over the sweetest bite of grass. Stag’s dark brown coat gleamed ripe with dapples. Beside him, Goose’s muddy cream pony looked a lot like a nag.
Goose, seeing it, stayed loyal. “Any road. Even if my dad did believe in paying Dingles money for a pony, I wouldn’t push Taff out. We’re friends, him and me.”
“I know.” He didn’t want a brangle with Goose. Not when the sun was shining and the day was theirs to play with. Not with Tollin’s parchment snug tight against his skin. “You’re right. He’s a good pony.”
After a hard look, just to make sure he wasn’t being joshed, Goose reached beneath his laced-up leather jerkin. There was a clinking, and some wrestling, then two bottles of beer sat on the grassy bank between them.
Impressed, Rafel stared. “That for us?”
“No,” said Goose, going cross-eyed. “For Taff and Stag.”
“That your da’s brew?”
“It is,” said Goose. “His best strong beer, from the bottling that won him the last guild gold medal.” A quick, shy smile. Goose was proud of his da. “Put hairs on your chest, that will.”
Did he want hairs on his chest? They’d be a bit hard to explain… Chewing his lip, Rafel frowned at Goose’s folly. Beer, eh? He’d never drunk a whole bottleful before. Sometimes Da gave him a mouthful from his own tankard. He didn’t care for it overmuch but he never told Da that, because sharing a brew was manly important. He wasn’t about to tell Goose, neither. Not with his friend all puffed up for bringing it.
“Your da catches you pinching his prize beer, Goose, you’ll get walloped right into next week,” he said. “He notices his prize beer gone missing, you won’t sit down three Barlsdays running.”
Goose hooted. “Notice two bottles gone? My dad won’t notice that. He’s got so much beer in the pantry there’s no room for spuds. You should hear my ma. Trust me, Rafe, I’m safe.”
Prob’ly that was true. These days Goose’s da was Meister of the Brewers’ Guild. Near to all the back yard of his City house in Brewers’ Corner was taken up with a hops-oven and a malting hut and the smelly vats where he made his homebrew beer. Breathing at Goose’s house was like swimming in the stuff, yeasty and eye-tickling. He always went home from Goose’s smelling like an alehouse, so Mama made him wash even when he was still clean.
Goose held out one bottle. “Drink up.”
He took it. There was a little gleam in Goose’s eye, as though he knew this was a kind of dare. As though he knew he could make up for losing another pony race. Ha. Rafel unstopped the bottle with his teeth, spat out the spongewood stopper and tipped his head back. Beer swilled, blood-warm and heady, over his tongue and down his parched throat. The taste was strong and earthy, a punch to his belly. A rush to his head. It didn’t taste anything like the beer Da liked to drink.
“Good, eh?” said Goose, smacking his lips. He’d been raised on beer, and ale, and watered-down wine. He was going to be a brewer when he was a man growed. Not because his da said he had to, though he did, but because he wanted it.
And what’ll I be? I don’t know. I want to be an explorer, ’cept there ain’t nowt left to explore in Lur. And we can’t get past the reef and there ain’t no more going over the mountains, so that doesn’t leave me much save Council work, and who wants that? I don’t.
“Keep drinking,” said Goose, not noticing. “You let beer sit too long, all the bubbles burst. You shouldn’t let it sit too long once you’ve unstopped it, Rafe. All the goodness is in the bubbles.”
He gave Goose a sideways look. “Practising to be Guildmeister, are you?”
Goose shrugged. “No. It’s just you got to drink beer proper, Rafe. You got to respect it.”
Respect it? It was
beer
. But there was Goose looking to get all hot and bothered, so he shrugged and swallowed another mouthful. Didn’t want Goose thinking he was a girl, did he? It tasted even better this time. He swallowed again. Burped. Laughed.
Goose was eyeing his own bottle sadly. He’d nearly drained it dry. “Should’ve brought more.”
He nodded, grinning. This was good beer. Worth its gold medal. “Aye.”
“I will, next time,” said Goose, slumping his chin to his chest. “Two each. Dad won’t notice. He never notices what I do. He says I won’t be interesting till I’m old enough to shave.”
Rafel pulled a face. Poor ole Goose. Still, the beer was good. Swallow by swallow, his stolen bottle emptied.
Below their dangling bare feet, gaddies chased away the dragonflies and whizzed in dizzy circles above the riverpond’s quiet surface. A stir, a splash, and a fat silver-scaled carp hurtled into the air and swallowed a mouthful of gauzy wings. Goose hooted again, finger waving. “Lookee that! Lookee!”
Goose was tall and gangly for ten, lots of space in him to fill out. His da was a big man, and he’d be big too. So it always seemed funny, that he could giggle like a girl. Like Deenie and Uncle Pellen’s Charis when they played silly dolls together.
Rafel snatched a handful of grass and threw it at him, haphazard. “It’s a fish, Goose. You ain’t seen fish before?”
“Sure I seen fish,” said Goose. “But these are
funny
fish, Rafe.”
Beneath the riverpond’s surface more silver carp thrashed and jostled. The water seethed… then fell silent.
“Oh,” said Goose, disappointed. “Where’d they go?”
“Somewhere,” he said, and tipped the last of the warm beer between his teeth. In his head a warm buzz, like the droning of summer bees. Like Doranen magic. “Want ’em back, do you?”
Goose tip-tilted his own beer bottle, gurgling the dregs. “Yes, but they’re gone.”
Poor Goose. His da hardly noticed him and his pony wasn’t Dingles-bred. It’d never run faster than Stag, not even if it had two extra legs. Rafel tossed aside his emptied purloined beer bottle then tugged the folded parchment out from under his shirt.
“Here,” he said, flipping it to Goose. “Mind that. No peeking.” Goose fumbled the catch. “What is it?” he said, picking up Tollin’s scroll from the grass.
“A surprise, for later,” he answered, then scrunched himself right to the edge of the riverbank. Slid a little further, then dropped down into Dragoneye Pond.
“Rafel!” said Goose, his voice squeaking. “Rafe, don’t be daft! Don’t go in there. You want to drown?”
“I ain’t going to drown,” he said, the cool water lapping at his leather belt. Cutting him in half. Beneath his bare feet sludge squished and pebbles bruised. “I could swim before I could walk.” Well, almost. Near enough. Him and Deenie both weren’t frighted of the water, Da had made certain sure of that. They’d even been swimming in the ocean, down on the coast. “But don’t you try it, Goose,” he added, and jabbed a pointed, warning finger. “You’re a City Olken through and through.
You’d
be drownded in no time.”