The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (29 page)

“What?” said Da. There was the tiniest glint in his eye. “That you could smash that Arlin Garrick flat with your magic?”

It was shameful, but he nodded. “Aye,” he whispered. “Aye, I surely do.”

Da pinched the end of his nose. “Reckon I don’t know that, sprat? Reckon I ain’t had that feelin’ m’self, once or twice?”

Because Da didn’t sound cross, he risked a big question. “When you killed Morg, Da. Did you want to? Did it—did it feel good?”

“Sink me bloody sideways, Rafe…” Da let go of him and stood, turning to the window. “The things you ask. Aye,” he said, after a long time. “I wanted to kill him. He were evil through and through. But it didn’t feel good, Rafel, ’cause I weren’t just killin’ him. Two other men died with him… and neither deserved it. You want to think on that, sprat, when you find y’self wishin’ you could pop poxy Arlin Garrick with your magic. Think on that, and think on poor ole Goose with his caned backside. Ain’t nowt in the world as magic’ll make simpler. All magic does is tangle things up.”

“Aye, Da,” he said, because he knew it was expected. But he didn’t really believe it. Everywhere in the City, throughout Lur, magic made their lives simpler. If it was so terrible no-one would use it, would they?

“So here’s what I reckon,” said Da, looking over his shoulder. “I reckon it weren’t just fratchin’ with Arlin that’s got you riled, Rafe. Them boggles he called… they made you think of last night, eh?”

Last night
. He didn’t want to talk on that. Didn’t want to remember Deenie screaming. Running into his bedchamber and screaming about monsters and the twisting earth and a man with green-gold eyes and red hair, crying tears of blood in a river.

“You ain’t to fret on that,” said Da. “There’s nowt will hurt you in this Tower, Rafe. Nowt to hurt you anywhere in Lur. You or Deenie. I won’t let it. You hear me?”

“Aye,” he said, nodding.

“And d’you believe me?”

He wanted to. But last night Deenie screamed that Da was frighted, that he was hurt near bad enough to die. And Deenie could feel things. He knew that now. She could feel things that were true.

If Da can’t protect himself, how can he protect us?

“Rafe?” said Da. He sounded hurt and surprised. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Course I do,” he said quickly. “I believe you, Da. You and Mama won’t let nowt happen to us.”

“Aye,” said Da, and tousled his hair. “That’s right.” He let his hand drop. “Now, I got me some work to do, sprat. Time you paddled a bit in your bath then got y’self warm and dry into bed. Off you toddle. I’ll see you right as rain in the mornin’, eh?”

Da had to work? But it was late. Outside the solar window the night-birds were singing, and stars were sprinkled across the sky. Da had been at work all day. It didn’t seem fair he had to work at night too.

“What kind of work, Da?” he said. “Can I help?”

Da smiled. “That be a kind thought, Rafe, but no. You got your own work, I reckon—scrubbin’ them sproutin’ spuds out of your ears.”

“I ain’t got spuds, Da,” he protested. “I never once had a spud!”

“Aye, well, there be a first time for everythin’,” said Da. “Now off you go.”

“But what about Stag?” he said, remembering. “He hasn’t had his supper apple.”

“I’ll give it him tonight, Rafe.” Again, Da tousled his hair, then reached down and swatted him lightly. “Run along.”

With Deenie all fratched they’d not finished dinner. Cook’s peach pie was sat on the sideboard, not a bite of it taken, sweet and ready to eat.

Da saw him looking at it, and smiled a tiddy bit. “Aye, snatch a slice. But don’t tell your ma, with y’spinach not eaten. ’Cause if she finds out I’ll say I ain’t had nowt to do with it.”

“She’ll never know, Da,” he said, grinning. “Promise.”

Da snorted. “She’ll bloody know when she sees a piece of pie missin’.”

That made him giggle. But even though Da was joking, underneath that he was serious. And even though he was smiling, his eyes were still sad.

“Night, Da,” he whispered, throwing his arms tight around his father. “You sleep well, eh? Don’t you let them bedbugs bite.”

Da’s arms closed round him so hard, for a moment, all the bits inside him felt squashed. “Aye, sprat. You too.”

The first bite of filched peach pie exploded in his mouth like summer. Halfway to the solar door he spun on his heel, mouth open to tell Da it was wonderful, he should have a piece. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t say anything. Da was turned mostly towards the window again, a thin slice of his face showing like a rind of new moon. And that thin slice of face was so grim, and so
sad
…

The peach pie turned to cold wood-ash on his tongue, Rafel trudged downstairs to his privy bathroom, opened the window… and threw the rest out.

S
eated in his favourite wingback chair, Rodyn Garrick watched his good friend Sarle Baden hold his brandy glass up to the warm, leaping firelight. “A fine drop,” Sarle said, approving. “Your cellar is second to none.”

It was true. He prided himself on the quality of his wines, his liquors. How could he not? With his vineyards and his palate, with his reputation, he could serve only the best.

Sarle swallowed heartily—it was his least attractive trait—then cast a frowning glance at the library door. “You’re sure we’ll not be disturbed, Rodyn?”

It was late. The house was quiet. His servants were banished to their cellar and attic, and his son knew better than to wander from his bed.

He nodded. “Quite sure.”

“Good,” said Sarle, relaxing in his own chair. “And so to business. Ain is making excellent progress.”

“I’d be surprised if she were not,” he said. “She’s a talent, that woman. Not another Barl, of course, but nevertheless—she’s a find. I’m thinking…” He tapped a finger to his lips. “She could well prove the right tutor for Arlin. I shall speak with her.”

“Really?” said Sarle, not hiding his surprise. “Rodyn, I know the boy’s gifted but he’s young for—”

“Arlin will achieve the tasks set before him,” he said, and took a restrained sip from his glass. “He’s a child in years only. In potential, he is—” He smiled. “Ageless.”

Sarle frowned. “Yes. Well. He’s your son, Rodyn. I’m sure you know best.”

“I do,” he said. “Now tell me—is Ain certain there’ll be no more trouble with her clod of a neighbour?”

“She’s learned her lesson,” said Sarle. “Her workshops are warded beyond all risk of leakage.
And
detection by that fool your Mage Council sent, who is still watching and waiting to catch her out.” He sniffed. “A pity you couldn’t over-rule Asher on that.”

Rodyn kept his expression mild. To achieve his ambition he needed Sarle’s assistance. That obliged him to swallow impertinence—though with far less pleasure than Sarle guzzled his brandy.

“Yes,” he said. “A great pity. But given our plans, Sarle, it’s prudent not to stir the bastard’s suspicions. It’s enough he decided not to push the matter of Barl’s Laws.”

“He has no inkling of what we’re about?”

“None,” he said, smiling. “I’m playing him sweet for now. He can think our clash of wills over Ain has put me on the back foot. I care naught for his opinion.”

Wood popped and crackled in the fireplace. Sarle drained his glass and set it aside. “Quite right. But in that case, Rodyn, what’s got you frowning?”

“Really? Was I frowning?” he said lightly, displeased that he’d betrayed himself. “It’s not the company, I assure you.”

“Then what is it?” said Sarle, holding one thin hand out to the fire’s warmth. Idly stirring the flames with his mind so they leapt higher and hotter. “Was this morning’s Mage Council so irritating?”

As much as he confided in anyone, he confided in Sarle. “No,” he said slowly. “But I have this small suspicion Asher lied to us today.”

Sarle leaned forward. “About what?”

“That old fool Jaffee made mention of Olken coming to him claiming they felt a disturbance in the earth,” he said. “When asked, Asher said he’d not felt a thing.” He pursed his lips. “I can’t put my finger on it, precisely, but there was something about the way he said it. A look in his eye.”

Sarle laughed, disbelieving. “You let yourself be disquieted by the
Olken?
Rodyn, my dear friend, are you not feeling well? The Olken are no better than infants startling at their own shadows. A disturbance in the earth? A disturbance in their bowels, more like. You know they will insist on guzzling ale by the barrel. And as for Asher—surely he’s far too conscious of his exalted status as Lur’s saviour to risk it with blatant dishonesty. Lying to the Mage Council?” He sneered. “The bastard doesn’t have the guts.”

Amused, Rodyn refreshed their brandy glasses then rested one arm along the fireplace’s mantel. “I expect you’re right, Sarle. I expect I imagined it. Now tell me—how proceeded your meeting with Artin Moyne?”

Sarle’s affronted temper vanished. “Very well. He’s interested, Rodyn. He’s definitely sympathetic to our cause.”

And that was
very
good news. Artin Moyne had influence. And their cause, so vital, so all-consuming, required every Doranen voice they could find. As it stood now, far too few of their people comprehended what needed to be done, or were willing to contemplate the drastic action of which he dreamed. Lur’s Doranen were too comfortable. Complacent. Life in this borrowed place had softened their sinews.

But I shall change that. It will take time—but I have the time. And the resources. I do not care how long it takes—I will make this dream come true.

“Moyne expressed no hesitation? No doubt?”

“None,” said Sarle, promptly. “He agrees with us, as I said he would. He’ll do whatever he can to discreetly further our plans.”

Rodyn felt his satisfaction expand on a warm cloud of expensive brandy. “Excellent, Sarle. Slowly but surely, we proceed towards our goal.”

“We do indeed,” said Sarle, and raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to our success, my friend. Here’s to the day we quit Lur once and for all—and the day that will surely follow it, when we set foot in our true home. Lost Dorana.”

“To Lost Dorana,” he echoed, raising his own glass. “And to those of us with the wit and wisdom to find it.”

Asher thought Dath would hear him, coming into Deenie’s room, but she didn’t stir as he crossed the threshold. Deenie, breathing deeply, was curled beneath her green-and-white striped blankets. The glimlamp on the bedside table was set to burn low. The room was cosy, comfortable, pink-frilled for his little girl. Standing beside the glimlamp an emptied glass, smeared with the dregs of the posset Dathne had brewed.
Sleep-well,
she’d called it. A promise of dreams.

“She farin’ all right?” he asked, lingering in the shadows. Afraid, if Dathne looked at him, of what he’d see in her eyes.

“Yes,” said Dathne softly. She didn’t sound angry. That were something, at least. “If the Tower fell down around our ears I doubt she’d hear it. She’ll not stir till afternoon tomorrow, at least. I made doubly sure.”

“Dath…” He had to stop. Wait. His voice was a traitor. “If there were any other way…”

She shrugged one shoulder at him.
Shut up,
that meant. So she might not sound angry, but that didn’t mean she weren’t feelin’ it.

Best he not finish what he was going to say, then. Best he tread careful, since the ice was thin between them. “Reckon I be goin’ now,” he said instead. “Don’t know how long this’ll take.”

Her fingertips smoothed a lock of hair from Deenie’s flushed cheek. “I should come with you.”

“Ain’t no need,” he said. “Ain’t nowt you can do, Dath. ’Sides, you be wanted here with Deenie.”

“You’ve no business working Weather Magic on your own.”

“I did it mostly on my own before. I be used to it.”

“This isn’t the same, and you know it!” she snapped. “Send for Pellen. Have him stand watch while you work.”

“Pellen’s got Charis. He won’t leave her this time of night.”

“He can bring Charis here. I’ll care for both girls.
Asher
—” Dathne swung round at last on her stool beside Deenie’s bed. There weren’t enough colour in her cheeks.