The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (40 page)

“You didn’t speak out?” he said, unthinking.

The look Father gave him was so cruel and so cold he thought the blood would freeze in his veins. He stumbled backwards, bumping into Sarle Baden.

“My apologies, sir,” he muttered. “Forgive me.” And wasn’t sure if it was Sarle he addressed, or his father.

Sarle said something excusing and stepped around him to stand at Father’s left hand. Ain moved to his right hand, and Ennet Vail stood beside Sarle. Then Father turned his back, and the others turned with him. The message perfectly clear, he looked at the deck again, just for a moment, then sighed out his feelings until he was empty. Almost empty. As empty as he could make himself, with so many feelings swallowed.

“Follow me,” said Father, his voice low and slow. “This working’s purpose is to unbuild what was built. To destroy what was created. To purify what was poisoned. We begin with Ramin’s Threefold-charm of Dissolution.
Shin’tak tak’shin. Dodek’ma ma’dodek. Shin’dodek ta’ma. Adek. Adek. Adek…
”

Reciting the spell, sketching its sigils on the salty air, Arlin forgot he was seasick… forgot his frustration, and Ain… forgot the useless Olken mayor behind him and the fishing boat’s crew and Asher, cowering on the harbour’s pier. Forgot Rafel, cowering with him. All that mattered was Dragonteeth Reef. All that mattered was not disappointing his father.

Opened fully to the reef’s foulness, he felt bile crawl up his throat. Felt his bruised belly quiver. Heard the small sounds of disgust from his father’s powerful friends as they too let down their defences and embraced in full the bitter magics sunk into the reef.

There was no sound from Father, of course, save the soft, spitting urgency of Ramin’s dissolution spell.

And if he can stomach it then Barl’s bloody tits… so can I.

Westwailing’s mayor and most of its officials had returned to the crowded foreshore. Two men were left behind, wearing stout wooden truncheons and watchful expressions. Ordered by Fernel bloody Pintte, Da reckoned, to keep a close eye on ’em. Nosy bastards.

Stranded at the far end of the long stone pier with his father, staring across the wide expanse of harbour stretching between them and the reef, Rafel twitched as he felt the first roil of clean Doranen magic stir his blood.

Da, stamping from one side of the pier to the other, stopped still and lifted his head. “Here we go.”

The dot of blue and yellow fishing smack shifted on the distant, uneasy water. Doranen magic roiled again, clashing with the reef’s foulness. Rafel felt bile scald his throat, his mouth. He heard his father grunt. Saw him shift a half-step, bracing himself.

“
Sink
it.”

“What, Da?” he said, alarmed. “What—”

“This ain’t no bloody use,” said Da, glaring towards the reef. “We ain’t nowhere near close enough. This far away we be tits on a bull.”

He’d wondered about that, but when his father didn’t mention it… and he was wary of seeming pushy. He glanced at the watchdog officials. “Maybe, Da, but this is as close as we’re going to get. Those two won’t let us set foot off—”

“Ha,” said Da. “Like they got a say in it.” Turning, he raked his fierce gaze along the nearby line of moored smacks and skiffs and harbour runabouts. “Don’t need nowt fancy. Just somethin’ as won’t sink when things get a mite frisky…”

Stunned, he glanced again at the officials. Suspicious now, their hands were resting on those truncheons. “Da—wait—you want us to steal a boat?”

“Borrow.”

Steal—borrow—he doubted the mayor’s watchdogs would notice the difference. “Da—”

Da scowled at him. “Rafe, we ain’t got a choice.”

Another surge of soiled magic washed through him, and through Da. Stronger this time, with a hint of bared teeth. He saw his own sickness reflected in his father’s abruptly pale face.

“You’re right,” he said, blotting cold sweat from his forehead. “But what about—”

“I’ll take care of ’em,” said Da. “Rafe—”

And right then, between heartbeats, he saw Da change his mind. Saw sudden fear swamp the sickness. Saw his grim resolve fail.

He stepped closer. “Forget it, Da. I’m coming.”

“No,” said Da, shaking his head. “Your ma’s right. I can’t risk you, sprat. You ain’t ready. Not for this.”

“Are
you
ready?” he said, stepping closer again. “Is
anyone?
Da—”

“No,” said Da. “I ain’t goin’ to push you in the deep end, Rafe.”

“You’re not pushing, I’m jumping!” he retorted. “With my eyes wide open. Like you said, Da, I ain’t a sprat any more. This is
my
choice and you
need
me, so—so stop flapping your lips, why don’t you? We got to get out to that reef before it’s too late.”

Da stared at him, furiously dumbstruck. Silver in his hair now, just like Mama. Silver in the unshaven stubble on his cheeks and chin. Lines grooved round his mouth, spiderwebbing his eyes. Older, and thinner, and more tired than he’d let on.

Then he shook his head. “Sink me sideways, Rafe, you got a bloody mouth on you. Where’d you get that mouth, eh?”

Rafel grinned, though his heart was hammering him dizzy. “I d’know, Da. Let me think on that a ticktock.”

“Very funny,” Da growled. “But you ain’t too big for a wallop.”

“Wallop me after,” he suggested. “Right now we’ve got to go.”

As though pleading his case, the harbour waters slapped against the stone pier, harder and higher. The tethered fishing fleet, agitated, tugged at its moorings. And the salty sea breeze shivered, stinking of Morg.

Da took him by the shoulder, his grip almost desperate. “Y’know this ain’t a game, Rafe? Y’know we could
die?
”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something clever, something full of bravado. And if this was Goose he was staring at, he would have. But it was Da.

He nodded. “I know. And I’ll try not to. I’ll try my best to see you don’t, either. But Da—we’re who we are—
what
we are—for a reason. And if we waste that, well, I reckon we won’t like ourselves much.”

Silence, as Da stared at him. And then he sighed, his eyes full of shadows. “Reckon you’re right, sprat.” Letting go, he pointed at a cluster of boats moored close to the pier. “That skiff there. That’ll do us. Get it unhitched while I take care of them two gawpin’ fools.”

The fools shouted a warning, truncheons drawn, as he climbed down slippery stone steps and jumped onto the small, weatherbeaten skiff Da had chosen. Its dark green paint was faded and blistered, its single, undyed canvas sail copiously patched. As he unhitched its oiled mooring rope he watched Da freeze the two running watchdogs with a word.

“Don’t just stand there, sprat,” said Da, coming down the stone stairs. “Get them oars out.”

“What about Pintte’s watchdogs?” he said as he fitted the skiff’s oars into their locks.

Da clambered into the small boat. “I’ll let ’em go in a ticktock. Now come on, put your back into it. Row us away from the pier.”

Only mildly resentful, he plonked himself on the splintery wooden rower’s seat, reached for the oars and started pulling. Da stood by the mast and stared towards the distant, poisoned reef.

“Bit further, Rafe. Bit further. Come on. Where’s your elbow grease?”

So he rowed a bit further, easing them away from the moored fleet and into open water, feeling the Doranen magic seethe and his muscles stretch, creaking. The pier and the statue-still watchdogs fell behind them. Fell further. Sweat stung his eyes. Turning, Da gave a sharp nod and pointed.

“Vardo.”

“That’s a good trick, Da,” he said, as the watchdogs leapt and shouted. “When this is over you can show it me.”

“We’ll see,” said Da, scowling. “All right, Rafe. Stop rowing.” Together they shipped the oars, then he turned himself round on the uncomfortable bench. They were still a long way from the blue and yellow fishing smack, and the reef.

“What now?”

Da looked down at him. “Now you hang on.”

“What d’you mean hang—
shit!
”

A wave had risen beneath the shallow-drafted boat, smooth and powerful, lifting them and surging them towards the arrogant Doranen mages who thought they were strong enough to break Morg’s hold on the reef.

Clutching the bench with both hands, Rafel stared drop-jawed at his father. “Come on, Da. You
got
to show me how to do that!”

“Do I?” said Da, eyebrows lifting. “After what you used to get up to in your bath?”

Jaw-dropped again, he swallowed. “You knew about that?”

“Course I bloody did,” said Da, as the huge wave he’d summoned carried them swiftly across the wide harbour. “Piss poor mage I’d be if I couldn’t feel that goin’ on under my own roof.”

“You—you never said anything.”

“Every sprat needs his secrets,” said Da, shrugging. “ ’Sides, you weren’t hurtin’ anyone. You were just lettin’ off steam.”

Tangled with difficult feelings, he stared at the fishing smack, much closer now. Stared at the whipping waterspouts on the other side of the reef, spawned by wicked, capricious magics. Thought he could hear the throaty roar of the whirlpools. Tried not to think of being sucked down to his death.

“Da—”

Da grunted, all his focus on keeping them aimed fast for the smack. “Da, that wasn’t all I did,” he said, quickly, before he could change his mind. Before he could die with sins unconfessed between them. “For years I pinched spells from Arlin, and I did them. All kinds of spells. And I never got one wrong.”

The skiff crashed down on the harbour’s rolling surface. Tumbled off the splintered rower’s bench, Rafel stared into his father’s shocked face.

“I’m sorry. I was mad. You wouldn’t let me—you wouldn’t
teach
me—and—” Cautiously, he sat up. “I’m sorry.”

Da dragged a hand over his spray-soaked hair. “Rafel—”

“There’s more,” he said, bracing his back against the skiff’s side. “It’s worse.”

Groping for the mast, Da cleared his throat. “Tell me.”

His courage almost failed him, then.
I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s going to hate me.
But it was too late now. “That trunk, in your library,” he said hoarsely. “I—I picked the lock.”

“You picked the
lock?
” said Da, boggled.
“When?”

“The day I felt the earth go funny. At the riverpond. Remember?”
“Then?”
Da looked like he wanted to sit down, hard. “Rafel, you were a
sprat
. You were
ten
. How did you unpick that sinkin’ lock?”

“I don’t know. I just did. It—it wasn’t hard.”

Da ran a hand down his face. “Sink me.” And then he sucked in a sharp breath. “Rafe, you didn’t pinch any of the spells in—”

“No,” he said quickly. “No. I swear.”

“Good,” said Da, sagging.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “But—at least you know for sure I can do it. Doranen magic. And with the reef—I won’t get in the way.”

Da gave him the strangest look. Not angry. Almost—almost
guilty
. It didn’t make sense. And then he turned to stare at the blue and yellow smack. “We’ll talk on it later, Rafe. On your feet, now, and see how you go with a bathtub the size of a harbour, eh? Quickly, sprat. We ain’t got long.”

That was true. Whatever Rodyn Garrick and his mages were doing, it had stirred the poisoned reef to snarling. Pain bloomed behind his eyes. Unsteady, uncertain, he clambered to his feet, reached for his magic—then hesitated.

“Trust y’self,” Da said quietly. “Like I trust you.”

It was all he needed to hear.

Breathing out, like a prayer, he gathered the harbour’s wild water, none of it safely tamed in a tub. And then, for the first time, no hiding, no whispering, opened himself to the power within.

The borrowed skiff sat on its stern and
ran
.

“Good, Rafe, good,” said Da, as the wave hurled them onwards, malleable to his mind. Faster and faster, Westwailing vanishing behind them, the reef and the fishing smack looming ever closer.

Their business was serious, dreadful—and he wanted to laugh. “Easy, sprat,” said Da after a few minutes. “Don’t want to run ourselves onto the Dragon’s teeth. Let’s take a breather, eh? I want to get a feel for what them bloody fools are doin’.”

Regretfully he took his father’s advice, letting the wave he’d conjured dwindle almost to death. The skiff settled onto the harbour and drifted to a lilting standstill, perhaps a quarter league distant from the blue and yellow fishing boat. Not so close they’d be swiftly noticed, but close enough to see its crew dotted around the deck, working hard, and the yellow heads of the Doranen mages gathered in the bow.

Not far beyond the smack stretched the ragged reef, with its cloud of sickening magics. On the other side of the reef six enormous water-spouts whipped their erratic way across the water’s restless surface. And droning beneath their higher-pitched howl, the whirlpools. Shading his eyes, Rafel thought he could see one, groaning and grinding a hole in the ocean.

“Drat ’em,” said Da tightly. “That be a bloody daft thing to do, Gar-rick. And here’s me thinkin’ you were a sight smarter than that.”