The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (49 page)

“Maybe he doesn’t know how,” Goose said gently.

“Or maybe he’s
not
sorry.”

“And if he’s not?” said Goose. “What then? Are you going to stay mad at him forever?”

Bloody Goose and his questions. As bad as Deenie, he was. “You saying I ain’t got a right to be mad?”

“I’m saying with what’s going on, maybe there’s other folk deserve your anger more than him. Fernel Pintte, for one.”

“Aye,” he admitted, feeling his belly gripe. Fratched as he was at Da, and he was bloody fratched, what Pintte had said in the General Council… “I tell you, Goose, I wish I’d never helped save that poxy shit’s life. Or Sarle Baden’s.”

Goose snorted into his ale. “Don’t let Barlsman Jaffee hear you say that.” Then he shook his head. “Sarle Baden’s grieving, and Pintte’s raving, you know that. Your dad—he’d never hurt Lur. Only a fool would think it. Only a mean fool would say it. Fernel Pintte’s a mean bloody fool, Rafe.”

“I know,” he agreed. “Da knows it too. But still—he’s hurt. He’d never say so but I can tell.” He grimaced. “Even if we ain’t talking.”

“What your dad said about not sending more folk over the mountains,” Goose said, frowning. “Did he mean it?”

“Course he meant it. You ever know my da to say nowt he didn’t mean?”

“But…” Goose was still frowning. “He doesn’t know for sure that what Tollin wrote about is still true, does he? He’s not had a vision or anything. Right?”

“Right,” he said slowly. “I s’pose you could say it’s nowt more than a feeling.”

“Do you feel it?” said Goose. “Do you think it’s still death to cross Barl’s Mountains?”

Rafel stared at the brewery’s cool brick floor, and was suddenly five years old again. Hiding in the lampha bushes outside the palace, listening to things he wasn’t s’posed to hear. Looking back at himself, a man now, remembering the sprat he’d been, his dreams of exploring, he remembered too how full of fear Tollin’s voice was. How cracked and seamed with grief. And how angry Da had sounded, that good men died with nowt to show for it but sorrow.

And he remembered Westwailing, so close and so raw. The taint of Morg’s sorcery. How he and Da had vomited half the way home, purging that taint the only way their bodies knew how. It meant he understood a bit better, why Da was so set on keeping everyone in Lur.

But does that mean I don’t want to go see for myself what’s over the mountains?

No. It bloody didn’t. Even if it was dangerous he wanted to go.

He looked up at his best friend. “Goose, I hate Fernel Pintte’s miserable guts… but he’s right. We can’t stay pinned in this kingdom. Not with its troubles, and no sign of healing them.”

Goose put down his half-drunk ale bottle on the cool end of the stove. “So you think it’s safe to go?”

“I didn’t say that. What Morg left behind him?” He shuddered. “I ain’t got words to tell you. But it ain’t
living
magic. It’s leftovers. And I reckon it can be beat.”
I reckon I can beat it
. But he couldn’t say that out loud, not even to Goose. “With enough good mages, any road.”

“And Sarle Baden? He’s a good mage?” Goose said, looking to his brew again. “Good enough to keep folk on an expedition safe?”

Rafel watched him add more water to the steeping mix of grains in the oak barrel. Breathed in the thick, fuggy smell of the mash. “Well, Rodyn Garrick wasn’t a complete fool, and he put his life and Arlin’s in Baden’s hands when they were working the reef. Why?”

Goose fitted the barrel’s lid back on, put the waterless kettle on the floor with the other two, then shoved his hands in his pockets. And then he pulled one hand free, and rubbed his nose.

“Rafe… I’m going.”

“Going?” he said blankly. “Going where? The mash ain’t done yet, Goose, and I don’t know how to finish it. You’re the fancy brewer here, not me.”

“Rafe.”
Goose sighed. “I mean I’m going with Pintee and Baden. It ain’t been announced yet, but the Council’s said yes to another expedition. Pa and I talked it over, and we decided I’m going, for the guild.”

Years ago, when they were sprats, he and Goose once fratched themselves into fisticuffs. Some stupid reason or other. Maybe he’d said Stag was the better pony, no argument. Any road. Goose had punched him in the belly so hard he couldn’t breathe. So hard he fell on his arse and sat there gasping like a landed fish, while Goose stood over him with his fists clenched, howling,
“Take it back! Take it back!”
So he took it back and they never talked on that again, not ever. He never said diddly about Goose’s ponies again, neither. Not the dirty cream one or the one that came after.

Now he stared at his friend, gut-punched a second time. Gut-punched so he couldn’t speak, disbelieving and dismayed.

“See, the thing is,” said Goose, determined, “Pa’s too old. He wants to go, but his leg’s bad and his chest’s wheezy and there’s no pother who can fix him. And see, Asher, the guild’s worried. After all the bad weather the barley yield’s down by more than half. So’s the oat crop. And the quality of the grain? Nowhere near what it used to be. I’ve seen the guild records. And it’s not just the rain and tremors. It’s like Lur’s getting
tired
. Like it’s worn out with growing things. And we’ve got to do something. All our brewings are at stake. The whole guild’s at stake, I think.”

“And this is what your da came up with?” he said, finding his voice. “You joining Pintte and Baden’s expedition?”

Goose nodded. “That’s right.”

“But—why
you?
”

“Why not me?” said Goose, ready to be offended. “If it’s guild business, someone in the guild’s got to go. And Gryf Macklin might be Guildmeister these days, but no big decision gets made without Pa’s chinwag. And he wants it to be me.”

“What about you, Goose? Do you want to go?”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Goose admitted. “It’s a big thing. And with what your dad said—but like you say, he could be wrong. And if I go, then I’m a part of something important. Not just for the guild, but for Lur. I’d like to do something important. I’d like to matter.” His cheeks tinted. “Like you matter.”

“Me?”
Doubly dismayed, Rafel slid off his oak barrel perch and started pacing. “Goose, don’t be bloody stupid. Ain’t you the youngest brewer ever to get the Guild Medal? Ain’t the strong brew you cooked up last winter the best-selling ale in all Dorana City? Goose, you’ve done more than I have. And you—”

“What?” said Goose. “Rafel, what?”

“You’ve got a future,” he muttered, goaded into saying what he’d sworn he’d never confess. “And what’ve I got, eh? Magic nobody wants me to use. And a da as—as—”

“Asher, your dad’s a
hero,
” said Goose. “Your dad’s the greatest man ever born in Lur. Beating Morg—and what he did down in Westwailing, he—”

“He ain’t the same, Goose,” he said, still pacing. “Westwailing—it changed him. Day and night he sits around brooding on them fools who drowned, and on how every harbour in the kingdom’s ruined, and how he didn’t stop it and how he can’t fix Lur. And he broods on my magic.”

“Can’t blame him for that, Rafe,” said Goose. “It’s something to brood on.”

“Maybe, but it’s mine, not his,” he retorted. “Mine to use, mine to ignore, mine to study on, if that’s what I want. But Da’s so scared of magic fuddling me, Goose, he’s got me chained up like a dog!”

Goose shrugged. “Then unchain yourself, why don’t you, Rafe? Do what you want. Come with me.”

W
hat?” Rafel stepped back. “Goose, I can’t. I mean, I want to, but I can’t.”

“Why not?” said Goose, a little hurt. A little puzzled. “After all those explorer games we played when we were sprats? I thought—” Then he jumped, turning. “Sink it. The mash.”

Thoughts on the new expedition were flung aside as he pulled the lid off the oak barrel, grabbed his stout oak pole and began stirring the malt barley and oat mash, thick as porridge and twice as heavy. It wasn’t a job for two, so Rafel again perched himself on the spare oak barrel and watched, his thoughts racing.

I can’t go. How can I go? How would it look? And Mama? If I even suggest it, she’ll never forgive me.

“Right,” said Goose at last, and hoiked the oak pole out of the barrel. “Now it gets to sit for an hour or three.” Sticking a thumb-tip into the hot, odorous mash, pulling it out again quickly, he stuck it in his mouth and sucked. “Not bad. Should ferment up just right after it’s sat a spell, and I’ve yeasted it.”

“Pleased to hear it,” Rafel muttered, feeling gnarly. “Don’t know what Dorana City’s alehouses’ll do with themselves once you gallivant over them mountains.”

Splattered with ale mash, stinking of malt, Goose looked at him squarely. “Rafe. Are you going to bellyache forever? Until you’re an old man?
Come with me
.”

“I can’t, Goose,” he said, feeling wretched. “Not after what happened in the Council meeting. Not after what Da said.”

Goose picked up his half-finished bottle of ale and emptied it down his gullet. Swallowed, burped enormously, then tossed the bottle onto a handy pile of hessian sacks.

“Going to say something now,” he announced. “You might want to punch me after, but it’s got to be said so I’ll take my chances. And you can sit there with your trap shut and listen, right?”

“Goose—”

“Trap
shut,
” Goose insisted. “And
listen
.”

He folded his arms. “Fine. I’m listening.”

“So here’s the thing,” said Goose. “If a whirlpool had took your dad down in Westwailing, like it took Arlin’s, or if his magic had killed him, you’d be on your own now. If he weren’t here to answer to—if he’d died—would you go?”

And for a heartbeat he
did
want to punch Goose, for daring to even ask such a question. For daring to put into loud words that tiny, horrible thought lurking deep in his mind.

I would. I would. I bloody well would.

But he couldn’t say it out loud. “What—leave Mama and Deenie behind? Alone? How could I do that?”

“I guess you couldn’t,” said Goose. “But since your dad isn’t dead, Rafe, they’d not be alone. If you want to go, you should go. Like you say, it’s your life. Not his.” He grinned his quirky, lopsided grin. “Besides, if you don’t come, Rafe, I’ll be stuck on my lonesome with Fernel bloody Pintte. Call yourself my friend and do that to me, would you?”

Groaning, Rafel pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “You ain’t fair, Goose. None of it’s so easy as you make out.”

“No?” said Goose, and busied himself tidying up the oat-roller. “How old was your dad again, when he left Restharven to come here?”

“My age,” he muttered. “Everybody knows that.”

Goose glanced at him sideways, still tidying. “So what you’re saying is
he
was man enough at twenty to make his own future—and you’re not.”

“That be a
bastard
thing to say, Goose,” he whispered, when he could find enough breath to speak at all.

“Look,” said Goose, letting his roller-brush drop by his side. “If you don’t want to come on the expedition, Rafe, that’s one thing. I’ll respect that. I will. But if you
do
want to, and you stay behind because of your dad? You’ll regret it. You’ll blame him. He’ll
know
you blame him. And pretty soon things’ll go from bad to worse between you—and chances are they won’t ever improve.”

He shook his head, bemused. “Since when are you the smart one, Goose?
I’m
the smart one.
You’re
the one with the beer and ale.”

“Bollocks,” said Goose, grinning. “I was always smart, Rafe. You were just too arrogant to notice.”

And that stung.
Arrogant? I ain’t arrogant. I just know my own mind
. “So. Who else is going on this expedition, aside from you and Fernel bloody Pintte and Sarle Baden? D’you know?”

“There’s a few names I’ve heard mentioned,” said Goose. “But nobody definite. I heard Arlin Garrick wants to come, only Sarle Baden won’t hear of it.”

“Good. Arlin ain’t right in his noggin. He’d have killed me soon as look at me, down in Westwailing. Losin’ his da that way…” And as much as he hated the poxy shit, he couldn’t help but feel sorry. The way Rodyn Garrick had been swallowed alive…