The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (61 page)

“Asher’s son?” Gamble’s eyes in the fitful glimlight were wide and full of wonder. “The great man himself?”

He’d long ago lost count of how many times he’d seen that look on an Olken’s face. Once it had thrilled him. Later, grown older, he’d felt it shrink him. But now—
now
—“That’s right. He’s my da.”

“Well, sir,” said Gamble. “It’s an honour.” Then the pleasure in him dimmed. “Word’s reached us Asher’s ailing and is like to die. Is that true?”

No, it bloody well ain’t.
“It’s true he’s not himself just this ticktock, but he’ll be on his feet directly. Gamble, I—”

The Speckled Rooster trembled as thunder boomed low over their heads. Strike after strike of lightning turned night into day. Somewhere upstairs, the same child screamed again. Gamble sucked in a quick breath, then risked himself close-pressed to the nearest window, trying to make out what was left of his storm-wracked world. The tiffa trees in the front garden were bent double and a bed of cheerful pansies lay pulped flat. Gamble moaned, a thin sound of distress, and turned as though the sight were too painful to bear.

“Gamble,” said Rafel, seeing him properly, at last.
Feeling
him. “Seems to me you’re an Olken with a rare touch of magic.”

Gamble flicked him a wary glance. “And if I am? I don’t use magic to run the Rooster. I’m not a Doranen, needing magic to blow my nose.”

That made him smile a little, even as another crash of thunder rattled his teeth. “Got no great opinion of the Doranen, have you?”

“Hardly lay eyes on one, save maybe twice or thrice a year,” the inn-keeper replied. “They buy their Saffron cattle in Dorana. No need to muddy their fine shoes in Riddleton.”

“Believe me, you don’t miss much,” he said dryly. “We Olken poddle along pretty well without them, all in all. Gamble…” He waited for the echoes of fresh thunder to die. “I need to know—what is it you feel?”

Gamble’s face was troubled as he stared out at the storm. “Mortal afraid, Meister Rafel. Mortal afraid.”

The parlour lit up stark blueish-white as more lightning cracked through the storm-ridden village. Hard on its heels a dreadful growl of thunder. Somewhere close by, a dog howled in terror. The child wailed. Doors slammed.

“Last storm I saw this bad was when the Wall came down,” Gamble added. He turned his head. Despite his fear, his eyes were calm. Almost resigned. “There’s no Wall to come down now, young sir. So what are we looking at? As Asher’s son, do you know?”

What he’d learned was for the Council first. Besides, he didn’t want to make this man’s night any worse. “Not for certain, Gamble. Wish I did.”

A muscle leapt along the innkeeper’s tight jaw. As though he heard the lie—but chose not to challenge it. “And are you afraid?”

There seemed little point in lying about that. “Aye, sir. I’m frighted shitless.”

“Oh,” said Gamble, and looked sorry he’d asked. “What about the Doranen? Do they know what this means? Can their magic fix things?”

Remembering Rodyn Garrick and the rest of them down in West-wailing, how helpless they’d been in the face of the reef—how Arlin’s father died—Rafel shrugged. “I doubt it.”

Gamble’s face crumpled, just for a moment. “Not even Barlsman Jaffee can help us?”

Another shrug. “He’s praying in his chapel. I suppose that’s help of a sort. So far it’s not made any difference but—it might do. I don’t know.”

“And your father?” said Gamble. “Can he get better in time to save us?”

More lightning and thunder. Once the rolling booms fell silent, Rafel looked at the innkeeper. “Only a fool abandons hope. This ain’t the greatest danger Lur’s faced. That was Morg, and he’s long dead. Lur’s our home, Gamble. Whatever ructions we’ve got on our hands this time, I’m going to fight for it—and so will my da.”

“Fight with what?” Gamble whispered. “Sickles and spades? There’s Doranen magic at the heart of this trouble, Meister Rafel. How do us Olken fight that? It’s not our way.”

The truth of Gamble’s words struck him hard, like hammer to anvil. Olken earth magic didn’t start this. Couldn’t finish it. Only Doranen magic could undo the damage here. Except there wasn’t one spell Durm had left behind him that might help them now. If there was, Da would have used it already. And since he hadn’t…

Jervale have mercy. Don’t say Rodyn Garrick was right. Don’t say our only hope can be found in Lost Dorana
.

’Cause that meant Fernel Pintte’s expedition was the kingdom’s last chance. It meant Lur’s fate was resting in Sarle Baden’s hands. But would Baden and his mage cronies even care? He didn’t think so. They had no love for Lur or the Olken. They cared only for the Doranen. And Goose—Goose could never stand up to them and demand that they help Lur. Neither could Pintte, though the fool fancied himself some kind of authority. They’d get ridden over roughshod. Shoved aside. Ignored.

That’s even if they’re still alive.

Bitterness galled him. Self-contempt. Despair. As he stood beside the Rooster’s innkeeper and watched the storm rage, unabating, he lashed himself just as hard.

I never should’ve let Da talk me out of going with them. I let him treat me like a sprat and now it looks like Lur’s going to pay the price
.

He left Riddleton at daybreak. The storm had blown itself out just before the sunrise, leaving behind it wreckage and ruin. Downed trees. Smashed cow byres. Scattered straw thatching and roof tiles shattered in the streets. Sorry he couldn’t stay and help the stunned folk of Riddleton put their battered village to rights, desperate to get home, he kicked Firedragon into a canter and let the horse leap the felled tree-trunks and piles of gutter-trapped debris.

Dead cattle littered the fields, the poor beasts struck by lightning. Dismayed farmers wandered among them, counting their dreadful losses, their faces pale and drawn in the glowering light. The sky was still clotted with rain-filled clouds, gauzy tendrils drifting low enough to trail through the treetops. The air was so damp Rafel thought he could wring it like a wet cloth.

Hardening his heart to the suffering because he couldn’t help them, he urged Firedragon into a gallop.

Hours later, with the stallion near to dropping beneath him, feeling like he could drop from the saddle himself, he passed through the City’s open gates. Home. He’d go home to the Tower first and then—

“Rafel!” said the City guard on duty. Biddle. They played knuckle-bones together at the Bear. “Can you hold? I’ve orders to send for Captain Mason on your return.”

Mason? Why? Seized with sudden fear he nodded. Nudged Fire-dragon out of the way and sat waiting, silent, unseeing, as Biddle sent a runner to the Guardhouse. Mason arrived a short time later, on foot and running and hardly out of breath. A fit man, and a good one.

“What is it?” Rafel demanded. “Captain, is it—”

“No, no,” Mason said hastily, standing close by Firedragon’s steaming shoulder. “Your father’s not dead, Rafel. It’s the Council—it wants you urgently. There’s word of a sort from Pintte’s expedition.”

Rafel felt his heart leap. “They’re alive?”

“Yes,” said Mason, sorrowful. “But the word’s not good. You’d best prepare yourself.”

Goose
. “What’s happened?”

Mason frowned. “By rights the Council should—”

Leaning down, he took hold of the captain’s wiry shoulder. “Please, Mason. Goose Martin’s my best friend. If he’s—if he’s hurt—”

“We don’t know anyone’s hurt,” said Mason with rough sympathy. “But there’s trouble. Barlsman Jaffee says there’s been some kind of attack.”

“An
attack?
” Rafel stared at him, letting go. “Who’s attacked them? Twenty years the Wall’s been gone, we ain’t heard a peep from anyone. So who—”

“I don’t know,” Mason said grimly. “I don’t want to think about it. We’ve enough trouble of our own right here. The notion there’s someone skulking over the mountains, intent on doing us a mischief…” He stepped back. “I’ve sent word to the Council you’re home. They’ll be gathering. You should go.”

Rafel straightened. “Yes. Thank you, Captain.”

“Rafel—”

“No, sir,” he said, not needing the question asked aloud. “The news ain’t good out there, either.”

And he rode away, leaving Mason speechless and troubled behind him.

A
scant hour later, slouched beside one of the Council chamber windows, a dull pain throbbing behind his eyes, Rafel found himself sorry he never found the warspells that Da used to defeat Morg’s demons. He could surely use them to bring these fools to their senses.

Whose bright notion was it, asking Arlin to come? Bet they’re bloody sorry now
.

Lord Garrick was haranguing the Council, Doranen the target of his ire as much as any Olken. The offended councilors brangled over the top of him, hands waving, spittle flying. After learning the truth of the Home Districts, and the message they’d received from the expedition, the chamber stank with fear and nobody was attempting to impose order on the meeting. Not Shifrin, not Mayor Stott, not even Wheezing Barlsman Jaffee. And this time Pellen was nowhere to be seen.

“—rank
cowardice!
” Arlin was shouting, one fist pounding on the council gallery’s wooden railing. “We cannot sit on our arses and do
nothing!
Sarle Baden’s only hope lies with us sending help! We
can’t
abandon him.”

Typical bloody Arlin. Not a word to say about Lur’s strife. All he cared for was saving Doranen lives—and the sound of his own voice.

Herrick Grey, Meister of the Tanners’ Guild, lumbered out of his chair. “Convenient how you forget Dorana’s mayor is endangered with Sarle Baden, Lord Garrick, along with five other good Olken. Your father’s son, you are. He’d be proud to see it.”

Arlin’s face darkened dangerously. “Do not presume to speak to me of my father. Not in this place, where his murderer is made welcome.”

Now Jaffee roused. Da always said the man was a doddery ole dimster, not a patch on fiery Barlsman Holze, but it seemed the kingdom’s dire predicament had finally spurred the man to decisive action.

Better now than never, I s’pose. I just hope it ain’t too little, too bloody late.

“Lord Garrick,
please,
” said Jaffee, angrily pained. “You
cannot
continue to make such accusations against Rafel without you—”

“And if you do not send help to Sarle Baden,” said Arlin, trampling Jaffee without hesitation or shame, “that will be murder too.” Richly clothed, extravagantly jewelled, doing his best to intimidate with wealth, he glared at his unruly audience. “And this Council has winked at murder long enough.”

Elderly Jaffee creaked to his feet, his eyes pouched and bloodshot. He’d grown gaunt these past weeks, prayer and worry stripping him to the bone.

“My friends,” he said, arms raised, shuffling around to look his outraged and protesting fellow-councilors in the eye. “The kingdom looks to us for leadership. We cannot permit our fears to overtake us, or let ourselves be distracted by a son’s natural grief.”

As the clamour slowly died down, Rafel tipped his aching head against the window-frame. Grief was one thing. Grief he could understand. But Arlin wasn’t grieving. Or not only grieving. Arlin was set to choke himself on hate and the desire for revenge.

He won’t be happy until I say it was murder. He won’t be happy till Da’s dead and I’m rotting in the Guardhouse… or worse.

With the chamber almost hushed, Jaffee turned back to Arlin. “Lord Garrick, I tell you plainly: this Council’s patience is at an end. You were asked here out of courtesy, because Lord Baden is a close personal friend and his expedition—in part—honoured your father’s dream of—”

“Really?” said Arlin, scathing. “
I
thought I was asked here so you could beg me to do what Rafel has confessed himself and his vaunted father incapable of—saving Lur.”

“Lord Garrick, you’re an arrogant pup,” said Speaker Shifrin, and banged his gavel in a warning. “Mind your manners or you’ll be asked to leave.”

Rafel shoved away from the window, the dull pain behind his eyes sharpened suddenly to a spike. Stirring in the chamber air, a sizzling tang of power. The hair was standing up on the back of his neck. Jaffee felt it too, and the other Doranen.