He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I feel like muck.’ His voice was so low he could barely hear it himself. ‘He’s my friend, and we’re using him. Without his knowledge, or his consent. It’s wrong.’
Her hand snapped out to close about his wrist, ink-stained fingernails biting deep between tendon and sinew. ‘Look at me.’
Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze.
‘Saving kingdoms is a mucky business. We can soil our hands a little now, you and I, or we can see them soaked in blood later. Either way, we get mucky.’
‘And what if I don’t like getting mucky?’
Dathne bared her teeth in a fierce smile. ‘Then I’d say sorry, bucko, but it’s a bit late now.’ The smile disappeared and all that remained was ferocity. ‘You listen. He’s not your friend, Matt. He’s a pawn, just like you and me. Prophecy’s tool. You don’t make friends with a tool. You use it, and you keep on using it until the job it’s designed for is done.’
‘That’s cold,’ Matt whispered.
Her teeth bared again. ‘You mean I’m cold.’
‘I mean there might be another way. A better way.’
She shook her head. ‘There isn’t.’
‘But—’
‘There isn’t.’ With a visible effort, she controlled herself. ‘There’s a reason Prophecy calls him the Innocent Mage. He doesn’t get told a thing, Matt. Not one thing. Not until he has to be told. Not until there’s no turning back. Understood?’
A fraction more pressure from the fingernails on his flesh and she’d draw blood. He sat motionless, heart pounding, and endured her flame-filled eyes. Then he nodded, feeling scorched to his bones’ marrow. ‘Aye. Understood.’
She nodded sharply and released him. ‘Good. Now go fetch yourself a mug of ale and wash away that mopey look before somebody thinks you asked me to marry you and I said no.’
‘Ha!’ said Matt, and shoved away from the bench. He didn’t want a mug of ale. If he drank so much as a mouthful, his quivering guts would heave themselves onto the floor at his feet. ‘Ask you to marry me? That’ll be the day!’
He saw his words strike home. Saw them hurt her.
To his shame, he wasn’t sorry.
CHAPTER SIX
Darran, Private Secretary to His Royal Highness Prince Gar and self-appointed Guardian of the Tower, reached for his cup and took a genteel sip of his morning tea.
Gulping was for peasants.
‘Darran?’
Darran replaced the cup in its saucer with a faint chink of porcelain. ‘Yes, Willer?’
His assistant and protégé was staring vexedly at a sheet of official parchment topping a pile of official parchments teetering untidily before him. ‘I think we have a problem.’
With a sigh, Darran drummed his manicured fingernails on his pristine desktop. ‘Willer, how many times must I say it? In this office we do not have problems. We have interesting developments. We have challenges. If we absolutely must we may, on occasion, have a slight difficulty. But under no circumstances whatsoever do we have problems. Now. What is it?’
As befitted his subordinate position, Willer’s desk was small and situated between the door and the bookcase, which was neatly filled with publications detailing the genealogies of all the kingdom’s Doranen families, plus sundry other reference works such as Dorana City By-Laws, Fabrit and Delbard’s A Short History of Lur and, of course, the indispensable Polger’s Etiquette, Precedent and Protocol.
Squirming round in his chair – really, the boy ate far too many pastries, Darran thought – Willer held up the offending document, his expression trepidatious. ‘It’s His Highness’s diary for next month.’
‘Yes? What of it? How many times must I remind you, Willer? Above all else, a good private secretary is lucid.’
With a grunt Willer shoved his chair back, got up and marched across the circular office’s plush carpet waving the parchment in question. ‘Well, Darran, he’s lucidly gone and declined all of next month’s invitations except the one to the Brewers’ Guild banquet.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Darran held out an impatient hand for the diary. ‘He can’t have. Declined Lady Scobey’s soirée? Refused to attend Lord Dorv’s hunting party? Again? Turned down the chance to go boating on the Gant with the Council? Tut! You’ve misread his – oh. Oh dear.’ Staring at the list of social engagements to which His Highness had been invited, noting with despair the decisive pen strokes through every invitation bar the least prestigious, he felt a sudden stab of pain between his eyes. ‘Barl preserve us!’ he cursed, and thrust the parchment back into Willer’s waiting hand. ‘What is he thinking?’
Wisely, Willer didn’t reply.
‘Lady Scobey is going to be furious! I’ve had her wretched cook in and out of here a dozen times this week, wanting to know His Highness’s favourite dishes. He can’t say no to her, I’ll never hear the end of it!’ Scalded with outrage, Darran snatched the diary back again and stared at it with loathing. ‘The Brewers’ Guild? Is he out of his mind? That motley assortment of inebriated reprobates? There’s not a man among them who knows how to tie a cravat properly! In fact, I doubt there’s even one who knows what a cravat is! Barl preserve us!’ He tossed the diary onto his desk and went so far as to stand and pace towards the window and back again. ‘Well. Clearly this is unacceptable. Willer, present my compliments to His Highness and request the indulgence of a short—’
There was a smart rap-rap on the closed office door.
‘What?’ cried Darran.
The door swung open to reveal His Royal Highness, and behind him a disreputable-looking Olken wearing deplorably scruffed shirt and trews and boots clotted with mud, or something worse. He looked vaguely familiar, was some kind of manual labourer about the place, possibly, but what he was doing here, in the ordered beauty of the Tower, with the prince …
His Highness smiled, that sweet, mischievous smile the hardest of hearts could not withstand. ‘Don’t tell me, Darran. Let me guess. Willer’s just shown you my acceptance list for next month’s social engagements.’
‘Your Highness!’ gasped Darran. ‘Oh sir, forgive me.’
His Highness, sauntering into the office, waved a dismissive hand. After a slight hesitation the disreputable Olken followed him over the threshold. ‘It’s all right. I didn’t expect you to be happy about it.’
Mortified at being discovered raising his voice in disarray, Darran took a deep, calming breath and reached for the diary. ‘As it happens, Your Highness, I did wish to consult with you on the matter of next month’s engagements. I’m sure it’s just an oversight, but—’
‘Sorry,’ said His Highness. ‘No oversight.’
Darran felt his heart plummet. ‘Your Highness, forgive me, but is this …’ He hesitated. ‘… wise? To say no to all of these important Doranen personages, your peers, and then accept an invitation from the … the … Olken Brewers’ Guild?’
His Highness shrugged. ‘I like the Olken Brewers’ Guild.’
‘You do?’ said Darran faintly.
‘Well, I like the members. Their meister is best sipped in half-pints only. But yes.’ The prince sighed. ‘And clearly you think that’s inappropriate.’
‘I do not presume to have an opinion,’ said Darran, avoiding Willer’s gaze. ‘But I would be doing you a grave disservice did I not remind you that as the king’s son you have social obligations and a duty to—’
‘Be bored out of my mind in the name of politics?’ said His Highness dryly.
‘Well …’ Darran ventured the very slightest of smiles; a little judicious sympathy went a long way in greasing the wheels of appropriate princely conduct. ‘Please don’t mistake me, Your Highness. I do understand that sometimes it’s difficult.’
‘Difficult?’ murmured His Highness. ‘I think the word you’re looking for is impossible.’
‘Yes, sir. I imagine it is. But, sir, if you could please bring yourself to reconsider … find a way to accept one other invitation … just one
… it would be the politic thing to do.’
His Highness sighed. Held out his hand. ‘Show me then.’
Darran gave him the diary, stepped back again and cleared his throat. ‘If I might make a suggestion, sir?’
His Highness glanced up. ‘Short of gagging you, is there any way I can prevent it?’
‘Oh, sir!’ Darran protested with a deprecating laugh. ‘So amusing.’
‘I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny. Your point, Darran.’
Darran nodded. ‘Of course, sir. My point is this: I happen to know that Lady Scobey has gone to great lengths to design her soirée in such a way as can only be highly pleasing to your palate.’
‘Lady Scobey,’ said His Highness, frowning, ‘is hoping against hope that I’ll succumb to the dubious charms of her youngest daughter and offer myself as a husband. Lady Scobey, shrewd mama that she is, seems to have reached the flattering conclusion that my lack of magical ability is outweighed, just, by the fact that my father is the king and my sister heir to the crown. I suppose I should be grateful …’
There was an embarrassed silence. After a moment Darran cleared his throat. ‘Well, if the idea of Lady Scobey’s soirée displeases you, sir, then perhaps—’
The prince’s face twisted with a repressed and violent revulsion. ‘Displeases me? Why would it displease me? Lady Scobey’s eldest daughter has just announced her engagement to Conroyd Jarralt’s firstborn son. Now the good mama thinks to get her feet under both our tables and who can blame her? She’s only thinking of her family. No, no, what displeases me, Darran, is—’ And then he stopped. Shook his head and managed a rueful smile. ‘I’m sorry. You can’t possibly be interested in Doranen romantic gossip. And of course you’re right. I can’t attend only the Brewers’ banquet. Privilege has its price, after all. Give me a pen.’
Darran nodded sharply at Willer, who inked a quill and handed it to the prince. His Highness scrawled a circle around the notation for Lady Scobey’s party, crossed out his original rejection and wrote in the neat hand that Darran admired so much: Invitation accepted – under protest. Then he handed both diary and pen to Willer.
‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ said Darran, scrupulously neutral. ‘Lady Scobey will be delighted, I’m sure.’
That made the prince laugh; a mirthless sound. ‘Only until I make it quite clear that I’ve no intention of marrying her daughter.’
The pain in him, imperfectly masked, was painful to see. To endure, without offering comfort. But Darran knew that while His Highness might, on very rare occasions, refer to his … imperfection … such references were never ever to be ratified by comment, or even acknowledgement.
‘Is there anything else Your Highness requires?’
His Highness’s expression cleared. ‘As a matter of fact, Darran, there is.’ He beckoned to the swarthy Olken, still silently loitering just inside the doorway. The ruffian hesitated then stepped into the office proper. ‘Asher, this is my private secretary, Darran. I believe you’ve heard of him. Darran keeps my life in order whether I want him to or not. And the young gentleman there in the startling pink weskit is his assistant, Willer.’
The Olken nodded. Darran waited for him to speak, waited a little longer … then realised with an unpleasant jolt that an abrupt jerk of the chin was the only recognition he was going to receive.
How … offensive.
He looked this Asher up and down. A rough, unprepossessing fellow. Capable enough, most likely, in a purely brutish fashion. His face was scarred: a faded white line ran irregularly along his right cheekbone. It gave him a threatening, brawling air which was echoed in the muscled breadth of his shoulders and the blunt, square power of his hands, hanging relaxed by his sides. How old was he? Hard to say … Contemporary to His Highness, it was safe to assume, but with a wealth of dubious experience in his dark, calculating eyes. His complexion was weathered, suggesting a lifetime’s exposure to a climate harsher than most in the kingdom. The chin was firm. Stubborn, even. And in him raged a crackling vitality, a brooding force of personality that hummed the air around him like an invisible dynamo.
Darran, who prided himself on being a swift and accurate judge of character, felt his spine stiffen.
Here was trouble.
His Highness placed a hand on the ruffian’s shoulder. ‘Darran, this is Asher of Restharven. He’s the man who caught Ballodair for me after I fell off in the market square, you recall? I offered him a job as thanks, and he accepted.’
Slowly, Darran nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I do recall the incident.’ He shifted his gaze a fraction, let it rest on the ruffian’s calm face. Was that dumb insolence he could see lurking behind the mask? He thought it was. The hairs rose up on the back of his neck.
Oh yes indeed. Here was trouble all right, and everything that trouble implied.
The prince slid a sidelong glance at the fellow. ‘Well, I’ve decided he was being wasted in the stable yard, so I’ve invited him to work with me here, in the Tower.’
Willer made an incautious, strangled sound in his throat. Darran burned him with a look. ‘Really, sir?’ he said, fighting the impulse to clench his hands into fists. ‘How interesting. If I may ask, sir, in what capacity will this – will Asher be working here?’
Again the fleeting, mischievous smile. ‘Well,’ said His Highness, ‘once upon a time he’d have been known as the Prince’s Champion.’
That startled a reaction out of the ruffian. ‘Eh? Champion? You never said nowt about me bein’ a champion. Sir. Champion of what anyways? Folderol and footlin’ about?’
Darran shuddered. Barl save them all, that accent! Thick enough to cut with a knife! And the disrespect. Appalling. He felt his stomach roll queasily. His world was unravelling right before his eyes and he had the most awful suspicion he was powerless to stop it.
The prince laughed. ‘Don’t you like it? I do. Champion. I think it sounds quaint.’
‘Quaint,’ the brute echoed, voice dripping with disgust. ‘Ain’t no call for quaint, I reckon.’
‘No? Well … perhaps not,’ His Highness said regretfully.
‘Champion,’ the dreadful man said again. Then he smiled, a scornful twist of his lips. ‘Got that from one of them books Dathne’s always fetchin’ you, eh?’
His Highness appeared completely unperturbed. ‘As a matter of fact, I did. We had champions prancing all over the countryside a few hundred years ago, particularly during that bad patch after King Trevoyle died without an heir. But once the dust settled and all the bodies were buried it was decided we’d do without them for a while, and that was that. So, in deference to the past, we won’t actually call you my champion. Not in public, anyway. I reserve the right to use the title in private, though, if ever I’m in a mood to irritate you. Instead, we’ll call you my …’ He fell silent, thinking.
Mistake! Darran wanted to shout. Call him your mistake, come to your senses and toss him back on the dung heap where he belongs! It’s not too late!
The prince stirred. ‘Do you know, I believe I’ve a mind not to worry about the past and its refined sensibilities after all. Trevoyle’s Schism was a long time ago. A champion’s job was to stand at his lord’s right hand, defending him from all harm. He spoke with his lord’s voice in matters of local dispute and calumny and was relied upon to provide his lord with intelligence, information and advice whenever it was required.’ Again, the mischievous grin. ‘He was also expected to die on his lord’s behalf … but probably we won’t need to worry about that.’
The jumped-up stable hand was staring. ‘Oh, aye? Reckon that’s a relief. Sir. But if you got to call me something, Assistant Olken Administrator’ll do. Reckon the lads are goin’ to give me a hard enough time about this as it is, without you taggin’ me as a champion.’
Darran swallowed an anguished cry. Assistant Olken Administrator? His Highness had decided to appoint himself an assistant – without consultation? Without guidance? Had appointed this man, this awful man, to the post? What w
as he thinking?
The prince frowned for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. I hadn’t considered that. Very well. Darran …’
Feeling ill, Darran said, ‘Sir?’
‘As of today, Asher is the kingdom’s Assistant Olken Administrator.’
He flinched. Hearing it said like that, baldly, with no suggestion of doubt or equivocation, not even a hint of needing a wiser opinion, a moment to think … the effort of controlling himself would likely give him a hernia. Driven to desperation he said, delicately, unwisely, ‘Sir, does His Majesty …?’
The prince’s answering look was dangerously bland. ‘Does His Majesty what, Darran?’
Know? Approve? Permit? Darran cleared his throat. If he wasn’t extremely careful, the next sound he heard would be that of thin ice cracking. He took a prudent step back to safer ground. ‘Well, sir, it’s just your official appointment has yet to be announced.’
‘The news will be made public on Barlsday,’ said the prince. ‘Along with the announcement that I have chosen an Olken to work with me in this important undertaking.’ He smiled, but his eyes remained chilly. ‘As one who pays such close attention to politics, Darran, I thought you of all people would appreciate the gesture.’
‘Yes! Yes, sir, naturally I do!’ And would appreciate it even more had the chosen one been anybody but this smirking lout. If the prince had thought to ask his vastly experienced private secretary who best would fill such important, such political shoes … But the boy could be so impulsive. As surely as Barl came over the mountains, this would end in tears and tantrums, he could feel it in his bones.
‘I’m pleased that you agree,’ said the prince. ‘And now, if there’s nothing else that can’t wait, I’ll give my new assistant a guided tour of the Tower.’
Darran throttled a gasp. ‘You, sir? Surely that is something more properly done by—’ The protest withered and died in the face of His Highness’s cool gaze. ‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. I have no further pressing business for you at this moment, sir.’