The council chamber emptied quickly after that, until only he and Asher were left. Getting up, Pellen pushed the door closed, then turned and considered his difficult friend.
“What?” said Asher, meeting his eloquent stare. “You think I were goin’ to tell ’em? Ha! Sink that.”
Profoundly troubled, Pellen returned to his chair. “Asher—keeping your own counsel unprovoked is one thing,” he said, toying with his quill. “But they raised the issue of trouble stirring, and you looked them in their faces and lied. If they find out you lied do you honestly think they’ll forgive it? It’s ten years since you saved Lur, my friend. I suspect your currency as the Innocent Mage is not unlimited.”
Shoulder propped against the chamber wall, Asher grunted. “Don’t need it to be bloody unlimited, do I? It’s only got to last till Lur’s sailin’ sweet again.”
“And how long will that be? Do you know?”
Asher said nothing. Something dangerous seethed beneath his skin. Eyeing him askance, Pellen decided to ease the tension by changing the subject. At least for the moment. “Tell me,” he said, tossing the quill aside and sitting back. “Do you trust Rodyn Garrick’s easy capitulation over these Justice Hall changes?”
“Ha,” said Asher. “I don’t trust Rodyn Garrick. I’ll stick a harpoon through my right eye afore I’ll believe he reckons Olken and Doranen be equals.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far, but after the way he carried on about you censuring Ain Freidin—” He drummed his fingers on the table. “So what’s behind this uncharacteristic docility?”
“Indigestion?” Asher suggested, trying to smile. And there again, that dark, unwelcome hint of dire trouble. “He’s Rodyn bloody Garrick, Pellen. Who knows what he’s thinkin’? I don’t reckon to fret on it over-much. Not while we got him under our noses here in Council.”
“I suppose,” he agreed, reluctant. “He just makes me uneasy.”
Instead of answering, Asher folded his arms and stared at the floor. Pellen, considering him, felt all kinds of misgivings stirred by the disquiet in his friend’s face.
“What is it?” he asked. “You’ve been distracted—upset—since you walked in here. What’s happened?”
Asher sighed. “Reckon you really don’t want to know.”
“Actually, reckon I really do,” he retorted. “Sometimes I think you forget who I am, Asher, and who I’m answerable to.”
“I bloody don’t!” said Asher, stung.
“Really? Then prove it. Tell me what’s going on.”
For the first time that morning Asher sat in his customary council chair. Propped his elbows on the table and scrubbed his hands across his face. He looked exhausted. Almost… defeated.
Abruptly and coldly sick, Pellen felt his skin crawl. “The diary? You read the diary?”
“Aye,” said Asher, sounding tired. “And it ain’t no bloody use to us. What Gar translated, it’s just warspells and personal witterings. The spell that killed Morg. Nowt on the Wall or the Weather Magic or such-like. Nowt to explain what’s stirrin’ under our feet. Nowt on how I’m s’posed to save us from it.”
He was so bitter. And who could blame him? The weight of a kingdom was forcing him to his knees. “I agree, that’s a blow,” he said, with care. “But we can’t fall in a heap.”
“Why not?” Asher muttered. “Fall in a heap, stand on our heads, turn bloody cartwheels down the length of the High Street—for all I know that’s as good a way as any to get us out of this strife.”
Oh, Asher. Pellen slapped the table. “No. I refuse to believe we can’t find a cure for what’s ailing our kingdom. What about Durm? He was the Master Magician; he guided Borne in his WeatherWorking for all those years. Those books of his you spoke of, the ones you keep hidden in your library. Surely there’s something there we can use? He must’ve left behind some kind of Weather Magic instructions or—”
But Asher was shaking his head again. “When it comes to Weather-Working there were only one of his books seemed it might be useful. I got Barslman Holze to look at it for me, not long after the Wall fell. But he couldn’t make head or tail of it any more than me. Bloody thing’s writ in some stupid code, Pellen, squiggles and chicken scratchin’s. A load of bloody nonsense. Everythin’ to do with WeatherWorkin’ Durm kept secret. Just like he never said who he wanted followin’ him as Master Magician. Him and Borne, they were spit scared of another schism. So they never shared nowt.”
Pellen breathed out a slow sigh. “I suppose they never dreamed things could ever go so wrong,” he murmured. “And who can blame them? Only one man ever did.”
“Aye, well, that bloody Jervale didn’t finish the job, did he?” said Asher, surly. “Pity he didn’t stay asleep long enough to dream the rest of what could go arse over tits around here. Reckon my life might be a sinkin’ sight easier if he had.”
It was tempting to sympathise with him, but they’d make no progress moaning over what couldn’t be changed. “There’s nothing on the walls of the Weather Chamber that will help?”
“I don’t reckon so. I’ll look again, but…” Asher groaned his frustration. “I don’t know what to do, Pellen. I know I be the only one who can fix this, but I don’t bloody know how.”
“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. “It’s in you somewhere, Asher. Buried deep, perhaps, but it’s there. All the Weather Magic that was put into you, somewhere in there is the answer. It must be.”
Asher shoved out of his chair. “You don’t know that!” he snapped, pacing angrily, fists shoved in his pockets. “I don’t know it and I’m the one who got that bloody magic stuffed down his gullet!”
“I know it because Barl was no fool,” he retorted. “Everything the WeatherWorker needed to know she put in her magic, Asher, I’d stake my life on that. Why else would she not leave any instructions behind? All you have to do is look for it. Stop fighting who and what you are, and instead—embrace it. Open your heart and your mind and seek the answer inside you. You’ll find it. By all I hold dear, I’ll wager it’s there.”
“Just like that, eh?” said Asher, still pacing. “So you reckon it’s a doddle? An easy peasy piece of piss?”
“I never called it easy,” he said. “But I think you make it harder than it need be. Did anyone have to teach you how to summon the rain? How to make it snow, or stir the wind? No. The knowledge was in you. It’s still in you. Asher, you can do this.”
“Aye, Pellen, mayhap I can!” Asher shouted, turning. “But I don’t bloody want to! I’ve spent ten years tryin’ to forget what I know!”
“Yes, well, I think that’s my point!” he snapped, nearly pushed to shouting himself. “And forgive me if this sounds blunt and unfriendly, but I’m of the opinion you’ve no right to forget it. Fair or not, Asher, you are who you are and you don’t have the luxury of putting the rest of us in danger just because—”
Asher leapt towards him. Snatched the nearest empty chair and slammed it down hard on the chamber’s parquetry floor. “Pellen Orrick, you’re a sinkin’ bloody fool! Flappin’ your lips when you know nowt about nowt! Care to guess what I did last night, Meister Mayor? Meister Mayor who can’t even sprout wheat seeds? While I were asleep, with my wife beside me and my son and my daughter but a few steps away? I summoned warbeasts. I nearly killed ’em. Dath and Rafe and little Deenie, who mean more to me than anythin’. I nearly killed ’em with the magic that’s in me. All I did were read Barl’s bloody diary, and that stirred me up enough that I summoned warbeasts in my sleep. So are you really goin’ to sit there and lecture me on how I don’t have the sinkin’ luxury of not wantin’ to wake what I got sleepin’ in my blood?”
Stunned, Pellen stared at him. Stared at the terror and the tears in his eyes and was flooded with pity and horror and hot, hot shame. “Asher—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“And Deenie felt it,” said Asher, heedless. Wrenched himself away and started pacing again, staggering almost, buffeted by a depth of feeling he had never before revealed. “And she screamed. Oh, Pellen, she bloody screamed. If you’d heard her, my little Deenie, screamin’ ’cause of the warbeasts I called, ’cause she could feel ’em in me. I never knew she could do that, feel magic in folk. But she can. She never told us, but that be somethin’ she can do.” Breathing harshly, he fetched up against the chamber window. Flung out one hand to brace himself, and let his face fall into the crook of his elbow. “She can feel there be somethin’ wrong in the earth, too,” he said dully. “She can feel all of it. Reckon I poisoned her with that. Me and my bloody magic.”
Pellen tried to speak. Had to clear his throat. “Asher, you don’t know that.”
“Course I do,” Asher whispered. “Ain’t no other Olken who can do Doranen magic, is there? Well, there ain’t no Olken Dath’s ever heard of who can sense magic the way Deenie can. Course it be my fault. Can’t be nobody else’s.”
“All right,” he said at last, not quite certain of his voice. “Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps this—this ability did come from you. But why do you call it a poison? Why not call it a gift?”
“Gift?” said Asher and laughed, with such scorn. “If you’d heard her screamin’, Pellen, you wouldn’t call it a gift.” Turning abruptly, shoulders hitting the wall, he let himself slide until he was sat on the floor. “It ain’t a gift. It’s a bloody curse.”
Heartsick, he nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can see that. I’m sorry, Asher. I—I don’t know what else to say.”
Asher dragged an unsteady hand down his face. “There’s nowt you can say, Pellen. Nowt to say, nowt to do.”
“You’re right. It’s awful,” he said. “And I hope you know I’d cut off my other leg to spare you and Dathne such grief. To spare Deenie the grief…” He looked down at the table. Hating himself, even as he knew he had to say it. “But it’s something apart from what this kingdom is facing. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but you can’t let it interfere. We’ve run out of time.”
“I know,” said Asher, after a long silence, letting his head tip back against the wall. “Why d’you reckon I’m so bloody fratched?”
“We may have a little grace left to us, but we can’t, we mustn’t, count on much,” he added. “You fobbed off Jaffee and the others well enough today, but what about tomorrow? Or next week? Other Olken are bound to confide their fears in our revered Barlsman. It’s what he’s there for. Or Thady will overhear something, tending his bar. And whatever it is that’s churning in the earth, if it gets any worse, if it gets any louder—then could be even folk as magic-deaf as I am will start to hear it. And then—” He felt his mouth dry. “I think things will be worse even than when the Wall fell.”
“Reckon I don’t know that too, Pellen?” said Asher, caustic. “I do. All right? I know.”
And still bitterly resented being pushed towards the inevitable. But that was just too bad. It couldn’t matter that Asher didn’t want this. All that mattered was that he did what had to be done.
And it’s not as if this time we’re asking him to die…
Thrusting aside any lingering guilt, Pellen cleared his throat again. “Asher—”
Asher looked up, his face so stark that seeing it was like a blow from a clenched fist. “I know what you reckon I should do,” he said, his voice ragged. “You reckon I should go back to the Weather Chamber and WeatherWork our way out of this mess. Either fix that bloody Weather map somehow so it keeps on doin’ what it’s been doin’ for centuries—or finish the job Morg started so Lur can start afresh, proper, like we thought it did already. Eh? Ain’t that what you want, Pellen?”
Doused with fresh shame, defiant because of it, he nodded. “Yes. This land is my home. It’s my daughter’s home. Thanks to Morg it’s the only home we’re ever going to have. And I want you to save it. I’m sorry, but I do.”
“Course you do,” said Asher, and stared into the distance at something awful that only he could see. “But here’s the thing. If I work the Weather Magic, Deenie’s goin’ to feel it. It bloody nearly kills me, Pellen. You know that. So what d’you reckon it’ll do to her, eh? Eight years old? A little girl? If you was me, and it were Charis, what would you do? Would you kill your little girl to save this kingdom?”
He couldn’t speak. Could hardly breathe. The ugly question hung between them, unanswered. Unanswerable.
“Aye,” said Asher, and clambered awkwardly to his feet. “That’s what I thought.”
The chamber door closed very gently behind him.
Dathne sat in the garden that used to be Gar’s private bower, the one he and Fane had destroyed with fury and glimfire, and tried to ease her jangled nerves by embroidering a small tapestry. The sunlight warmly caressed her skin, a welcome simplicity after the night’s cold terrors. Remembering, she jabbed the needle into her finger. Sucked at the ruby-red bead of blood, softly swearing, then thrust aside the awfulness, just as she’d thrust aside so many bloodied, haunting memories.
She was getting very good at doing that.
With a sigh, she considered the tapestry. A pity I’m not getting good at this too. But such sedate pursuits had never been her strong point. Business and books and herblore and visions. Bossing people. Those were her talents. Or had been, once. Teaching. She was good at teaching. In the first years following the Wall’s destruction it had meant everything to her, passing along to Olken children what she knew of Olken magic and its ways. Telling them their history. Making sure they knew the truth, when the truth was still new and imperfectly known.
But now everybody knew it. Lur’s history was taught in every school and chapel these days. Nothing hidden. No more secrets.
Well. No more but one.
And suddenly the sunlight lost its caressing warmth and she was shivering, once more burdened with shadowed knowledge.
I thought it was over. It was meant to be over.
“Hey now,” said Asher, dropping to the stone bench beside her. Appearing when he was needed most, like always. Blindly she turned to him, embroidery hoop dropping heedless to the grass, and blindly she hid her cold face against his chest.
“I know, I know,” he said, rocking her. “I know, Dath. I know.”
And he did know. It was her only solace, that in her pain for her children she wasn’t alone.
The bower’s carefully nurtured flowers scented the air sweet and fresh. Bees droned sleepily, and in the branches of the fussy tarla tree small green titbirds bobbed and chirped. Early spring was upon them, and Lur was reborn. Calming, she eased herself free of Asher’s tight, almost suffocating embrace. Caught sight of his face and lost her breathing again.
“What? Did something happen in Council?”
“Aye, y’might say that.” His voice was low, his eyes miserable. “Seems there be folk talkin’ to Jaffee about funny things they’ve felt. He told the Council and now they all know somethin’s wrong.”
“And what else?” Because she knew there was something else. She knew every mood in him, every twist and turn of his heart.
“I lied to ’em, Dath,” he said. “Told ’em I ain’t felt a bloody thing. They believed me for now, but…” He shook his head. “That won’t last long. Thady and Eylin ain’t felt it yet, but once they do they won’t believe their precious Innocent Mage can’t feel it. Rodyn Garrick neither, nor any other Doranen. So…”
So. She knew what that meant. WeatherWorking. Frozen, untouchable by sunlight or any warmth, she slithered off the garden seat and backed away. “You can’t. What about Deenie? She’ll feel it. Asher, she’s too young to feel that.”
Instead of answering, he picked up her embroidery hoop and stared at her tapestry. A fishing boat on the ocean. Her own design; she’d meant it as a surprise. Washed in sunshine he touched her tiny blue stitches with the tip of one scarred finger. Almost, almost, his lips quirked in a smile.
She could have stamped her foot like a child in a tantrum. “Asher! Are you listening? I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you hurt our daughter.”
“Don’t be daft, Dathne,” he said, and tossed the tapestry to the seat. “I ain’t about to hurt Deenie.”
“How can you not hurt her?” she retorted. “You hurt her last night. I know you didn’t mean to, but you did. And it’ll be a thousand times worse with full blown Weather Magic, you know it will.”
He nodded. “Aye. I do.”
“Well, then?”
“Well, then, Dath,” he said, meeting her fury without flinching, “reckon you’ll have to do somethin’ about that.”
“Me do something? What are you—” Choking, she stared at him. She knew him too well. “I can’t. Have you gone mad?”
“Maybe,” he said, his eyebrows pulling low. “But I can’t see another way round it. Can you?”
“You want me to drug her? So you can do Weather Magic?”
Still his steady gaze held hers. “Time was you were willin’ to murder a man with drugs, for less.”
He might as well have punched her. Winded, she dropped to the neatly clipped grass. “Asher…”
Then he was on his knees gripping her shoulders, holding her up. “Think I want to, Dath?” he demanded hoarsely. “You reckon this be easy for me to think on? I ain’t got no choice—and neither do you. Whatever’s brewin’ with the weather, woman, either I nip it in the bud, tonight, or what we’ve built these last ten years comes tumblin’ down around our ears.”
She could feel herself weeping, hot tears on her frozen face. “You don’t know that. You can’t be sure.”
“I’m sure!” he said, shaking her. “And so are you.” He shook her again, his face twisted with anguish and anger. “You started this, Dathne. You made me the Innocent Mage. Now I got to finish it. For Deenie and Rafel. For all of us.”
She struck his broad chest with her fist over and over again. Nodding. Sobbing. “I know. I know.”
“Oh, Dath,” he groaned, and snatched her to him. Buried his face against her neck. “We’ll be all right. We will. I promise.”
She wanted to believe him, so hard she hurt. But she knew, just as he did, that where Barl and the Weather Magic were concerned… promises were no more to be trusted than glimfire in a rising wind.
“So, Rafe, how was school today?”
Shrugging, Rafel shoved his spinach round and round his dinner plate with his fork. Mama was trying to sound interested. She was trying to sound bright and happy, like there was nowt a thing wrong. It made him cross ’cause something was wrong all right. The tension in the solar’s air made him want to shout and stamp.
I ain’t a tiddy mouse like Deenie. I ain’t deaf or blind or addled like Jed. She shouldn’t pretend. That’s wrong. It’s like lying.
“Rafel?” said Mama. “Did you hear me? How was—”
“It was fine. It was school,” he said, almost a grunt. And that was all he wanted to say. He didn’t want to tell anyone about what had happened. What he’d done. The thing that made him feel small and dirty, worse even than when he was prickled with guilt for his terrible secret.
“Rafe,” said Da sharply. “Don’t take that tone with your ma. And you look at her when she asks you a question. And mind you eat your bloody spinach. It be food, it ain’t for playin’ with.”
Burning with resentment, he glared sideways at Da from beneath his lowered lashes then dropped his fork to the plate. “I don’t want my spinach. I’m full.”
“You be full when the plate’s empty,” said Da. “Eat up, I said.”
Mama sighed. “Asher…”
Eyes big and round, Deenie started to cry. Not a loud boo-hooing, just a few trickly tears, but still. Da threw down his napkin, shoved his chair back and stamped over to the solar window to glare down into the Tower gardens far below. He always stared out of a window when he was fratched, so all anyone could see of him was the back of his head. He didn’t like it when people could read his thoughts in his face.
“Asher,” Mama said again, but it sounded almost like a question. Almost like she was frighted. But why would Mama be frighted?
At the window, Da nodded. “Aye.”
Rafel watched, his insides shivery, as Mama got up from the table leaving most of her roast duck and baked carrots and buttery spinach behind. She went to Deenie, her face pinched up and not saying things, and pulled his sister’s chair away from the table. Then she held out her arms and let Deenie clamber into them, the way she used to when his sister was a little sprat.
“Hush, Deenie, don’t cry,” Mama said, as Deenie hiccupped into her sunshine yellow blouse. “Bedtime, mouse. You didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Remembering last night, Rafel felt his insides shiver again. Last night was horrible. Today was horrible too. Everything was horrible. He wanted to cry.
Mama took Deenie over to Da, and Da turned away from the window and tickled the back of her neck in the way that made her giggle. But Deenie didn’t giggle this time. Instead she reached for him and tried to climb into his arms.
“No, no, mouse,” said Mama, holding her back. “Da can’t cuddle you now. He’s got work to do. He’ll—he’ll cuddle you in the morning. Asher—”
Da slid a finger under Deenie’s chin and tipped her head up. “Don’t you be fratchin’ your ma, little sprat,” he said, pretending he was all stern and scowly. Then he smiled, except not with his eyes. His eyes were awful, old and sad. Bending, he kissed the tip of Deenie’s nose. “Off to bed, mouse. Sleep tight. Don’t you let them bedbugs bite.”
More fat wobbly tears were rolling down Deenie’s cheeks. “I don’t feel good, Da,” she whimpered. “I feel bad—” She banged her skinny chest. “In here.”
“I know,” said Da. It was nearly a whisper. “But you’ll feel better soon, Deenie. I promise.”
Mama took Deenie out of the solar, and Da turned his back on the room again. Looking at him, Rafel saw how his head drooped and his shoulders slumped like he was so sad he couldn’t stand up straight. He felt his throat go tight. His nose tingled, and his eyes prickled hard. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up his fork and poked it into the hated spinach.
“Never mind that, Rafe,” said Da. “Truth be told, I don’t much like spinach neither.”
He let the fork drop again. “Didn’t meant to fratch you, Da,” he said, having to choke the words out. “Didn’t mean to fratch Mama, either.”
Da held out one arm, an invitation. Rafel went to him, flooded with relief. Before he could blink it away a fat tear of his own wobbled out of his eye.
“What happened at school today, Rafe?” Da asked, his voice quiet, his strong arm holding him close.
He shrugged. “Nowt, Da. It was just school.”
“Rafe…”
Squirming, he kicked at the wall under the window. Da’s arm tightened.
“Don’t do that. Just tell me what happened.”
“Nowt. Just—poxy Arlin Garrick,” he muttered. “Being poxy. Like he is. We had a brangle. I didn’t touch him, Da!” he added hastily. “Promise!”
To his surprise, Da laughed a bit. “Like father, like son, eh?” he said, almost to himself. “That’d be right. So what happened, Rafe? All of it, mind. No leavin’ bits out.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “Arlin was doing magic. At nuncheon. In the yard, under the big tree. Meister Vyne can’t see that bit from the schoolhouse. Arlin was showing off, Da, just like he always does. Da, he was calling boggles.”
“Boggles?” said Da.
“You know,” he said, impatient. “Frighty things. He was making ’em up with magic. Like I said, showing off.” As if he’s the only one who can do it. I can do it. I’ve done it lots and mine are a hundred times scarier than his. “Da, he was going to skitter them over the hedge into the girls’ school next door.”
Da stared down at him. “Rafel… what did you do?”
He nearly kicked at the wall again. “I—I popped ’em. Wasn’t hard. Arlin’s magic ain’t that fancy.” Feeling his father’s arm go rigid, like wood, he looked up. “I had to, Da. Boggles are—”
“Rafe,” said Da, his face and voice terrible. “You tangled Doranen magic? Regular Olken can’t do that! You know you ain’t—how many bloody times have I said—”
“Arlin never guessed it was me!” he protested. “Honest, Da. Promise. But—” He stopped, suddenly aware that he’d said more than enough.
Too late. “But what?” said Da, and gave his shoulder a hard shake. “Rafel, didn’t I just tell you not to leave bits out?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I laughed. When the boggles popped. I couldn’t help it, Da, Arlin looked so fratched. And when he couldn’t make ’em come back again he—he looked like to poop his trousers, he was so cross. And doesn’t it serve him right? He was going to set them boggles on the girls, he—”
“Aye, Rafe, I heard you the first time,” said Da, his voice still growly. “What happened after you laughed at Arlin?”
He shrugged. “Not much.”
“Rafe.”
This was the bad bit. The bit he didn’t want to say. He didn’t care if he got a wallop for popping the boggles and he didn’t care if Da fratched on at him about not doing magic. He didn’t even care if he got stopped giving Stag his supper apple for a week. Two weeks. Jed would give it to him, so Stag wouldn’t miss out.
But he did care about telling Da what Arlin Garrick had said.
“Rafe,” Da said again, in the voice that meant all his patience was used up. “What did the pimply little shit do?”
“He just… said things,” he whispered, squirming. “Lies.”
Da was silent for a long time. Then he sighed. “About me?”
He nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak. His nose was running now, and the solar had gone blurry.
“Rafe…” Da dropped to a crouch in front of him. “We talked on this already, sprat,” he said, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Folk say things. You can’t stop ’em. It ain’t bloody fair but there’s nowt to be done about it.”
Rafel folded his arms tight, shaking his head. How could Da say that? How could he not care?
If he’d heard what Arlin said, that he was as good as a murderer, getting King Gar killed like that, and how he was only an Olken, and how could an Olken destroy a great Doranen mage like Morg? Some Doranen must’ve helped him, and then he did something to make ’em forget, so he wasn’t really a hero after all. If Da heard Arlin say all that…
“Reckon I care what some Doranen spratlin’ witters?” Da asked gent ly, and patted him on the cheek. “Trust me, Rafel: I don’t care a bloody bit.”
He sniffed. “Why not, Da? Why don’t you care?”
Da fell silent, his gaze shifting sideways, which always happened when he remembered bad things. “ ’Cause I don’t. ’Cause some things ain’t worth botherin’ about,” he said at last. “One day, when you be older, I’ll tell you the full story of what happened the day Morg died. Then you’ll know why I don’t care about Arlin Garrick, or his da, or any other bloody Doranen—or Olken—what snivels behind my back. And you won’t neither.”
“You could tell me now,” he said, hopeful. “That ole Darran told me some of it, but I want to know the rest.”
Da’s face went all stern. “I know you do, Rafe. But you ain’t ready for it.”
He was, he was. Da had no idea what he was ready for. What he could do. “Yes, I am,” he protested. “Da—”
“Sprat, you got to learn to swallow no for an answer so it don’t gripe your belly,” Da snapped. “I’ve said you ain’t ready and that’s the end of it.” He sighed again. “So, you popped Arlin’s boggles, and laughed when he were upset. That fratched him to say some things about me what riled you up. Then what?”
And then Goose had leapt to Da’s defence, calling Arlin Garrick a poxy, cross-eyed, split-arsed moo. So Arlin Garrick’s best friend Trentham Villot called Goose’s da a hop-rotted beersot, which didn’t sound awful bad unless you were Meister of the Brewers’ Guild.
So then Goose and Trentham started brangling, fists and boots, and Meister Vyne came running out, and in the end Goose got his backside caned and so did Trentham Villot, and that wasn’t bloody fair at all.
“Did you own up as how you started it?” said Da. “You and Arlin?”
“I tried to, Da, but Meister Vyne wouldn’t listen. Arlin just laughed. He didn’t care Trentham got walloped for him.”
“What about Goose?” said Da. “S’pose he ain’t talkin’ to you now, is that it?”
That was the thing, almost as bad as the lies Arlin told about Da. “No. He said not to fratch on it. He said—he said—”
And then, just like Deenie would, he broke into sobs. “Don’t matter,” Goose had said, his voice scratchy after yellin’ from the cane, and his watery eyes red. “One day you’ll stand up for me, I know you will. ’Cause we’re friends, you and me, Rafe, and that’s what friends do.”
“So you learned a hard lesson today,” said Da, holding him close again. “You got a friend in strife ’cause you let your temper ride you. Best you not let that happen again, eh?”
Muffled against Da’s weskit, he nodded. “I won’t, Da. Promise.” Then he wriggled a bit, till he could see his father’s face. “But I wish—”
“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.