by Karen Miller
Her mother sighed. ‘I know you don’t believe me, dear, but your father’s birthday celebrations are work too, equally as important as your arcane studies. You’d do well to be guided by Gar in this. Your brother understands the importance of such occasions.’
‘Well, being decorative is the only thing he’s good at,’ Fane said impatiently. ‘And since he does it so well, why do you need me?’ She knew she was being petulant. She didn’t care. A private family dinner to celebrate her father’s birthday would have been a much better idea. She hated all the froth and bubble of public occasions. Despised the feeling of being on show, paraded like one of Gar’s wretched horses in the sale ring. All those looks and whispers everybody thought she was too young to notice or understand.
Too young. Fools. She was sixteen, not stupid.
Her mother’s expression was a blend of exasperation and affection. ‘Oh, Fane. Gar’s royal duties involve a great deal more than being decorative and you know it. Besides, do you think Durm would be here if participation in this event weren’t as vital to the wellbeing of Lur as the most perfect calling of rain?’
Fane pulled a face and snatched a pastry from a passing silver platter. Around a mouthful of crabmeat and mayonnaise she replied, ‘Durm is Papa’s best friend. He doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.’
Dana sighed again and reached out a slim finger to coax a wisp of Fane’s silver-gilt hair back into place. ‘Whereas you, being merely his daughter, are above such trifling considerations?’
Fane blushed. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Then be more careful when you speak,’ her mother said with an edge to her mellow voice. ‘It’s one day, Fane, out of an entire year. Tell me I haven’t raised a daughter so selfish that she can’t spare her father one single day from so many.’
‘That’s not fair! All I want to do is get back to work!’
‘I know.’ Her mother looked suddenly sad. ‘But the work will always be there, darling.’
As Fane opened her mouth to argue, a roar went up from the enormous crowd of spectators crammed shoulder to knee in the tourney field beyond the royal pavilion. King Borne turned aside from watching his Birthday Games, and with laughter smoothing the lines grooved deep in his face called, ‘Come along, you two! Have done with your gossiping and join us! Asher has just gone one up over Conroyd and looks in fine enough fettle to win the competition!’
‘Please, Fane …’
Fane met her mother’s cool blue gaze and felt some of her heated impatience cool in return. With a pang she realised that Dana was looking tired, worn. Older now than even a few short months ago. Heart-wrung, she pulled her mother close and kissed her on one smooth, violet-scented cheek.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t mean to be awful. I’m just a little – I’m feeling—’ She swallowed. ‘Durm told me last night I’m ready for my first Weather-Working.’
Her mother’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see.’
‘I promise I won’t spoil Papa’s day.’
‘I know you won’t, Fane.’ After a moment, her mother smiled. ‘And besides, you’ve still got your surprise present to give him. I can’t wait to see what it is, you’ve been so mysterious.’
Fane grinned. ‘Yes. I have.’ She laughed, then whirled in a kaleidoscope of silk and brocade and joined her father on the pavilion’s flower-strewn balcony. ‘What did you say? Asher win the King’s Cup? Darling Papa, exactly how many birthday toasts have you drunk today? He’ll never wrest it from a horseman like Conroyd Jarralt!’
Seated with her father were her brother, Durm and sundry obscure lords and ladies who for whatever reason had been deemed worthy of the honour. As the sundries laughed politely, Borne raised amused eyebrows at her, Durm smiled and Gar looked down his brotherly nose.
‘Don’t be so certain. Asher’s been practising his javelin skills for weeks.’
‘Really? Then for his sake I hope you found somebody halfway decent to help him. Your aim is so bad you couldn’t hit the side of a stable with a shovel of wheat! How many strikes did you manage to score in the first round? One? I could’ve beaten that blindfolded.’
And would have, if they’d let her compete. But no. That was too dangerous a pastime for the WeatherWorker-in-Waiting. She might take a tumble and break her pretty neck, and then where would they be?
Gar was smiling. ‘I don’t doubt that.’ In his eyes, understanding. Pity. She felt rage scald her. She’d have no pity from a cripple. For a moment she wanted to claw her fingers into talons and scratch out those green eyes of his that saw so much. Too much.
And then she remembered her birthday surprise and her fingers relaxed. She smiled. Talons could come in many different shapes, after all.
Still watching the competition, her father said, ‘Young Asher has proven himself an object lesson to all of us, I think, not just Conroyd, in how dangerous it is to judge a man on looks and bearing alone.’
Gar glanced at him sidelong, smiling smugly. ‘If these weren’t your birthday celebrations, sir, I’d be tempted to say “I told you so”.’
‘I think you just did,’ Borne pointed out, and laughed. Patting his son’s arm he added, ‘But that’s all right. I’m more than happy to be proven wrong on this occasion. I like him very much, you know. He’s a man of uncommon good sense, hard-working, honest and refreshingly forthright. And he’s a good friend to you, I think.’
‘An excellent friend,’ said Gar. ‘I doubt I’d have achieved anywhere near as much this past year without his shrewd counsel on Olken matters.’
Borne let his considering gaze roam the faces of the lords and ladies, and Durm, before resting it again on his son. He lifted his voice slightly, making sure everyone could hear him. ‘Yes. The Olken are lucky to have him working so hard on their behalf.’ Another pat on the arm. ‘They’re lucky to have both of you, Gar. And so am I. This precious kingdom would be poorer without you.’
Gar flushed. ‘Thank you, sir. It’s good of you to say so.’
‘Nonsense,’ the king said briskly. ‘It’s nothing but the plain, unvarnished truth. Isn’t that so, Durm?’
‘Indeed,’ Durm agreed. ‘As ever, Your Majesty has the right of it.’
Pretending to stare over the tourney field where Conroyd was so majestically defending Doranen honour, Fane rolled her eyes. Of course Durm would agree in public. In private, though, they felt the same way about useless crippled Gar, and Asher and the rest of his lumpen, magickless brethren. Not even her tutor’s vast affection for her father could change that.
Another throat-ripping roar went up from the crowd. Rising above the excited clamouring, the competition adjudicator’s amplified voice: ‘And Lord Jarralt makes a perfect run to score three targets out of three! We have a tied match! Fresh targets, if you please!’
Fane laughed. ‘There you are. Your precious Asher hasn’t won anything yet, Gar. My money is still on Conroyd.’
‘Or it would be if you were allowed to bet, which of course you’re not. Goodness, it is exciting though, isn’t it?’ Dana said brightly, scooping Fane into the guardianship of one encircling arm and easing her away from Gar to a spare seat on the other side of Durm. ‘I can’t remember the last time the competition ran so close. Now tell me, Borne my dear, who do you honestly think has the best chance of winning your beautiful Birthday Cup?’
As befitted his social stature Darran watched the king’s birthday celebrations from the royal household enclosure, where palace and Tower staff enjoyed some of the best seats available and were liberally plied with sweetmeats and chilled ale by the servants roaming among the spectators. Beside him sat Willer, as was only right and proper. Why should he suffer alone, after all?
He released a lugubrious sigh. This was the last place in Lur he wanted to be. Not because he resented spending his time helping to celebrate His Majesty’s latest birthday. Not at all. No, what he resented was being made to celebrate it by watching that wretched Asher make a spectacle
of himself in public.
Willer shifted irritably in his seat. The boy looked like a pudgy peacock in his shiny blue and gold satin. He was dusted with sugar powder, soaked in scent and querulous with pique. ‘For the love of Barl, can’t we please go? Five minutes more of this rubbish and I’ll fall down dead of a brainstorm, I swear.’
Darran permitted himself another discreet sigh and rearranged his long legs. ‘We leave when His Majesty leaves and not before. Now stop fidgeting or I shall have your pay docked for impertinence.’
Willer scowled. Fixed his glowering gaze on the crudely muscular figure of their employer’s indispensable assistant and said viciously, ‘Who does Asher think he is anyway? Competing for the King’s Cup. Presuming to ride against the Doranen nobility. He’s just an Olken like us, no better than you or me. In fact he’s a damned sight worse.’
Darran glanced around the enclosure, full of Asher’s friends, and rapped his knuckles on Willer’s soft knee. ‘Keep your voice down. You and I may know the truth of him but we are lone voices crying in the wilderness.’
Willer snorted. ‘We certainly are, Darran, and I for one am getting a damned sore throat! How much longer must we suffer his presence? It’s been over a year now! Give him rope, you said, and he’ll hang himself. Well, we’ve given him so much rope he could knit a blanket big enough to cover the kingdom and he’s still here. Basking in His Highness’s affection, wallowing in the ignorant adoration of the masses, making our every waking hour a misery!’
Darran’s meagre lips stretched in a thin smile. ‘Patience, Willer. Even a long road must eventually come to an end.’
‘I know, Darran, but when? I’ve been patient! I’ve been patient till I’m practically choking! I don’t think I can go on being patient for very much longer!’
‘You must,’ Darran replied, and summoned one of the roaming servants with an imperious finger. It was hot and he was thirsty, and he feared that only more ale would sustain him to the end of this lamentably tedious affair. ‘Have faith, Willer, Patience is always rewarded, sooner or later.’
Down on the tourney field, Asher ran a reassuring hand along Cygnet’s sweating neck and turned to smile at Dathne. She was sitting on the grass by the roped-off tourney field, Matt at her side.
She nodded back, all cloudy dark hair, brown skin and gleaming cat-slanted eyes, and waggled congratulatory fingers in her typically offhanded way. He felt his heart race at the sight of her, and cursed. Never you mind about that now, fool! You got a cup to win!
Matt raised his clenched fists high over his head and hollered cheerfully. Seated on the grass with them, Mikel and Bellybone and some of the other lads shouted and whistled too, oblivious to the Doranen looks their loud support attracted.
A short distance away Olken lackeys scurried back and forth across the turf, pounding in fresh rows of wooden pegs ready for the final bout between himself and Conroyd Jarralt. A silly sort of game it was they were playing. Sticking the pointy ends of long javelins into tiny wooden targets. What his sensible da would have to say on it when he told the tale, Asher didn’t like to think. But there was a pleasure in aiming true and holding fast, and if it meant knocking Jarralt off his lofty perch, well, where was the harm?
Swallowing impatience, he waited. The enormous mixed crowd of Olken and Doranen spectators buzzed and hummed like a tame swarm of bees and the royal band played loud and hard enough to break their strings and bend their brass. Perched in his official seat, the tourney adjudicator blew foam off a fresh mug of ale and Conroyd Jarralt shouted at his Olken servants as they struggled to saddle a fresh and fretful horse for the ride-off. Asher felt his lip curl and turned away before his lordship noticed the disrespect. The bastard always made sure to pay back any slights, real or imagined, and he had a vicious, inventive tongue.
Fresh horse … Asher snorted, and gave Cygnet’s damp silver neck another pat. Even if he owned another horse – and he could if he wanted to now, aye, more horses than a body would need in a lifetime – he’d not insult Cygnet in such a fashion.
With the last wooden peg secured the lackeys scurried off to stand on the sidelines. The adjudicator swallowed the dregs of his ale and strutted to the middle of the field. Beneath the pomp and ceremony of his adjudicator’s scarlet regalia he was Ruben Cramp, Meister of the Butchers’ Guild. Asher knew him well now, and liked the unpretentious ole fart.
‘Attention, please … might I have your attention, my lords, ladies and gentlefolk!’
Heaving a weighty sigh, Asher eased his leather-clad buttocks in the saddle. Talk, talk, talk. Couldn’t they just get on with it?
The buzzing crowd hushed. Into the sudden silence the stamp and jingle of impatient horse as Jarralt’s fresh mount objected to restraint. Jarralt jerked his hand and the chestnut threw up its head, eyes rolling in protest against the sharp bite of the bit.
Asher scowled, and Ruben Cramp continued his address. ‘And so, Your Majesties, Your Highnesses, Master Durm, my lords, ladies and gentlefolk, the bout be tied, with Lord Jarralt and Meister Asher on six strikes each!’
The tourney ground exploded into applause. Asher bowed towards the royal pavilion, punched the air with a clenched fist then blew Dathne a kiss. She pretended not to see it. Always playing hard to get was Dathne. Drat her.
As the cheering subsided, Ruben concluded: ‘Therefore the winner of the King’s Cup will be decided by a tie-breaker, the best out of three runs. Gentlemen, be you ready?’
Asher raised his lance in reply, and was echoed by Jarralt. Their eyes met, and Asher smiled at the fury and hatred burning in the Doranen lord’s gaze. Fool of a man. As if it mattered. It was a game, just a game, with some poxy ole tin pot the prize. How could it possibly matter?
The band blew a flourish of mellow notes into the high blue sky. Ruben reached into the folds of his fancy overcoat and pulled out a bright scarlet pennant. ‘Gentlemen, make ready!’
Asher closed his calves on Cygnet’s silver sides and the horse pranced to the starting mark. In a flourish of spurs and flying foam Jarralt galloped to the far end of the target run and took his mark.
Ruben raised the pennant high overhead. ‘On three, sirs, and may the best man win! One … two … three!’ He opened his fingers and the scarlet cloth fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird. A roar went up from the crowd. Sudden thunder rolled around the tourney field as iron-shod hooves hammered the green grass.
Asher forgot everything: Jarralt, Dathne, the stupidity and futility of the game he played. He forgot the watching king and queen and prince, unlikely friends; the princess, the Master Magician and other enemies. Forgot that this life would soon be left behind, and that the difficult leaving of it still lay ahead. All that existed in that moment was the pounding horse beneath him, the outstretched lance before him and the driving need to pierce a tiny wooden target through the heart and win himself a golden cup.
‘First pass, and it be a peg to Meister Asher, a miss to Lord Jarralt!’
As the crowd greeted Ruben’s announcement with excited shouting Asher lowered his lance for the lackeys to remove the speared and splintered wooden target and kept his fierce eyes far away from Jarralt. His lordship was cursing his horse, which was only to be expected. Didn’t Da always say: It’s a bad workman as blames his tools, boys, and let that be a lesson for you. Privy councillor or no, there was far too much of the bad workman in Jarralt. It was an ongoing wonder to Asher that the king kept the man on the Council or listened to him when he spoke.
Within moments it was time for the second pass. Time to win the cup and get down to some serious celebrating with Dathne and his friends down at the Green Goose.
Except that when he reined Cygnet in at the end of their second thundering run, it was Jarralt who waved a wooden-tipped lance in the air and he who was left looking a fool, his target abandoned on the turf.
Damn.
He kicked Cygnet into place and waited, breathing quietly, for Ruben to drop the pennant a third and final ti
me.
‘… three!’ the butcher bellowed. ‘Three!’ the crowd bellowed with him as the scarlet scrap of cloth drifted on an errant breeze and Jarralt buried golden spurs in his horse’s bloodied sides and Cygnet pinned his ears back, no need to be told what to do.
Out with the lance, Asher, down with the tip, aim for the heart, strike, pierce, hold, lift, lift, stay there, you beauty, you bastard, stay there, you’re dead, you’re mine, where’s Jarralt, he’s dropped it, he’s dropped it, I win, I win, Da, ain’t this somethin’, I win –
Buoyant on the crest of the band’s joyous music and the crowd’s shrieking admiration, Asher rode his victory lap with head and lance held high. Pink-cheeked Olken lasses threw him their flowers and giggled behind their hands. Mikel and Bellybone and the lads pulled faces and pretended they weren’t impressed. Matt hopped and hollered, and Dathne speared his heart with a smile as Cygnet cantered dulcetly by.
Those he worked with in the Prince’s Tower were dancing on their chairs in the royal household enclosure. He stood in his stirrups as he pounded by them, waving one fist in the air. Laughed when he spied Darran and Willer, looking as though they’d swallowed curdled milk. A pox on the pair of them, the mouldy ole crow and his jackdaw lackey.
In passing the royal pavilion he eased to a slow trot and brandished the lance in a salute to the king, who stood on his balcony and applauded, laughing. On Borne’s left stood the Master Magician; Durm spared him a spurious smile, grey-green eyes warm as glass. On Borne’s right and grinning like a split melon, Gar. They pulled a face at each other. He nodded and smiled at the queen, and her Most Royal High Snootiness Princess Fane, and then the royal pavilion was behind him and it was time to collect his prize. He passed Cygnet over to young Jim’l for a rub-down and a cool drink, then waited for the king to join him, Ruben and a glowering Conroyd Jarralt in the centre of the tourney field.
Borne took his hand and shook it as though they were equals, or old friends. ‘An impressive display, Asher. Congratulations.’