Magician, p.6
Magician, page 6
Gareth ran a step to catch up. A few more passersby eyed them, with some speculation. The city was a fiercely independent trading port, and as such welcomed the wealth of visitors from across the Middle Lands, every complexion and manner of clothing imaginable; Lorre did seem to be drawing some looks, though. He was vain enough to guess this was in part because he was decently attractive on just about anyone’s scale, though it was also in part because he was dressed well and not heavily enough for the climate, all of which collectively suggested he might be pretty, rich, and foolish.
Or else they did know him. From stories, cautionary tales, history, songs. Possible, that. Not a problem, not exactly. Or not yet.
He’d guessed it might happen. Ripples would spread as soon as someone said his name: the most powerful sorcerer in the world, back out of history books, walking through a muddy harbor town.
He’d hoped for more time, before having to face his own name. Or maybe he hadn’t. He still didn’t know. Some part of him longed to be recognized—to know that they knew him, remembered him, maybe even feared him, would definitely give him the best room at the inn plus hot spiced wine—and some part of him wanted to bolt.
He could leave it all behind, the way he’d tried to. He could leave Gareth, and whispers, and stories, and his own reputation. He could melt into air, a spruce tree, a pebble on the shore. He could run on water back to his beach and sit on his clifftop balcony at sunrise and eat nectarines.
This world wasn’t his anymore. He didn’t recognize the newer cobbled streets or the painted signs. And his fingers were still cold.
The silver bolt throbbed between his eyes again.
“You’re here because I asked,” Gareth argued. “I didn’t want you to have to pay—”
“I have money. We can use it. That looks promising.”
It did: tall, weatherbeaten and grey, but carrying its resilience with elegance, with curtained windows and graceful writing along the sign, which swung in the downpour and proclaimed the inn to be The Sea Dragon. Lorre flinched at the name and his own past, pretended hard that nothing hurt and he’d never taken the form of a firebreathing drake and nearly killed a king and lost himself in shining scales, and hopped up the steps and opened the door, trailing Gareth in his wake.
Quite a few people looked up, presumably to investigate a new arrival. Most of them went back to drinking or eating or chatting or playing chess by the cozy fire, but one or two kept on looking. That included the innkeeper, who visibly took in Lorre’s elaborate coat and disheveled hair and pretty face and obvious lack of burly physical muscles, accompanied by Gareth’s plainer clothing and broad shoulders, and clearly made a very specific assumption.
Of course, it was also possible the man was taking mental notes to compare to a rhyming ballad description of the Dread Sorcerer of Goldenfell. Either way, Lorre abruptly ran out of patience for humans. His hair smelled like salt and seaspray, and his left boot was damp.
He fished around. Shoved a purse at Gareth. “You can deal with this. If you want to do things. Be helpful.”
Gareth looked as if he wanted to say something else, for a moment; but in the end he opted for, “Of course, I’ll be right back,” and went over to the innkeeper.
Idle chatter rose like fire-smoke, casual tangles of accents and dialects, Northern and Southern and islander and pure Middle Lands farm country. A bard tuned a guitar, plucked strings, prepared to begin. A serving-boy wandered around with ale. Wet wool clothes and leathers dried gently as their owners sat and devoured fresh bread and stew. A short scruffy man got up and ducked out, into the rain; another came in.
Lorre, rain-splashed and annoyed by his own persistent headache, wanted sun and sea and tropical fruits. He leaned a shoulder against a helpful nearby wooden post, and waited.
The bard, over by the fire, started in on “The Tale of Jack Scamper and the Magic Lantern.” The song was a generally humorous version of Jack’s adventures with the enchanted object in question, which he’d stolen from a miserly and selfish sorcerer who lived in a crystal cave.
As far as Lorre recalled, Jack had in fact been named Thurston, had shown up uninvited and claimed to be starving, and had grabbed the lantern and run. The lantern revealed truth, which was a terrible problem unless one knew how to use it properly, and had caused all sorts of misinterpreted misunderstandings in the local barony before Lorre had sighed and shown up and taken it back. It hadn’t been a priority; no one was being seriously hurt, and he’d considered that Thurston deserved every argument with his wife and every lost bit of income from the admission about cheating his customers when weighing out flour. Plus, the man’d had dreadful breath.
Gareth came back. “There’s only the one room. An expensive room.”
“Fine.”
“With one bed.”
Lorre raised both eyebrows.
“The innkeeper…he…I mean, when he said…” Gareth blushed hopelessly. “He said, not that you’ll mind, and grinned at me. I think…I think he thinks we…you and I…”
“I’m sure he does. Take me to bed, then.”
Gareth’s next words dried up into absolutely no sound at all.
“It’d better be a decent bed. I’m a demanding courtesan.”
“Oh Goddess,” Gareth got out, and then winced. “Sorry, sorry, you don’t like—”
“Feel free to swear by or at her. It’s only her priests I dislike, though that was years ago.” Lorre peeled himself off the post. “Don’t mind me; I’m only rethinking every decision I’ve made in the last three days and specifically the last hour. Lead on, hero.”
Gareth sighed. And shouldered his pack, picked up Lorre’s too, and moved toward the stairs. “Come on.”
The room proved to be more acceptable than Lorre’d expected, large and homey; unfussy, it sprawled in low wood-beamed comfort at the back of the inn, soaking up the heat from below. It did indeed possess a decently-sized bed, and its own fireplace, and thick layered blankets and counterpanes. It also had a tall glittering mirror, and cushions strewn about, and even a bathing-tub in one corner. Lorre said, “Hmm.”
Gareth shrugged his pack off and paused, a homespun prince in a heavy coat, with sturdy boots. “What?”
“About the courtesan comment…you do know this room has likely seen quite a few, yes?”
“It’s just an expensive room!”
“In a bustling port, in an expensive inn, with a mirror beside the bed, and these very heavy ropes holding the bed-curtains…I’m not complaining, you understand.”
“I didn’t mean—I wouldn’t’ve—if you’d rather not—”
“It’s not as if I’m offended by, well, anything much,” Lorre pointed out. “At least it’s a big enough bed that we can share, and it’ll be comfortable—”
“I wouldn’t presume—I can sleep on this rug, or—”
A knock interrupted, managing to tap both curiosity and smugness over the wood. A voice inquired, “Hot tea and stew and some water, you said?” in a tone that definitely had noticed them both together, the same way the innkeeper had, and was wondering who’d hired whom for the evening’s entertainment.
“Um,” Gareth said, a bit blankly—he was looking at the bed—and then woke up and called back, “Yes, thank you, come in!”
The door opened; covered dishes arrived, hoisted in by a grinning young woman, followed by a large young man carrying buckets of water. They looked alike enough to be siblings, and likely also related to the innkeeper; they both looked at Lorre and at Gareth, and the young man winked at Lorre, having evidently decided he’d done the hiring of a bit of rough company for the night. He decided he was flattered, though he wasn’t certain Gareth would be; probably best not to say so.
Food and water-buckets delivered, fire lit, the assistance vanished, looking mildly disappointed that both the wealthy patron and the muscular company were fully clothed and standing apart from each other. Lorre briefly considered the power of rumor and how soon someone would hear about a blond-haired blue-eyed affluent stranger, down at King Henry’s court, and whether any description would be good enough for Grand Sorceress Liliana to recognize him in it.
He said, “Tea? And…water?”
“I thought,” Gareth said, “that you might be tired. Cold. Missing your home. I know I’ve asked a lot. Asking you to leave your life, when you wanted to be alone, and happy there…”
“Oh.” He did not know what he’d been expecting; it had not been that. Not that sort of kindness, the sort that looked at an ancient magician and worried about the cold, and then went and did something about it. “That explains the tea. And the stew. Why the water?”
“He did say this room had a bathing-tub, so I thought…maybe…if you wanted to be…warmer…” Gareth followed Lorre’s gaze to the ornate claw-footed tub. Winced. “Or not. I just thought…”
“That I could heat up water for a bath?”
“No, you wouldn’t have to do anything, the fire would—”
“You thought of everything, didn’t you?”
“No,” Gareth said. “I should’ve asked you. I see that.”
“Didn’t I say I wasn’t complaining?” Lorre uncovered the pot, regarded steaming contents. “What sort of stew? By the way, every single person at this inn is now wondering what we’re planning to do that requires a full bath afterward.”
“They are not,” Gareth said, though this landed as less of a protest and more of a futile wish. “They…I mean, people bathe…travelers bathe…and there’s a tub!”
“There certainly is. And a mirror.”
“If you’d rather I hadn’t—”
“Not at all. Some sort of fish? Probably local. Not bad.”
“You really aren’t bothered about it. What people think.”
“They’ll think you’ve paid me, or I’ve paid you, for an evening of mutual pleasure. I’m not opposed to pleasure.” Because he was himself, because he couldn’t resist poking the universe and attractive overly earnest princes, he couldn’t help adding, “And you’d be extremely pleasurable.”
Gareth’s cheeks flushed pink. He turned away, crossed to the fireplace, stared at small scuffling flames.
“Ah,” Lorre said. “Don’t tell me that’s an actual taboo up in your mountains—”
“No! No, it’s not—never mind.” Gareth stared at fire more fiercely. “It isn’t a question of that.”
“It was a compliment.”
“Now you’re being cruel.”
“Am I?” Lorre said, surprised. “I wasn’t. I meant it. I’ve never—”
“—lied to me.” Gareth turned. Fireglow licked the edges of his autumn hair, his cheekbone. “You never have.”
“And I won’t.”
“Then…” A breath, a swallow. “You meant it. You think that I—you think I would be…”
“Absolutely delightful? Entirely fun for an evening? Yes, I do.” He watched Gareth watching him. “Only if you’d like, of course.”
“But,” Gareth said. “You…you’re you. I’m me. Why would you think that about me?”
Lorre, despite magic and age, had not anticipated that question. He answered, startled into bluntness, “Because you’re you, and for some reason, don’t ask why, I think you’d be…what did I say, pleasurable? It’s that simple. Assuming you might happen to feel the same.”
“I don’t know,” Gareth said. “Yes. No. I—of course I do. It’d be an honor. You’re so…but you’re nothing like I ever…I never thought…I thought I was just coming to ask for your help. And then there was sunshine, and tea, and a boat, and now this…I know about goats. And farming. I thought I knew about quests.”
“Well,” Lorre said, logically, “aren’t quests generally about discoveries along the way?” and watched Gareth give a small laugh and scrub both hands over his face, standing in firelight.
He added, “It was only an idea, I’m teasing, you don’t have to, of course not, never mind,” and went over to the table and explored the tea. It wasn’t as hot as it could be; a whisper of suggestion took care of that. “Milk? Sugar? There’s not much of that, but some.” When he poured, it came out dark and strong, some indeterminate hearty blend; he regretted the lack of wild strawberries, fleetingly.
Gareth looked at him. Then came over, drawn by good manners. “It’s fine. You can have the sugar. It was for you.”
“I’m going to use it all, if you’re going to say so.”
“Please.” Gareth settled gingerly onto the chair opposite his. “I’m…are we…we’re just having supper?”
“You went to the trouble,” Lorre pointed out. “We should enjoy it. Besides, it’s my money you’re spending.”
Gareth opened his mouth, shut it.
“What?”
“Your money…where do sorcerers get money?”
“Most recently? Ancient shipwrecks and pirate treasure. Oh, fine, I’m utterly useless and have never earned an actual day’s wages, agreed.” He cocked an eyebrow at Gareth over fish stew. “That is where you were going, right?”
“Not that far.” Gareth eyed stew as if it might offer a rescue. It opted not to, at least not that Lorre could see; the prince exhaled and poked it with a spoon. “I say what I’m thinking, around you.”
“So do I.” The flavor wasn’t bad, nicely seasoned and peppery; Lorre did indeed feel warmer. “But then I generally do. Is that bad?”
“No. It’s only…I thought I’d have to convince you. To come with me. And then I thought I’d have to…”
“Keep me happy? So you did study all the histories.”
“And then I end up wanting to ask you questions, or wanting to argue with you, or wanting to see you warm and dry and smiling.” Gareth set down his spoon. Put out a hand as if asking a question, then tucked it back. “You looked like you had a headache. Earlier. I just wanted to help.”
“No one looks at me and thinks I need help.”
“Maybe someone should. And, there—” Gareth ran both hands through his hair, dislodging the tie. Autumn fell down to his shoulders in waves. “That’s what I mean. I shouldn’t say it but I can’t not. And if I say the wrong thing…”
A kingdom in peril hovered in his voice, in his eyes, as he said it. Thunder boomed, a lance of warning across the sky. The fire shot sparks in reply, here inside their room.
Chapter 6
The night burned, cold as rain and hot as the hearth. Lorre turned from the table, got up, went to the fire. The scorching of it laced his fingertips when he held them out: close to the flame.
He felt Gareth at his back, poised at the table. He said, not turning, “It won’t matter. What you say. I’d still help you.”
A scrape of chair, a brush of wood over floor, suggested motion. Gareth crossed the room quietly, ending up at his side. Their eyes met: Gareth’s were layered and sweet as chocolate, not entirely calm but entirely certain about a decision.
Gareth said, “Of course it matters. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No. As if you could. And you need me.”
“I might,” Gareth said. “Need you.” His voice, in that faded Northern burr, took the word and burnished it into gold. His hair remained untied, falling to brush his shoulders, because he hadn’t pulled it back again.
“You don’t know what you mean.” Lorre put his hand right into the fire, this time: desperate, abrupt, a motion he hadn’t known he’d make until he did. And there was no burning, no seared flesh. Only heat like gamboling imps along his skin, dancing in ruby and fool’s gold. “Go finish that fish stew.”
“You are hurting,” Gareth said. “Headache? Can I help?” His fingers touched Lorre’s arm, Lorre’s shoulder. He’d done so once before. Offering an anchor. Unafraid.
“I’m not human,” Lorre said, “and I’m older than you and I’m here to help you with a bandit problem and I told you I didn’t expect any form of pleasure or payment. Nothing, from you. There’s nothing you need to do.”
“Then need’s the wrong word.” Gareth shifted weight, stepped closer, let his hand drift up: fingertips brushing Lorre’s face, temple, aching tired places. Lorre should have stopped him, and did not.
Gareth said, “You think I don’t know what I’m offering. You think I’m too young. You think it’s taking advantage of me.”
Lorre took his hand out of the fire. Held it up: still no injuries, no marks, no human agony. Every flare of energy become a piece of himself, not that this prince with fireside eyes could see that transmutation.
“I know what I’m doing,” Gareth said.
“You think you do.”
“You’re older than I am. But you’re older than everyone. And you’re not, anyway.”
Lorre, profoundly baffled by this assertion, had no answer.
“Oh, maybe in years.” Gareth’s fingers stroked his temple, traced his eyebrow; and Lorre for some reason found himself tilting his head into the caress. Gareth’s voice was gently amused, not at him but at some sort of realization. “Of course you’re five hundred years old or however long it’s been. But you like nectarines and silk robes and tea. You like books and having warm feet and pretending to hide from the world. And I know about bandits and snow and losing someone. I know that people die. I’m not as young as you think. And you’re not as old as you think. It’s in the direction you face, you said, about stories.”
“Don’t quote me at me.”
“Also I’m not a virgin. With women or with men.”
Lorre muttered a fairly blasphemous word that’d been fashionable eighty years ago, and then said, “You can’t want this.” Gareth hadn’t moved away. The tie of his shirt was slack, loose, coming undone.
“I want to help,” Gareth said. “I can’t do nothing. I’ve never been able to do nothing. If there’s something I can do.”
“Your quest doesn’t include this.”
“I think you’re beautiful, and magical, and the most astonishing person I’ve ever met. I think you could use sugar in your tea and a fire to keep you warm and someone noticing when your head aches. I want to do that for you. Because someone should. Because I want to.”
Lorre shut both eyes. Breathed, to the fire and Gareth’s hands, “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I could do.”
