Page 71 of Seducing the Sorcerer
Morgrim sighed. “Work. Yes.”
His tone was so dispirited, Fenn found himself saying, “Listen, know I don’t know nothing about anti-hex potions or whatever it is you’re planning. I know that. But happen I could help you somehow?”
Morgrim tensed and slowly withdrew his arm and leg. He rolled away from Fenn to lie on his back. The silence grew heavy.
Fenn’s cheeks grew warm. “Don’t mean to get in your way. But, want you to know I’d do anything. Anything, so we can make sure that wet bastard don’t come back. Fetching and carrying for you. Getting—I don’t know what—eye of toad and ear of newt. Whatever.”
“I’m not a potions man.”
Morgrim’s tone was so flat and unfriendly that a spark of irritation lit inside Fenn.
“Well, how the blazes should I know? You ain’t told me nothing. Ain’t shown me nothing practical. It’s all theories and ideas and magic this and magic that! If how you do spells is a secret, then say so. But I wish to the Gods you’d let me help.”
“You can’t help. It’s kind of you to offer, but, no. No one can help.”
Morgrim sat up, putting his arms around his knees. Fenn stared at the back of his robe. Patches of stone dust had dried on it, great grey blotches like blooms of lichen. There were several small tears across the shoulders. His pose was so defensive. So downcast. The urge to help him, to fix things, was impossible to resist.
“But how’d you know I can’t help?” Fenn said.
“For Gods’ sake. I know. Stop pestering.”
“Pestering, is it?” Stung, Fenn sat up.
“You said it yourself. You don’t know anything about magic. So, stop going on about it.”
“Well, that’s me told.” Fenn got to his feet, irritation mounting. “Reckon I don’t know anything about anything, do I?”
Morgrim glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“Ain’t stupid. You think I ain’t noticed there’s something going on? You been jumpy as a cat the whole time I been here, but you won’t tell me someone’s out to kill you until a great big fucking river slug turns up and nearly does for you. And now there’s still things you ain’t telling me: won’t tell me about magic. Won’t tell me what you and Aramella were talking about out there. Won’t tell me a hundred other things either, I reckon.”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“Liberty, bollocks. Ain’t telling because you don’t trust me. Fine. That’s up to you. Keep your secrets. Keep your magic. You don’t want my help? I’m leaving you to it.”
Morgrim looked up again, quickly. “Where are you going? To the stables?”
But the stables, with the worple horse quietly eating its head off and the patter of raindrops sounding all the time like Morgrim’s footsteps, was the last place Fenn wanted to be.
“No,” he said.
A flash of alarm crossed Morgrim’s face. “But, you’re not going? Not for good?” he asked, in so small a voice that Fenn almost said “’course, not,” just to see the relief in his face.
But suddenly the idea of leaving seemed a possibility. Something wasn’t right at the tower, and nobody would tell him what it was. The sense of being left out of things, of not being told the truth was becoming unbearable. Especially on top of the events of the morning.
He’d got what he wanted: Morgrim the sorcerer kneeling at his feet. But he’d also found a line he couldn’t cross. And he felt a fool for trying. Because he didn’t belong here, not really. And likely never would. Ought to go somewhere he did belong.
All the same, he felt no desire to hurt Morgrim needlessly. The bloke was infuriating, but no one deserved pain for the sake of it.
“Don’t know what I’m doing,” Fenn said, truthfully. “Ain’t storming off, case that’s what you’re thinking. You’ll see me again. But right now, I want a drink. In a pub.”
Chapter 14
Fenn chose the Tower View because there were strains of music coming from the Green Gate and he didn’t think he could bear jollity or conversation. He wanted somewhere quiet and dimly lit, with a table by himself and a pint in his hand.
Inside, the View was much fancier than he was used to. It was done out in the new style, all one big room with a serving area in the middle surrounded by lots of little tables and dozens of mirrors and glowing crystals everywhere. It had a marvellous view of the broken tower shrouded in its clouds, and despite the fact that it was only mid-morning, it was full of townsfolk, all eating and drinking and making a hubbub in a dozen different languages.
It wasn’t the murky bolthole he’d wanted, but Fenn was in no mood for delay. He wanted a drink and he wanted it now. This would have to do. He found a stool at a corner of the bar and the landlord poured him a pint with no unnecessary chat and that was grand. Fenn took a gulp and the ale was good and that was grand too. And the noise of the crowd was comforting in a way. It was certainly better than the silence and the pat, pat, pat of the rain dripping from the gutter.
