Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  I smiled back, but then I took too large a bite of the bread and he frowned at me. I tried to chew it slowly, but I was so hungry now, and the food was here, and I did not un­der­stand why he would not just let me eat it now. It took a long time to eat. He had made the stew too hot on pur­pose, so that I would burn my mouth if I took too big a bite. I thought about that for a bit. Then I said, ‘You made the food too hot on pur­pose. So I will be burned if I eat too fast.’

  His smile came more slowly. He nod­ded at me.

  I still fin­ished eat­ing be­fore he did. I had to sit on the chair un­til he had fin­ished eat­ing, too.

  ‘Well, Fitz,’ he said at last. ‘Not too bad a day today. Hey boy?’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Say some­thing back to me,’ he told me.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Any­thing.’

  ‘Any­thing.’

  He frowned at me and I wanted to snarl, be­cause I had done what he told me. After a time, he got up and got a bottle. He poured some­thing into his cup. He held the bottle out to me. ‘Do you want some?’

  I pulled back from it. Even the smell of it stung in my nos­trils.

  ‘An­swer,’ he re­minded me.

  ‘No. No, it’s bad wa­ter.’

  ‘No. It’s bad brandy. Black­berry brandy, very cheap. I used to hate it, you used to like it.’

  I snorted out the smell. ‘We have never liked it.’

  He set the bottle and the cup down on the table. He got up and went to the win­dow. He opened it again. ‘Go hunt­ing, I said!’ I felt Nighteyes jump and then run away. Nighteyes is as afraid of Heart of the Pack as I am. Once I at­tacked Heart of the Pack. I had been sick for a long time, but then I was bet­ter. I wished to go out to hunt and he would not let me. He stood be­fore the door and I sprang on him. He hit me with his fist, and then held me down. He is not big­ger than I. But he is meaner, and more clever. He knows many ways to hold and most of them hurt. He held me on the floor, on my back, with my throat bared and wait­ing for his teeth, for a long, long time. Every time I moved, he cuffed me. Nighteyes had snarled out­side the house, but not very close to the door, and he had not tried to come in. When I whined for mercy, he struck me again. ‘Be quiet!’ he said. When I was quiet, he told me, ‘You are younger. I am older and I know more. I fight bet­ter than you do, I hunt bet­ter than you do. I am al­ways above you. You will do everything I want you to do. You will do everything I tell you to do. Do you un­der­stand that?’

  Yes, I had told him. Yes, yes, that is pack, I un­der­stand, I un­der­stand. But he had only struck me again and held me there, throat wide, un­til I told him with my mouth, ‘Yes, I un­der­stand.’

  When Heart of the Pack came back to the table, he put brandy in my cup. He set it in front of me, where I would have to smell it. I snorted.

  ‘Try it,’ he urged me. ‘Just a little. You used to like it. You used to drink it in town, when you were younger and not sup­posed to go into tav­erns without me. And then you would chew mint, and think I would not know what you had done.’

  I shook my head at him. ‘I would not do what you told me not to do. I un­der­stood.’

  He made his sound that is like chok­ing and sneez­ing. ‘Oh, you used to very of­ten do what I had told you not to do. Very of­ten.’

  I shook my head again. ‘I do not re­mem­ber it.’

  ‘Not yet. But you will.’ He poin­ted at the brandy again. ‘Go on. Taste it. Just a little bit. It might do you good.’

  And be­cause he had told me I must, I tasted it. It stung my mouth and nose, and I could not snort the taste away. I spilled what was left in the cup.

  ‘Well. Wouldn’t Pa­tience be pleased,’ was all he said. And then he made me get a cloth and clean what I had spilled. And clean the dishes in wa­ter and wipe them dry, too.

  Some­times I would shake and fall down. There was no reason. Heart of the Pack would try to hold me still. Some­times the shak­ing made me fall asleep. When I awakened later, I ached. My chest hurt, my back hurt. Some­times I bit my tongue. I did not like those times. They frightened Nighteyes.

  And some­times there was an­other with Nighteyes and me, an­other who thought with us. He was very small, but he was there. I did not want him there. I did not want any­one there, ever again, ex­cept Nighteyes and me. He knew that, and made him­self so small that most of the time he was not there.

  Later, a man came.

  ‘A man is com­ing,’ I told Heart of the Pack. It was dark and the fire was burn­ing low. The good hunt­ing time was past. Full dark was here. Soon he would make us sleep.

  He did not an­swer me. He got up quickly and quietly and took up the big knife that was al­ways on the table. He poin­ted at me to go to the corner, out of his way. He went softly to the door and waited. Out­side, I heard the man step­ping through the snow. Then I smelled him. ‘It is the grey one,’ I told him. ‘Chade.’

  He opened the door very quickly then, and the grey one came in. I sneezed with the scents he brought on him. Powders of dry leaves are what he al­ways smelled like, and smokes of dif­fer­ent kinds. He was thin and old, but Heart of the Pack al­ways be­haved as if he were pack higher. Heart of the Pack put more wood on the fire. The room got brighter, and hot­ter. The grey one pushed back his hood. He looked at me for a time with his light-col­oured eyes, as if he were wait­ing. Then he spoke to Heart of the Pack.

  ‘How is he? Any bet­ter?’

  Heart of the Pack moved his shoulders. ‘When he smelled you, he said your name. Hasn’t had a seizure in a week. Three days ago, he men­ded a bit of har­ness for me. And did a good job, too.’

  ‘He doesn’t try to chew on the leather any more?’

  ‘No. At least, not while I’m watch­ing him. Be­sides, it’s work he knows very well. It may touch some­thing in him.’ Heart of the Pack gave a short laugh. ‘If noth­ing else, men­ded har­ness is a thing that can be sold.’

  The grey one went and stood by the fire and held his hands out to it. There were spots on his hands. Heart of the Pack got out his brandy bottle. They had brandy in cups. He made me hold a cup with a little brandy in the bot­tom of it, but he did not make me taste it. They talked long, long, long, of things that had noth­ing to do with eat­ing or sleep­ing or hunt­ing. The grey one had heard some­thing about a wo­man. It might be cru­cial, a ral­ly­ing point for the Duch­ies. Heart of the Pack said, ‘I won’t talk about it in front of Fitz. I prom­ised.’ The grey one asked him if he thought I un­der­stood, and Heart of the Pack said that that didn’t mat­ter, he had given his word. I wanted to go to sleep, but they made me sit still in a chair. When the old one had to leave, Heart of the Pack said, ‘It is very dan­ger­ous for you to come here. So far a walk for you. Will you be able to get back in?’

  The grey one just smiled. ‘I have my ways, Burrich,’ he said. I smiled too, re­mem­ber­ing that he had al­ways been proud of his secrets.

  One day, Heart of the Pack went out and left me alone. He did not tie me. He just said, ‘There are some oats here. If you want to eat while I’m gone, you’ll have to re­mem­ber how to cook them. If you go out of the door or the win­dow, if you even open the door or the win­dow, I will know it. And I will beat you to death. Do you un­der­stand that?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. He seemed very angry at me, but I could not re­mem­ber do­ing any­thing he had told me not to do. He opened a box and took things from it. Most were round metal. Coins. One thing I re­membered. It was shiny and curved like a moon, and had smelled of blood when I first got it. I had fought an­other for it. I could not re­mem­ber that I had wanted it, but I had fought and won it. I did not want it now. He held it up on its chain to look at it, then put it in a pouch. I did not care that he took it away.

  I was very, very hungry be­fore he came back. When he did there was a smell on him. A fe­male’s smell. Not strong, and mixed with the smells of a meadow. But it was a good smell that made me want
some­thing, some­thing that was not food or wa­ter or hunt­ing. I came close to him to smell it, but he did not no­tice that. He cooked the por­ridge and we ate. Then he just sat be­fore the fire, look­ing very, very sad. I got up and got the brandy bottle. I brought it to him with a cup. He took them from me but he did not smile. ‘Maybe to­mor­row I shall teach you to fetch,’ he told me. ‘Maybe that’s some­thing you could mas­ter.’ Then he drank all the brandy that was in the bottle, and opened an­other bottle after that. I sat and watched him. After he fell asleep, I took his coat that had the smell on it. I put it on the floor and lay on it, smelling it un­til I fell asleep.

  I dreamed, but it made no sense. There had been a fe­male who smelled like Burrich’s coat, and I had not wanted her to go. She was my fe­male, but when she left, I did not fol­low. That was all I could re­mem­ber. Re­mem­ber­ing it was not good, in the same way that be­ing hungry or thirsty was not good.

  He was mak­ing me stay in. He had made me stay in for a long, long time, when all I wanted to do was go out. But that time it was rain­ing, very hard, so hard the snow was al­most all melted. Sud­denly it seemed good not to go out. ‘Burrich,’ I said, and he looked up very sud­denly at me. I thought he was go­ing to at­tack, he moved so quickly. I tried not to cower. Cower­ing made him angry some­times.

  ‘What is it, Fitz?’ he asked, and his voice was kind.

  ‘I am hungry,’ I said. ‘Now.’

  He gave me a big piece of meat. It was cooked, but it was a big piece. I ate it too fast and he watched me, but he did not tell me not to, or cuff me. That time.

  I kept scratch­ing at my face. At my beard. Fi­nally, I went and stood in front of Burrich. I scratched at it in front of him. ‘I don’t like this,’ I told him. He looked sur­prised. But he gave me very hot wa­ter and soap, and a very sharp knife. He gave me a round glass with a man in it. I looked at it for a long time. It made me shiver. His eyes were like Burrich’s, with white around them, but even darker. Not wolf eyes. His coat was dark like Burrich’s, but the hair on his jaws was un­even and rough. I touched my beard, and saw fin­gers on the man’s face. It was strange.

  ‘Shave, but be care­ful,’ Burrich told me.

  I could al­most re­mem­ber how. The smell of the soap, the hot wa­ter on my face. But the sharp, sharp blade kept cut­ting me. Little cuts that stung. I looked at the man in the round glass af­ter­ward. Fitz, I thought. Al­most like Fitz. I was bleed­ing. ‘I’m bleed­ing every­where,’ I told Burrich.

  He laughed at me. ‘You al­ways bleed after you shave. You al­ways try to hurry too much.’ He took the sharp, sharp blade. ‘Sit still,’ he told me. ‘You’ve missed some spots.’

  I sat very still and he did not cut me. It was hard to be still when he came so near to me and looked at me so closely. When he was done, he took my chin in his hand. He tipped my face up and looked at me. He looked at me hard. ‘Fitz?’ he said. He turned his head and smiled at me, but then the smile faded when I just looked at him. He gave me a brush.

  ‘There is no horse to brush,’ I told him.

  He looked al­most pleased. ‘Brush this,’ he told me, and roughed up my hair. He made me brush it un­til it would lie flat. There were sore places on my head. Burrich frowned when he saw me wince. He took the brush away and made me stand still while he looked and touched be­neath my hair. ‘Bas­tard!’ he said harshly, and when I cowered, he said, ‘Not you.’ He shook his head slowly. He pat­ted me on the shoulder. ‘The pain will go away with time,’ he told me. He showed me how to pull my hair back and tie it with leather. It was just long enough. ‘That’s bet­ter,’ he said. ‘You look like a man again.’

  I woke up from a dream, twitch­ing and yelp­ing. I sat up and star­ted to cry. He came to me from his bed. ‘What’s wrong, Fitz? Are you all right?’

  ‘He took me from my mother!’ I said. ‘He took me away from her. I was much too young to be gone from her.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I know. But it was a long time ago. You’re here now, and safe.’ He looked al­most frightened.

  ‘He smoked the den,’ I told him. ‘He made my mother and broth­ers into hides.’

  His face changed and his voice was no longer kind. ‘No, Fitz. That was not your mother. That was a wolf’s dream. Nighteyes. It might have happened to Nighteyes. But not you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it did,’ I told him, and I was sud­denly angry. ‘Oh, yes it did, and it felt just the same. Just the same.’ I got up from my bed and walked around the room. I walked for a very long time, un­til I could stop feel­ing that feel­ing again. He sat and watched me. He drank a lot of brandy while I walked.

  One day in spring I stood look­ing out of the win­dow. The world smelled good, alive and new. I stretched and rolled my shoulders. I heard my bones crackle to­gether. ‘It would be a good morn­ing to go out rid­ing,’ I said. I turned to look at Burrich. He was stir­ring por­ridge in a kettle over the fire. He came and stood be­side me.

  ‘It’s still winter up in the Moun­tains,’ he said softly. ‘I won­der if Kettricken got home safely.’

  ‘If she didn’t, it wasn’t Sooty’s fault,’ I said. Then some­thing turned over and hurt in­side me, so that for a mo­ment I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried to think of what it was, but it ran away from me. I didn’t want to catch up with it, but I knew it was a thing I should hunt. It would be like hunt­ing a bear. When I got up close to it, it would turn on me and try to hurt me. But some­thing about it made me want to fol­low any­way. I took a deep breath and shuddered it out. I drew in an­other, with a sound that caught in my throat.

  Be­side me, Burrich was very still and si­lent. Wait­ing for me.

  Brother, you are a wolf. Come back, come away from that, it will hurt you, Nighteyes warned me.

  I leaped back from it.

  Then Burrich went stamp­ing about the room, curs­ing things, and let­ting the por­ridge burn. We had to eat it any­way, there was noth­ing else.

  For a time, Burrich bothered me. ‘Do you re­mem­ber?’ he was al­ways say­ing. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He would tell me names, and make me try to say who they were. Some­times I would know, a little. ‘A wo­man,’ I told him when he said Pa­tience. ‘A wo­man in a room with plants.’ I had tried, but he still got angry with me.

  If I slept at night, I had dreams. Dreams of a trem­bling light, a dan­cing light on a stone wall. And eyes at a small win­dow. The dreams would hold me down and keep me from breath­ing. If I could get enough breath to scream, I could wake up. Some­times it took a long time to get enough breath. Burrich would wake up, too, and grab the big knife off the table. ‘What is it, what is it?’ he would ask me. But I could not tell him.

  It was safer to sleep in the day­light, out­side, smelling grass and earth. The dreams of stone walls did not come then. In­stead, a wo­man came, to press her­self sweetly against me. Her scent was the same as the meadow flowers, and her mouth tasted of honey. The pain of those dreams came when I awoke, and knew she was gone forever, taken by an­other. At night I sat and looked at the fire. I tried not to think of cold stone walls, nor of dark eyes weep­ing and a sweet mouth gone heavy with bit­ter words. I did not sleep. I dared not even lie down. Burrich did not make me.

  Chade came back one day. He had grown his beard long and he wore a wide-brimmed hat like a ped­lar, but I knew him all the same. Burrich wasn’t at home when he ar­rived, but I let him in. I did not know why he had come. ‘Do you want some brandy?’ I asked, think­ing per­haps that was why he had come. He looked closely at me and al­most smiled.

  ‘Fitz?’ he said. He turned his head side­ways to look into my face. ‘So. How have you been?’

  I didn’t know the an­swer to that ques­tion, so I just looked at him. After a time, he put the kettle on. He took things out of his pack. He had brought spice tea, some cheese and smoked fish. He took out pack­ets of herbs as well and set them out in a row on the table. Then he took out a leather pouch. In­s
ide it was a fat yel­low crys­tal, large enough to fill his hand. In the bot­tom of the pack was a large shal­low bowl, glazed blue in­side. He had set it on the table and filled it with clean wa­ter when Burrich re­turned. Burrich had gone fish­ing. He had a string with six small fish on it. They were creek fish, not ocean fish. They were slip­pery and shiny. He had already taken all the guts out.

  ‘You leave him alone now?’ Chade asked Burrich after they had greeted one an­other.

  ‘I have to, to get food.’

  ‘So you trust him now?’

  Burrich looked aside from Chade. ‘I’ve trained a lot of an­im­als. Teach­ing one to do what you tell it is not the same as trust­ing a man.’

  Burrich cooked the fish in a pan and then we ate. We had the cheese and the tea also. Then, while I was clean­ing the pans and dishes, they sat down to talk.

  ‘I want to try the herbs,’ Chade said to Burrich. ‘Or the wa­ter, or the crys­tal. Some­thing. Any­thing. I be­gin to think that he’s not really … in there.’

  ‘He is,’ Burrich as­ser­ted quietly. ‘Give him time. I don’t think the herbs are a good idea for him. Be­fore he … changed, he was get­ting too fond of herbs. To­ward the end, he was al­ways either ill, or charged full of en­ergy. If he was not in the depths of sor­row, he was ex­hausted from fight­ing or from be­ing King’s Man to Ver­ity or Shrewd. Then he’d be into the elf­bark in­stead of rest­ing. He’d for­got­ten how to just rest and let his body re­cover. He’d never wait for it. That last night … you gave him car­ris seed, didn’t you? Fox­glove said she’d never seen any­thing like it. I think more folk might have come to his aid, if they hadn’t been so frightened of him. Poor old Blade thought he had gone stark rav­ing mad. He never for­gave him­self for tak­ing him down. I wish he could know the boy hadn’t ac­tu­ally died.’