Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  Hands nod­ded, already busy with my horse. Sooty’s nose was in her oats. Burrich took my arm. ‘Come along,’ he said, just as he spoke to a horse. I found my­self un­will­ingly lean­ing on him as he walked the long row of stalls. At the door he picked up a lan­tern. The night seemed colder and darker after the warmth of the stables. As we walked up the frozen path to the kit­chens, the snow began to fall again. My mind went swirl­ing and drift­ing with the flakes. I wasn’t sure where my feet were. ‘It’s all changed, forever, now,’ I ob­served to the night. My words whirled away with the snow­flakes.

  ‘What has?’ Burrich asked cau­tiously. His tone be­spoke his worry that I might be get­ting fe­ver­ish again.

  ‘Everything. How you treat me. When you aren’t think­ing about it. How Hands treats me. Two years ago, he and I were friends. Just two boys work­ing in the stables. He’d never have offered to brush down my horse for me. But to­night, he treated me like some sickly weak­ling … not even someone he can in­sult about it. As if I should just ex­pect him to do things like that for me. The men at the gate didn’t even know me. Even you, Burrich. Six months or a year ago, if I took sick, you’d have dragged me up to your loft and dosed me like a hound. And if I’d com­plained, you’d have had no tol­er­ance for it. Now you walk me up to the kit­chen doors and …’

  ‘Stop whin­ing,’ Burrich said gruffly. ‘Stop com­plain­ing and stop pity­ing your­self. If Hands looked like you do, you’d do the same for him.’ Al­most un­will­ingly he ad­ded, ‘Things change, be­cause time passes. Hands hasn’t stopped be­ing your friend. But you are not the same boy who left Buck­keep at har­vest time. That Fitz was an er­rand boy for Ver­ity, and had been my stable-boy, but wasn’t much more than that. A royal bas­tard, yes, but that seemed of small im­port­ance to any save me. But up at Jhaampe in the Moun­tain King­dom, you showed your­self more than that. It doesn’t mat­ter if your face is pale, or if you can barely walk after a day in the saddle. You move as Chiv­alry’s son should. That is what shows in your bear­ing, and what those guards re­spon­ded to. And Hands.’ He took a breath and paused to shoulder the heavy kit­chen door open. ‘And I, Eda help us all,’ he ad­ded in a mut­ter.

  But then, as if to be­lie his own words, he steered me into the watch-room off the kit­chen and un­ce­re­mo­ni­ously dumped me at one of the long benches be­side the scarred wooden table. The watch-room smelled in­cred­ibly good. Here was where any sol­dier, no mat­ter how muddy or snowy or drunk, could come and find com­fort. Cook al­ways kept a kettle of stew sim­mer­ing over the fire, and bread and cheese waited on the table, as well as a slab of yel­low sum­mer but­ter from the deep lar­der. Burrich served us up bowls of hot stew thick with bar­ley and mugs of cold ale to go with the bread and but­ter and cheese.

  For a mo­ment I just looked at it, too weary to lift a spoon. But the smell temp­ted me to one mouth­ful and that was all it took. Mid­way through, I paused to shoulder out of my quilted smock and break off an­other slab of bread. I looked up from my second bowl of stew to find Burrich watch­ing me with amuse­ment. ‘Bet­ter?’ he asked.

  I stopped to think about it. ‘Yes.’ I was warm, fed, and though I was tired, it was a good wear­i­ness, one that might be cured by sleep. I lif­ted my hand and looked at it. I could still feel the tremors, but they were no longer ob­vi­ous to the eye. ‘Much bet­ter.’ I stood, and found my legs un­steady un­der me.

  ‘Now you’re fit to re­port to the King.’

  I stared at him in dis­be­lief. ‘Now? To­night? King Shrewd’s long abed. I won’t get past his door guard.’

  ‘Per­haps not, and you should be grate­ful for that. But you must at least an­nounce your­self there to­night. It’s the King’s de­cision as to when he will see you. If you’re turned away, then you can go to bed. But I’ll wager that if King Shrewd turns you aside, King-in-Wait­ing Ver­ity will still want a re­port. And prob­ably right away.’

  ‘Are you go­ing back to the stables?’

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled in wolfish self-sat­is­fac­tion. ‘Me, I’m just the Sta­ble­mas­ter, Fitz. I have noth­ing to re­port. And I prom­ised Hands I’d bring him some­thing to eat.’

  I watched si­lently as he loaded a plat­ter. He sliced the bread length­wise and covered two bowls of the hot stew with a slab of it, and then loaded a wedge of cheese and a thick slice of yel­low but­ter onto the side.

  ‘What do you think of Hands?’

  ‘He’s a good lad,’ Burrich said grudgingly.

  ‘He’s more than that. You chose him to stay in the Moun­tain King­dom and ride home with us, when you sent all the oth­ers back with the main cara­van.’

  ‘I needed someone steady. At that time, you were … very ill. And I wasn’t much bet­ter, truth to tell.’ He lif­ted a hand to a streak of white in his dark hair, testi­mony to the blow that had nearly killed him.

  ‘How did you come to choose him?’

  ‘I didn’t really. He came to me. Some­how he found where they’d housed us, and then talked his way past Jon­qui. I was still band­aged up and scarce able to make my eyes fo­cus. I felt him stand­ing there more than saw him. I asked him what he wanted, and he told me that I needed to put someone in charge, be­cause with me sick and Cob gone, the stable help were get­ting sloppy.’

  ‘And that im­pressed you.’

  ‘He got to the point. No idle ques­tions about me, or you, or what was go­ing on. He had found the thing he could do and come to do it. I like that in a man. Know­ing what he can do, and do­ing it. So I put him in charge. He man­aged it well. I kept him when I sent the oth­ers home be­cause I knew I might need a man who could do that. And also to see for my­self what he was. Was he all am­bi­tion, or was there a genu­ine un­der­stand­ing of what a man owes a beast when he claims to own him? Did he want power over those un­der him, or the well-be­ing of his an­im­als?’

  ‘What do you think of him now?’

  ‘I am not so young as I once was. I think there still may be a good Sta­ble­mas­ter in Buck­keep Stables when I can no longer man­age an ill-tempered stal­lion. Not that I ex­pect to step down soon. There is still much he needs to be taught. But we are both still young enough, him to learn and me to teach. There is a sat­is­fac­tion in that.’

  I nod­ded. Once, I sup­posed, he had planned that spot for me. Now we both knew it would never be.

  He turned to go. ‘Burrich,’ I said quietly. He paused. ‘No one can re­place you. Thank you. For all you’ve done these last few months. I owe you my life. Not just that you saved me from death. But you gave me my life, and who I am. Ever since I was six. Chiv­alry was my father, I know. But I never met him. You’ve fathered me day in and day out, over a lot of years. I didn’t al­ways ap­pre­ci­ate …’

  Burrich snorted and opened the door. ‘Save speeches like that for when one of us is dy­ing. Go re­port, and then go to bed.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I heard my­self say, and knew that he smiled even as I did. He shouldered the door open and bore Hands’ din­ner out to the stables for him. He was home there.

  And this, here, was my home. Time I dealt with that. I took a mo­ment to straighten my damp cloth­ing and run a hand through my hair. I cleared our dishes from the table and then fol­ded my wet smock over my arm.

  As I made my way from the kit­chen to the hall, and then to the Great Hall, I was mys­ti­fied by what I saw. Did the tapestries glow more brightly than they once had? Had the strew­ing herbs al­ways smelled so sweet, the carved wood­work by each door­way al­ways gleamed so warmly? Briefly I put it down to my re­lief at fi­nally be­ing home. But when I paused at the foot of the great stair to take up a candle to light my way up to my cham­ber, I no­ticed that the table there was not be­spattered with wax, and more, that an em­broidered cloth graced it.

  Kettricken.

  There was a queen at Buck­keep now. I found my­self smil­ing fool­ishly. So. This great fort­r
ess castle had had a go­ing-over in my ab­sence. Had Ver­ity be­stirred him­self and his folk be­fore her ar­rival, or had Kettricken her­self de­man­ded this vast scrub­bing out? It would be in­ter­est­ing to find out.

  As I climbed the great stair­case, I no­ticed other things. The an­cient soot marks above each sconce were gone. Not even the corners of the steps held dust. There were no cob­webs. The can­de­labra at each land­ing were full and bright with candles. And a rack at each land­ing held blades, ready for de­fence. So this was what it meant to have a queen in res­id­ence. But even when Shrewd’s Queen had been alive, I didn’t re­call that Buck­keep had looked or smelled so clean or been so brightly lit.

  The guard at King Shrewd’s door was a dour-faced vet­eran I had known since I was six. A si­lent man, he peered at me closely, then re­cog­nized me. He al­lowed me a brief smile as he asked, ‘Any­thing crit­ical to re­port, Fitz?’

  ‘Only that I’m back,’ I said, and he nod­ded sagely. He was used to my com­ing and go­ing here, of­ten at some very odd hours, but he was not a man to make as­sump­tions or draw con­clu­sions, or even speak to those who might. So he stepped quietly in­side the King’s cham­ber, to pass the word to someone that Fitz was here. In a mo­ment the word came back that the King would sum­mon me at his con­veni­ence, but also that he was glad I was safe. I stepped quietly away from his door, mak­ing more of his mes­sage than if those words had come from any other man. Shrewd never mouthed po­lite noth­ings.

  Fur­ther down the same cor­ridor were Ver­ity’s cham­bers. Here again I was re­cog­nized, but when I re­ques­ted the man let Ver­ity know I was back and wished to re­port, he replied only that Prince Ver­ity was not within his cham­ber.

  ‘In his tower, then?’ I asked, won­der­ing what he would be watch­ing for at this time of year. Winter storms kept our coast safe from raid­ers for at least these few months of the year.

  A slow smile stole over the guard’s face. When he saw my puzzled glance, it be­came a grin. ‘Prince Ver­ity is not in his cham­bers just now,’ he re­peated. And then ad­ded, ‘I shall see that he gets your mes­sage as soon as he awakes in the morn­ing.’

  For a mo­ment longer, I stood, stu­pid as a post. Then I turned and walked quietly away. I felt a sort of won­der. This, too, was what it meant for there to be a queen in Buck­keep.

  I climbed an­other two flights of stairs, and went down the hall to my own cham­ber. It smelled stale, and there was no fire in the hearth. It was cold with dis­use, and dusty. No touch of a wo­man’s hand here. It seemed as bare and col­our­less as a cell. But it was still warmer than a tent in the snow, and the feather bed was as soft and deep as I re­membered it. I shed my travel-stained gar­ments as I walked to­ward it. I fell into it and sleep.

  THREE

  Re­new­ing Ties

  The old­est ref­er­ence to the myth­ical Eld­er­lings in the Buck­keep lib­rary is a battered scroll. Vague dis­col­or­a­tion upon the vel­lum sug­gests that it came from a parti-col­oured beast, one mottled in a way un­fa­mil­iar to any of our hunters. The let­ter­ing ink is one de­rived from squid ink and bell root. It has stood the test of time well, much bet­ter than the col­oured inks that ori­gin­ally sup­plied il­lus­tra­tions and il­lu­min­a­tions for the text. These have not only faded and bled, but in many places have drawn the at­ten­tions of some mite that has gnawed and stiffened the once supple parch­ment, mak­ing parts of the scroll too brittle to un­roll.

  Un­for­tu­nately, the dam­age is con­cen­trated at the in­ner­most parts of the scroll, which deal with por­tions of King Wis­dom’s quest that were not re­cor­ded else­where. From these frag­men­ted re­mains, one can glean that sore need drove him to seek the home­land of the Eld­er­lings. His troubles are fa­mil­iar ones; ships raided his coast­line mer­ci­lessly. Tat­ters hint that he rode off to­ward the Moun­tain King­dom; but un­for­tu­nately the fi­nal stages of his jour­ney and his en­counter with the Eld­er­lings seem to have been richly il­lus­trated, for here the parch­ment is re­duced to a lacy web of tan­tal­iz­ing word bits and body parts. We do not know any­thing of this first en­counter. Nor have we even an ink­ling as to how he in­duced the Eld­er­lings to be­come his al­lies. Many songs, rich in meta­phor, tell how the Eld­er­lings des­cen­ded, like ‘storms’, like ‘tidal waves’, like ‘ven­geance gone gold’, and ‘wrath em­bod­ied in flesh of stone’ to drive the Raid­ers away from our shores. Le­gend also tells us that they swore to Wis­dom that if ever the Six Duch­ies had need of their aid, they would rise again to our de­fence. One may con­jec­ture; many have, and the vari­ety of le­gends that sur­round this al­li­ance are proof of that. But King Wis­dom’s scribe’s re­count­ing of the event has been lost to mil­dew and worms for ever.

  My cham­ber had a single tall win­dow that looked out over the sea. In winter a wooden shut­ter closed out the storm winds, and a tapestry hung over that gave my room an il­lu­sion of cosy warmth. So I awakened to dark­ness, and for a time lay quietly find­ing my­self. Gradu­ally the subtle sounds of the keep filtered in to me. Morn­ing sounds. Very early morn­ing sounds. Home, I real­ized. Buck­keep. And in the next in­stant, ‘Molly,’ I said aloud to the dark­ness. My body was weary and aching still. But not ex­hausted. I clambered from my bed into the chill of my room.

  I stumbled to my long dis­used hearth and kindled a small fire. I needed to bring up more fire­wood soon. The dan­cing flames lent the room a fickle yel­low light. I took cloth­ing from the chest at the foot of my bed, only to find the gar­ments oddly ill-fit­ting. My long ill­ness had wasted the muscle from my frame, but I had still some­how man­aged to grow longer in the legs and arms. Noth­ing fit­ted. I picked up my shirt from the day be­fore, but a night in clean bed­ding had re­freshed my nose. I could no longer abide the smell of the travel-stained gar­ment. I dug in my clothes chest again. I found one soft brown shirt that had once been too long in the sleeve for me, and now just fit­ted. I put it on with my green quilted moun­tain trousers and buskins. I had no doubt that as soon as I en­countered the Lady Pa­tience or Mis­tress Hasty, I would be at­tacked and the situ­ation remedied. But not, I hoped, be­fore break­fast and a trip into Buck­keep Town. There were sev­eral places there where I might get word of Molly.

  I found the castle stir­ring but not yet fully awake. I ate in the kit­chen as I had when a child, find­ing that there, as al­ways, the bread was freshest and the por­ridge sweetest. Cook ex­claimed to see me, one minute com­ment­ing on how much I had grown, and the next lament­ing how thin and worn I looked. I sur­mised that be­fore the day was out I would be heart­ily sick of these ob­ser­va­tions. As traffic in the kit­chen in­creased, I fled, car­ry­ing off a thick slice of bread well buttered and laden with rose­hip pre­serves. I headed back to­wards my room to get a winter cloak.

  In every cham­ber I passed through, I found more and more evid­ence of Kettricken’s pres­ence. A sort of tapestry, woven of dif­fer­ent col­oured grasses and rep­res­ent­ing a moun­tain scene, now graced the wall of the Lesser Hall. There were no flowers to be had this time of year, but in odd places I en­countered fat pot­tery bowls full of pebbles, and these held bare but grace­ful branches, or dried thistles and cat tails. The changes were small but un­mis­tak­able.

  I found my­self in one of the older sec­tions of Buck­keep, and then climb­ing the dusty steps to Ver­ity’s watch-tower. It com­manded a wide view of our sea-coast, and from its tall win­dows Ver­ity kept his sum­mer vi­gil for raid­ing ships. From here he worked the Skill ma­gic that kept the raid­ers at bay, or at least gave us some warn­ing of their com­ing. It was a thin de­fence at times. He should have had a co­terie of un­der­lings trained in the Skill to as­sist him. But I my­self, des­pite my bas­tard blood, had never been able to con­trol my ran­dom Skill abil­it­ies. Ga­len our Skill­mas­ter had died be­fore he had trained more than a hand­
ful in the Skill. There was no one to re­place him, and those he had trained lacked a true com­mu­nion with Ver­ity. So Ver­ity Skilled alone against our en­emies. It had aged him be­fore his time. I wor­ried that he would over­spend him­self upon it, and suc­cumb to the ad­dict­ing weak­ness of those who Skilled too much.

  By the time I reached the top of the spiralling tower steps, I was win­ded and my legs ached. I pushed at the door and it gave eas­ily on oiled hinges. From long habit, I stepped quietly as I entered the room. I had not really ex­pec­ted to find Ver­ity or any­one else there. The sea storms were our watch­men in winter, guard­ing our coasts from raid­ers. I blinked in the sud­den grey light of morn­ing that was flood­ing in from the un­shuttered tower win­dows. Ver­ity was a dark sil­hou­ette against a dark storm sky. He did not turn. ‘Shut the door,’ he said quietly. ‘The draught up the stairs makes this room as windy as a chim­ney.’

  I did so, and then stood shiv­er­ing in the chill. The wind brought the scent of the sea with it, and I breathed it in as if it were life it­self. ‘I had not ex­pec­ted to find you here,’ I said.

  He kept his eyes on the wa­ter. ‘Didn’t you? Then why did you come?’ There was amuse­ment in his voice.

  It jol­ted me. ‘I don’t really know. I headed back to my room …’ My voice dwindled away as I tried to re­call why I had come here.

  ‘I Skilled you,’ he said simply.

  I stood si­lent and thought. ‘I felt noth­ing.’

  ‘I didn’t in­tend that you should. It is as I told you a long time ago. The Skill can be a soft whis­per in a man’s ear. It doesn’t have to be a shout of com­mand.’