Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘Per­haps it was the Fool’s do­ing. I awoke to food and tea in my room …’

  ‘And if it had been Regal’s do­ing?’

  It took a mo­ment for the real­iz­a­tion to dawn. ‘I could have been poisoned.’

  ‘But you weren’t. Not this time. No, it was neither I nor the Fool. It was Lacey. There is someone deeper than you credit. The Fool dis­covered you, and some­thing pos­sessed him to tell Pa­tience. While she was flus­ter­ing, Lacey quietly ordered it all done. I think that privately she con­siders you as scat­ter-brained as her mis­tress. Give her the slight­est open­ing, and she will move in and or­gan­ize your life. Good as her in­ten­tions are, you can­not al­low that, Fitz. An as­sas­sin needs pri­vacy. Get a latch for your door.’

  ‘Fitz?’ I wondered aloud.

  ‘It is your name. FitzChiv­alry. As it seems to have lost its sting with you, I will use it now. I was be­gin­ning to weary of “boy”.’

  I bowed my head. We went on to talk of other things. It was an hour or so un­til morn­ing when I left his win­dow­less cham­bers and re­turned to my own. I went back to bed, but sleep eluded me. I had al­ways stifled the hid­den an­ger I felt at my po­s­i­tion at court. Now it smouldered within me so that I could not rest. I threw off my blankets and dressed in my out­grown clothes, left the keep, and walked down into Buck­keep Town.

  The brisk wind off the wa­ter blew damp cold like a wet slap in the face. I pulled my cloak more tightly around my­self and tugged up my hood. I walked briskly, avoid­ing icy spots on the steep road­way down to town. I tried not to think, but I found that the brisk pump­ing of my blood was warm­ing my an­ger more than my flesh. My thoughts danced like a reined-in horse.

  When I had first come to Buck­keep Town, it had been a busy, grubby little place. In the last dec­ade it had grown and ad­op­ted a ven­eer of soph­ist­ic­a­tion, but its roots were only too plain. The town clung to the cliffs be­low Buck­keep Castle, and when those cliffs gave way to the rocky beaches, the ware­houses and sheds were built out on docks and pil­ings. The good deep an­chor­age that sheltered be­low Buck­keep at­trac­ted mer­chant ves­sels and traders. Fur­ther to the north, where the Buck River met the sea, there were gentler beaches and the wide river to carry trad­ing barges far in­land to the In­land Duch­ies. The land closest to the river mouth was sus­cept­ible to flood­ing, and the an­chor­age un­pre­dict­able as the river shif­ted in its course. So the folk of Buck­keep Town lived crowded to­gether on the steep cliffs above the har­bour like the birds on Egg Bluffs. It made for nar­row, badly cobbled streets that wound back and forth across the steep­ness as they made their way down to the wa­ter. The houses, shops and inns clung humbly to the cliff face, en­deav­our­ing to of­fer no res­ist­ance to the winds that were al­most con­stant there. Higher up the cliff, the more am­bi­tious homes and busi­nesses were of tim­ber, with their found­a­tions cut into the stone it­self. But I knew little of that stratum. I had run and played as a child among the hum­bler shops and sail­ors’ inns that fron­ted al­most on the wa­ter it­self.

  By the time I reached this area of Buck­keep Town, I was re­flect­ing iron­ic­ally that both Molly and I would have been bet­ter off had we never be­come friends. I had com­prom­ised her repu­ta­tion, and if I con­tin­ued my at­ten­tions, she would most likely be­come a tar­get for Regal’s malice. As for my­self, the an­guish I had felt at be­liev­ing she had blithely left me for an­other was but a scratch com­pared to the bleed­ing now at know­ing she thought I had de­ceived her.

  I came out of my bleak thoughts to real­ize that my trait­or­ous feet had car­ried me to the very door of her chand­lery. Now it was a tea and herb shop. Just what Buck­keep Town needed, an­other tea and herb shop. I wondered what had be­come of Molly’s bee hives. It gave me a pang to real­ize that for Molly the sense of dis­lo­ca­tion must be ten times, no, a hun­dred times worse. I had so eas­ily ac­cep­ted that Molly had lost her father, and with him her live­li­hood and her pro­spects. So eas­ily ac­cep­ted the change that made her a ser­vant in the keep. A ser­vant. I clenched my teeth and kept walk­ing.

  I wandered the town aim­lessly. Even in my bleak mood, I no­ticed how much it had changed in the last six months. Even on this cold winter day, it bustled. The con­struc­tion of the ships had brought more folk, and more folk meant more trade. I stopped in a tav­ern where Molly, Dirk, Kerry and I had used to share a bit of brandy now and then. The cheapest black­berry brandy was usu­ally what we got. I sat by my­self and drank my short beer in si­lence, but around me tongues wagged and I learned much. It was not just the ship con­struc­tion which had bolstered Buck­keep Town’s prosper­ity; Ver­ity had put out a call for sail­ors to man his war­ships. The call had been amply answered, by men and wo­men from all of the Coastal Duch­ies. Some came with a grudge to settle, to avenge those killed or Forged by the Raid­ers. Oth­ers came for the ad­ven­ture, and the hope of booty, or simply be­cause, in the rav­aged vil­lages, they had no other pro­spects. Some were from fisher or mer­chant fam­il­ies, with sea time and wa­ter skills. Other were the former shep­herds and farm­ers of rav­aged vil­lages. It mattered little. All had come to Buck­keep Town, eager to shed Red Ship blood.

  For now, many were housed in what had once been ware­houses. Hod, the Buck­keep Weapons-mas­ter, was giv­ing them weapons train­ing, win­now­ing out those she thought might be suit­able for Ver­ity’s ships. The oth­ers would be offered hire as sol­diers. These were the ex­tra fold that swelled the town and crowded the inns and tav­erns and eat­ing places. I heard com­plaints, too, that some of those who came to man the war­ships were im­mig­rant Outis­landers, dis­placed from their own land by the very Red Ships that now men­aced our coasts. They, too, claimed to be eager for re­venge, but few Six Duch­ies folk trus­ted them, and some busi­nesses in town would not sell to them. It gave an ugly charged un­der­cur­rent to the busy tav­ern. There was a snick­er­ing dis­cus­sion of an Outis­lander who had been beaten on the docks the day be­fore. No one had called the town patrol. When the spec­u­la­tion be­came even uglier, that these Outis­landers were all spies and that burn­ing them out would be a wise and sens­ible pre­cau­tion, I could no longer stom­ach it, and left the tav­ern. Was there nowhere I could go to be free of sus­pi­cions and in­trigues, if only for an hour?

  I walked alone through the wintry streets. A storm was blow­ing up. The mer­ci­less wind prowled the twist­ing streets, prom­ising snow. The same angry cold twis­ted and churned in­side me, switch­ing from an­ger to hatred to frus­tra­tion and back to an­ger again, build­ing to an un­bear­able pres­sure. They had no right to do this to me. I had not been born to be their tool. I had a right to live my life freely, to be who I was born to be. Did they think they could bend me to their will, use me how­ever they would, and I would never re­tali­ate? No. A time would come. My time would come.

  A man hur­ried to­ward me, face shrouded in his hood against the wind. He glanced up and our eyes met. He blanched and turned aside, to hurry back the way he had come. Well, and so he might. I felt my an­ger build­ing to an un­bear­able heat. The wind whipped at my hair and sought to chill me, but I only strode faster, and felt the strength of my hatred grow hot­ter. It lured me and I fol­lowed it like the scent of fresh blood.

  I turned a corner and found my­self in the mar­ket. Threatened by the com­ing storm, the poorer mer­chants were pack­ing up their goods from their blankets and mats. Those with stalls were fasten­ing their shut­ters. I strode past them. People scuttled out of my way. I brushed past them, not caring how they stared.

  I came to the an­imal vendor’s stall, and stood face to face with my­self. He was gaunt, with bleak dark eyes. He glared at me bale­fully, and the waves of hatred pulsing out from him washed over me in greet­ing. Our hearts beat to the same rhythm. I felt my up­per lip twitch, as if to snarl up and bare my pi­ti­ful hu­man t
eeth. I straightened my fea­tures, battened my emo­tion back un­der con­trol. But the caged wolf cub with the dirty grey coat stared up at me, and lif­ted his black lips to re­veal all his teeth. I hate you. All of you. Come, come closer. I’ll kill you. I’ll rip out your throat after I ham­string you. I’ll feast on your en­trails. I hate you.

  ‘You want some­thing?’

  ‘Blood,’ I said quietly. ‘I want your blood.’

  ‘What?’

  I jerked my eyes from the wolf up to the man. He was greasy and dirty. He stank, by El, how he reeked. I could smell sweat and ran­cid food and his own drop­pings on him. He was swaddled in poorly-cured hides, and the stench of them hung about him as well. He had little fer­ret eyes, cruel dirty hands and a oak stick bound in brass that hung at his belt. It was all I could do to keep from seiz­ing that hated stick and splat­ter­ing his brains out with it. He wore thick boots on his kick­ing feet. He stepped too close to me and I gripped my cloak to keep from killing him.

  ‘Wolf,’ I man­aged to get out. My voice soun­ded gut­tural, chok­ing. ‘I want the wolf.’

  ‘You cer­tain, boy? He’s a mean one.’ He nudged the cage with his foot and I sprang at it, clash­ing my teeth against the wooden bars, bruis­ing my muzzle again, but I didn’t care, if I could get just one grip on his flesh, I’d tear it loose or never let go.

  No. Get back, get out of my head. I shook my head to clear it. The mer­chant re­garded me strangely. ‘I know what I want.’ I spoke flatly, re­fus­ing the wolf’s emo­tions.

  ‘Do you, eh?’ The man stared at me, judging my worth. He’d charge what he thought I could af­ford. My out­grown clothes didn’t please him, nor my youth. But I sur­mised he’d had the wolf for a while. He’d hoped to sell him as a cub. Now, with the wolf need­ing more food and not get­ting it, the man would prob­ably take whatever he could get. As well for me. I didn’t have much. ‘What do you want him for?’ the man asked cas­u­ally.

  ‘Pits,’ I said non­chal­antly. ‘He’s scrawny but there might be a bit of sport left in him.’

  The wolf sud­denly flung him­self against the bars, jaws wide, teeth flash­ing. I’ll kill them, I’ll kill them all, rip their throats out, tear their bel­lies open …

  Be si­lent, if you want your free­dom. I men­tally gave him a push and the wolf leaped back as if stung by a bee. He re­treated to the far corner of his cage and cowered there, teeth bared, but tail down between his legs. Un­cer­tainty flooded him.

  ‘Dog fights, eh? Oh, he’ll put up a good fight.’ The mer­chant nudged at the cage again with a thick boot, but the wolf didn’t re­spond. ‘He’ll win you a lot of coin, this one will. He’s meaner than a wol­ver­ine.’ He kicked the cage, harder. The wolf cowered smal­ler.

  ‘Oh, he cer­tainly looks as if he will,’ I said dis­dain­fully. I turned aside from the wolf as if I’d lost in­terest. I stud­ied the caged birds be­hind him. The pi­geons and doves looked as if they were cared for, but two jays and a crow were crowded into a filthy cage littered with rot­ting scraps of meat and bird drop­pings. The crow looked like a beg­gar man in black tat­ters of feath­ers. Pick at the bright bug, I sug­ges­ted to the birds. Per­haps you’ll find a way out. The crow perched wear­ily where he was, head sunk deep in his feath­ers, but one jay fluttered to a higher perch and began to tap and tug at the metal pin that held the cage fastened. I glanced back at the wolf.

  ‘I hadn’t in­ten­ded to fight him any­way. I was only go­ing to throw him to the dogs to warm them up. A bit of blood primes them for a fight.’

  ‘Oh, but he’d make you a fine fighter. Here, look at this. This is what he done to me but a month gone. And me try­ing to give him food when he went for me.’

  He rolled back a sleeve to bare a grimy wrist striped with livid slashes, but half-healed still.

  I leaned over as if mildly in­ter­ested. ‘Looks in­fec­ted. Think you’ll lose your hand?’

  ‘S’not in­fec­ted. Just slow heal­ing, that’s all. Look here, boy, a storm’s com­ing up. I got to put my wares in my cart and haul off be­fore it hits. Now, you go­ing to make me an of­fer for that wolf? He’ll make you a fine fighter.’

  ‘He might make bear bait, but not much more than that. I’ll give you, oh, six cop­pers.’ I had a grand total of seven.

  ‘Cop­pers? Boy, we’re talk­ing sil­vers here, at least. Look, he’s a fine an­imal. Feed him up a bit, he’ll get big­ger and meaner. I could get six cop­pers for his hide alone, right now.’

  ‘Then you’d best do it, be­fore he gets any mangier. And be­fore he de­cides to take your other hand off.’ I leaned closer to the cage, push­ing as I did so, and the wolf cowered more deeply. ‘Looks sick to me. My mas­ter would be furi­ous with me, if I brought him in and the dogs got sick from killing him.’ I glanced up at the sky. ‘Storm is com­ing. I’d bet­ter be off.’

  ‘One sil­ver, boy. And that’s giv­ing him to you.’

  At that mo­ment the jay suc­ceeded in pulling the pin. The cage door swung open and he hopped to the door’s edge. I cas­u­ally stepped between the man and the cage. Be­hind me, I heard the jays hop out to the top of the pi­geons’ cage. Door’s open I poin­ted out to the crow. I heard him rattle his pathetic feath­ers. I caught up the pouch at my belt, hef­ted it thought­fully. ‘A sil­ver? I don’t have a sil­ver. But it’s no mat­ter, really. I just real­ized I’ve no way to cart him home with me. Best I don’t buy him.’

  Be­hind me, the jays took flight. The man blazed out a curse and lunged past me to­ward the cage. I man­aged to get en­tangled with him so that we both fell. The crow had made it as far as the cage door. I shook my­self clear of the mer­chant and jumped to my feet, jar­ring the cage to spook the bird out into the free air. He beat his wings la­bor­i­ously, but they car­ried him to the roof of a nearby inn. As the mer­chant lumbered to his feet, the crow opened his thread­bare wings and cawed de­ris­ively.

  ‘There’s a whole cage full of my wares gone!’ he began ac­cus­ingly, but I caught up my cloak and poin­ted to a tear in it. ‘My mas­ter’s go­ing to be angry with this!’ I ex­claimed, and matched him glare for glare.

  He glanced up at the crow. The bird had huffed its feath­ers against the storm and sidled into the shel­ter of a chim­ney. He’d never catch that bird again. Be­hind me, the wolf whined sud­denly.

  ‘Nine cop­pers!’ the mer­chant offered sud­denly, des­per­ately. He’d sold noth­ing that day, I’d wager.

  ‘I told you, I’ve no way to take him home!’ I countered. I tugged up my hood, glanced at the sky. ‘Storm’s here,’ I an­nounced as the thick wet flakes began to fall. This would be nasty weather, too warm to freeze, too cold to melt. By day­light, the streets would be shin­ing with ice. I turned to go.

  ‘Give me your six damned cop­pers then!’ the mer­chant bel­lowed in frus­tra­tion.

  I fumbled them out hes­it­at­ingly. ‘And will you cart him to where I live?’ I asked as he snatched them out of my hand.

  ‘Carry him your­self, boy. You’ve robbed me and you know it.’

  With that he seized up his cage of doves and pi­geons and heaved it into the cart. The empty crow’s cage fol­lowed. He ig­nored my angry re­mon­strance as he climbed up on the seat and shook the pony’s reins. The old beast dragged the creak­ing cart off, into the thick­en­ing snow and dusk. The mar­ket around us was aban­doned. The only traffic now was folk hur­ry­ing home through the storm, col­lars and cloaks tight against the wet wind and blow­ing snow.

  ‘Now what am I to do with you?’ I asked the wolf.

  Let me out. Free me.

  I can’t. Not safe. If I turned a wolf loose here in the heart of town, he’d never find his way to the woods alive. There were too many dogs that would pack up to bring him down, too many men who would shoot him for his hide. Or for be­ing a wolf. I bent to­ward the cage, in­tend­ing to heft it and see how heavy it was. He lunged at me, teeth bared.

 
Get back! I was in­stantly angry. It was con­ta­gious.

  I’ll kill you. You’re the same as he was, a man. You’d keep me in this cage, would you? I’ll kill you, I’ll rip your belly out and tussle with your guts.

  You’ll get BACK! I pushed at him, hard, and he cowered away again. He snarled and whined his con­fu­sion at what I had done, but he shrank away from me into the corner of his cage. I seized the cage, lif­ted it. It was heavy, and the frantic shift­ing of his weight didn’t make it any easier. But I could carry it. Not very far, and not for long. But if I took it in stages, I could get him out of the town. Full grown, he’d prob­ably weigh as much as I did. But he was skinny, and young. Younger than I had guessed at first glance.

  I heaved the cage up, held it against my chest. If he went for me now, he could do some dam­age. But he only whined and cowered back from me into the far corner. It made it very awk­ward to carry him.

  How did he catch you?

  I hate you.

  How did he catch you?

  He re­membered a den, and two broth­ers. A mother who brought him fish. And blood and smoke and his broth­ers and mother be­came smelly hides for the boot man. He was dragged out last and thrown into a cage that smelled like fer­rets, and kept alive on car­rion. And hate. Hate was what he had throve upon.

  You were whelped late, if your mother was feed­ing you on the fish runs.

  He sulked at me.

  All the roads were up­hill, and the snow was start­ing to stick. My worn boots slid on the icy cobbles, and my shoulders ached with the awk­ward bur­den of the cage. I feared I would start trem­bling. I had to stop fre­quently to rest. When I did, I firmly re­fused to think about what I was do­ing. I told my­self that I would not bond with this wolf, or any other creature. I had prom­ised my­self. I was just go­ing to feed this cub up and then turn him loose some­where. Burrich need never know. I would not have to face his dis­gust. I hef­ted the cage up again. Who would have thought such a mangy little cub could be so heavy?