Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  But I noted as well the masked sav­agery in his eyes at those times. He did not con­cede mas­tery to me. Only a sort of pack seni­or­ity. He bided his time un­til his de­cisions should be his own. Pain­ful as it was some­times, it was as it needed to be. I had res­cued him with the firm in­tent of re­turn­ing him to free­dom. A year from now, he would be but one more wolf howl­ing in the dis­tance at night. I told him this re­peatedly. At first, he would de­mand to know when he would be taken from the smelly keep and the con­fin­ing stone walls that fenced it. I would prom­ise him soon, as soon as he was fed to strength again, as soon as the deep­est snows of winter were past and he could fend for him­self. But as weeks passed, and the storms out­side re­minded him of the snug­ness of his bed and the good meat filled out on his bones, he asked less of­ten. Some­times I for­got to re­mind him.

  Loneli­ness ate at me from in­side and out. At night I would won­der what would hap­pen if I crept up­stairs and knocked at Molly’s door. By day I held my­self back from bond­ing to the small cub who de­pended so com­pletely on me. There was only one other creature in the keep who was as lonely as I was.

  ‘I am sure you have other du­ties. Why do you come to call on me each day?’ Kettricken asked me in the forth­right Moun­tain way. It was mid-morn­ing, on a day fol­low­ing a night of storm. Snow was fall­ing in fat flakes and des­pite the chill, Kettricken had ordered the win­dow shut­ters opened so she might watch it. Her sew­ing cham­ber over­looked the sea, and I thought she was fas­cin­ated by the im­mense and rest­less wa­ters. Her eyes were much the same col­our as the wa­ter that day.

  ‘I had thought to help time pass more pleas­antly for you, my Queen-in-Wait­ing.’

  ‘Passing time,’ she sighed. She cupped her chin in her hand and leaned on her el­bow to stare pens­ively out at the fall­ing snow. The sea wind tangled in her pale hair. ‘It is an odd lan­guage, yours. You speak of passing time as in the moun­tains we speak of passing wind. As if it were a thing to be rid of.’

  Be­hind us, her two ladies tittered ap­pre­hens­ively, then bent their heads in­dus­tri­ously over their nee­dle­work again. Kettricken her­self had a large em­broid­ery frame set up, with the be­gin­ning of moun­tains and a wa­ter­fall in it. I had not no­ticed her mak­ing much pro­gress on it. Her other ladies had not presen­ted them­selves today, but had sent pages with ex­cuses as to why they could not at­tend her. Head­aches, mostly. She did not seem to un­der­stand that she was be­ing slighted by their in­at­ten­tion. I did not know how to ex­plain it to her, and on some days I wondered if I should. Today was one of those days.

  I shif­ted in my chair and crossed my legs the other way. ‘I meant only that in winter, Buck­keep can be­come a te­di­ous place. The weather keeps us within doors so much, there is little that is amus­ing.’

  ‘That is not the case down at the ship­wrights’ sheds,’ she in­formed me. Her eyes had a strangely hungry look. ‘There it is all bustle, with every bit of day­light used in the set­ting of the great tim­bers and the bend­ing of the planks. Even when the day is dim or wild with storm, within the sheds ship­build­ers are still hew­ing and shap­ing and plan­ing wood. At the metal forges, they make chains and an­chors. Some weave stout can­vas for sails, and oth­ers cut and sew it. Ver­ity walks about there, over­see­ing it all. While I sit here with fancy­work, and prick my fin­gers and strain my eyes to knot in flowers and birds’ eyes. So that when I am fin­ished, it can be set aside with a dozen other pretty­works.’

  ‘Oh, not set aside, no, never, my lady,’ one of her wo­men burst in im­puls­ively. ‘Why, your nee­dle­work is much treas­ured when you gift it out. In Shoaks there is a framed bit in Lord Shem­shy’s private cham­bers, and Duke Kelvar of Rip­pon …’

  Kettricken’s sigh cut short the wo­man’s com­pli­ment. ‘I would I worked at a sail in­stead, with a great iron needle or a wooden fid, to grace one of my hus­band’s ships. There would be a work that was worthy of my time, and his re­spect. In­stead, I am given toys to amuse me, as if I were a spoiled child that did not un­der­stand the value of time well spent.’ She turned back to her win­dow. I no­ticed then that the smoke rising from the shipyards was as eas­ily vis­ible as the sea. Per­haps I had mis­taken the dir­ec­tion of her at­ten­tion.

  ‘Shall I send for tea and cakes, my lady?’ one of her ladies in­quired hope­fully. Both of them sat with their shawls pulled up over their shoulders. Kettricken did not ap­pear to no­tice the chill sea air spill­ing in the open win­dow, but it could not have been pleas­ant for those two to sit and ply their needles in it.

  ‘If you wish them,’ Kettricken replied dis­in­ter­estedly. ‘I do not hun­ger or thirst. In­deed, I fear I will grow fat as a penned goose, sit­ting at nee­dle­work and nib­bling and sip­ping all day. I long to do some­thing of sig­ni­fic­ance. Tell me true, Fitz. If you did not feel re­quired to call upon me, would you be sit­ting idly in your cham­bers? Or do­ing fancy work at a loom?’

  ‘No. But then, I am not the Queen-in-Wait­ing.’

  ‘Wait­ing. Ah, I un­der­stand well now that part of my title.’ A bit­ter­ness I had never heard from her be­fore crept into her voice. ‘But Queen? In my land, as well you know, we do not say Queen. Were I there now, and rul­ing in­stead of my father, I would be called Sac­ri­fice. More, I would be Sac­ri­fice. To whatever was to the good of my land and my people.’

  ‘Were you there now, in the deep of winter, what would you be do­ing?’ I asked, think­ing only to find a more com­fort­able area of con­ver­sa­tion. It was a mis­take.

  She grew si­lent and stared out the win­dow. ‘In the moun­tains,’ she said softly, ‘there was never time to be idle. I was the younger of course, and most of the du­ties of Sac­ri­fice fell upon my father and my older brother. But, as Jon­qui says, there is al­ways enough work to go round and some to spare. Here, in Buck­keep, all is done by ser­vants, out of sight, and one sees only the res­ults, the ti­died cham­ber, the meal on the table. Per­haps it is be­cause this is such a pop­u­lous place.’

  She paused a mo­ment and her eyes went afar. ‘In Jhaampe, in winter, the hall and the town it­self grow quiet. Snows fall thick and heavy, and great cold closes in on the land. The lesser used trails dis­ap­pear for the winter. Wheels are re­placed by run­ners. Vis­it­ors to the city have long gone home by now. In the palace at Jhaampe, there is only the fam­ily, and those who choose to stay and help them. Not serve them, no, not ex­actly. You have been to Jhaampe. You know there are none who only serve, save for the royal fam­ily. In Jhaampe, I would rise early, to fetch the wa­ter for the house­hold por­ridge, and to take my turn at the stir­ring of the kettle. Keera and Sen­nick and Jofron and I would make the kit­chen lively with talk. And all the young ones dash­ing about, bring­ing in the fire­wood and set­ting out the plates and talk­ing of a thou­sand things.’ Her voice faltered, and I listened to the si­lence of her loneli­ness.

  After a bit she went on, ‘If there was work to be done, heavy or light, we all joined in it. I have helped to bend and lash the branches for a barn. Even in the deep of winter, I have helped to clear snow and raise new roof arches for a fam­ily dev­ast­ated by a fire. Do you think a Sac­ri­fice can­not hunt down a cranky old bear that has turned to killing goats, or strain against a rope to help brace a bridge battered by flood wa­ters?’ She looked at me with real pain in her eyes.

  ‘Here, in Buck­keep, we do not risk our queens,’ I told her simply. ‘An­other shoulder can brace a rope, we have dozens of hunters who would vie for the hon­our of dis­patch­ing a cattle killer. We have but one queen. There are things a queen can do that no other can.’

  Be­hind us in the room, her ladies had all but for­got­ten her. One had summoned a page, and he had re­turned with sweet cakes and steam­ing tea in a pot. They chat­ted to­gether, warm­ing their hands about their tea-cups. Briefly I looked at them, to re­mem­ber
well what ladies had chosen to at­tend their queen. Kettricken, I was com­ing to see, might not be the easi­est of queens to at­tend upon. Kettricken’s little maid, Rose­mary, sat on the floor by the tea-table, dreamy-eyed, a sweet cake clasped in her small hands. I sud­denly wished I were eight years old again and could join her there.

  ‘I know what you speak of,’ Kettricken said bluntly. ‘I am here to bear an heir to Ver­ity. It is a duty I do not avoid, for I do not con­sider it a duty, but a pleas­ure. I only wish I were sure my lord shared my sen­ti­ments. Al­ways he is away and about the town on busi­ness. I know where he is today; down there, watch­ing his ships arise from planks and tim­bers. Could I not be with him with no danger to my­self? Surely, if only I can bear his heir, only he can sire it. Why must I be con­fined here while he im­merses him­self in the task of pro­tect­ing our people? That is a task I should be shar­ing as Sac­ri­fice for the Six Duch­ies.’

  Ac­cus­tomed as I had be­come to Moun­tain forth­right­ness in my time there, I was still shocked at how bluntly she spoke. It made me over­bold in my reply. I found my­self rising to lean past her and pull the shut­ters tight over the draughty win­dow. I took ad­vant­age of the close­ness to whis­per fiercely, ‘If you think that is the only duty that our queens bear, you are gravely mis­taken, my lady. To speak as plainly as you have, you neg­lect your du­ties to your ladies, who are here this day only to at­tend upon you and con­verse with you. Think. Could they not be do­ing this same nee­dle­work in the co­si­ness of their own cham­bers, or in the com­pany of Mis­tress Hasty? You sigh after what you per­ceive as a more im­port­ant task; but be­fore you is a task the King him­self can­not do. You are here to do it. Re­build the court at Buck­keep. Make it a de­sir­able and at­tract­ive place to be. En­cour­age his lords and ladies to vie for his at­ten­tion; make them eager to sup­port him in his en­deav­ours. It has been long since there was a con­genial queen in this castle. In­stead of look­ing down at a ship that other hands are more cap­able of build­ing, take up the task you are given, and suit your­self to it.’

  I fin­ished re-drap­ing the tapestry that covered the shut­ters and helped to seal out the cold of the sea storms. I then stepped back and met my queen’s eyes. To my chag­rin, she was as chastened as if she were a milk­maid. Tears stood in her pale eyes, and her cheeks were as red as if I had slapped her. I glanced at her ladies, who were still tak­ing tea and chat­ting. Rose­mary, un­watched, was tak­ing the op­por­tun­ity to poke at the tarts care­fully to see what was in­side them. No one ap­peared to have no­ticed any­thing amiss. But I was learn­ing rap­idly how ad­ept court ladies were at such dis­sim­u­la­tion, and feared spec­u­la­tion as to what the Bas­tard might have said to the Queen-in-Wait­ing to bring tears to her eyes.

  I cursed my clum­si­ness, and re­minded my­self that how­ever tall Kettricken might be, she was not much older than my­self, and in a for­eign place alone. I should not have spoken to her, but should in­stead have presen­ted the prob­lem to Chade, and let him ma­nip­u­late someone into ex­plain­ing it to her. Then it dawned on me that he had already se­lec­ted someone to ex­plain such things to her. I met her eyes again and ven­tured a nervous smile. Quickly she fol­lowed my glance to the ladies, and as swiftly re­turned de­corum to her face. My heart surged with pride in her.

  ‘What do you sug­gest?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I sug­gest,’ I said humbly, ‘that I am ashamed at how boldly I have spoken to my queen. I ask her for­give­ness. But I sug­gest, also, that she show these two royal ladies some spe­cial mark of royal fa­vour, to re­ward them for their faith­ful­ness.’

  She nod­ded her com­pre­hen­sion. ‘And that fa­vour might be?’ she asked softly.

  ‘A private gath­er­ing with their queen in her per­sonal cham­bers, per­haps for a spe­cial min­strel or pup­pet­eer. It mat­ters not what en­ter­tain­ment you provide; only that those who have not chosen to at­tend you as faith­fully be ex­cluded.’

  ‘That sounds like some­thing Regal would do.’

  ‘Prob­ably. He is very ad­ept at cre­at­ing lack­eys and hangers-on. But he would do it spite­fully, to pun­ish those who had not danced at­tend­ance upon him.’

  ‘And I?’

  ‘And you, my Queen-in-Wait­ing, you do it as a re­ward to those who have. With no thought of pun­ish­ing those who have not, but only of en­joy­ing the com­pany of those who ob­vi­ously re­cip­roc­ate that feel­ing.’

  ‘I see. And the min­strel?’

  ‘Mel­low. He has a most gal­lant way of singing to every lady in the room.’

  ‘Will you see if he is free this even­ing?’

  ‘My lady,’ I had to smile. ‘You are the Queen-in-Wait­ing. You hon­our him to re­quest his pres­ence. He will never be too busy to at­tend upon you.’

  She sighed again, but it was a smal­ler sigh. She nod­ded her dis­missal of me, and rose to ad­vance smil­ing upon her ladies, beg­ging them to ex­cuse her wan­der­ing thoughts this morn­ing, and then ask­ing if they might also at­tend her this even­ing in her own cham­bers. I watched them ex­change glances and smile, and knew we had done well. I noted their names to my­self. Lady Hope­ful and Lady Mod­esty. I bowed my way out of the room, my de­par­ture scarcely no­ticed.

  So I came to be ad­visor to Kettricken. It was not a role I rel­ished, to be com­pan­ion and in­structor, to be the whisperer that told her what steps she next must dance. In truth, it was an un­com­fort­able task. I felt I di­min­ished her by my chid­ing, and that I cor­rup­ted her, teach­ing her the spidery ways of power in the web of the court. She was right. These were Regal’s tricks. If she worked them with higher ideals and kinder ways than Regal did, my in­ten­tions were selfish enough for both of us. I wanted her to gather power into her hands, and with it bind the throne firmly to Ver­ity in the minds of one and all.

  Early each even­ing, I was ex­pec­ted to call on Lady Pa­tience. She and Lacey both took these vis­its quite ser­i­ously. Pa­tience con­sidered me com­pletely at her dis­posal, as if I were her page still, and thought noth­ing of re­quir­ing me to copy some an­cient scroll for her onto her pre­cious red pa­per, or to de­mand that I show her my im­prove­ment in play­ing the sea pipes. She al­ways took me to task for not show­ing enough ef­fort in that area, and would spend the bet­ter part of an hour con­fus­ing me whilst at­tempt­ing to in­struct me in it. I tried to be tract­able and po­lite, but felt en­trapped in their con­spir­acy to keep me from see­ing Molly. I knew the wis­dom of Pa­tience’s course, but wis­dom does not al­lay loneli­ness. Des­pite their ef­forts to keep me from her, I saw Molly every­where. Oh, not her per­son, no, but in the scent of the fat bay­berry candle burn­ing so sweetly, in the cloak left draped over a chair, even the honey in the honey cakes tasted of Molly to me. Will you think me a fool that I sat close by the candle and smelled its scent, or took the chair that I might lean against her snow-damped cloak as I sat? Some­times I felt as Kettricken did, that I was drown­ing in what was re­quired of me, and that there was noth­ing left in my life that was for me alone.

  I re­por­ted weekly to Chade upon Kettricken’s pro­gress in court in­trigue. Chade it was who warned me that sud­denly the ladies most en­am­oured of Regal were court­ing fa­vour with Kettricken as well. And so I must warn her, who to treat cour­teously, but no more than that, and whom to genu­inely smile upon. Some­times I thought to my­self that I would rather be quietly killing for my king than to be so em­broiled in all these se­cret­ive schemes. But then King Shrewd summoned me.

  The mes­sage came very early one morn­ing, and I made haste to dress my­self to at­tend my king. This was the first time he had summoned me to his pres­ence since I had re­turned to Buck­keep. It had made me un­easy to be ig­nored. Was he dis­pleased with me, over what had happened at Jhaampe? Surely he would have told me so dir­ectly. Still. Un­cer­tainty gnawed me. I
tried to make great haste to wait upon him, and yet to take spe­cial care with my ap­pear­ance. I ended up do­ing poorly at both. My hair, shorn for fever when I was in the moun­tains, had grown back as bushy and un­man­age­able as Ver­ity’s. Worse, my beard was be­gin­ning to bristle as well. Twice Burrich had told me that I had bet­ter de­cide to wear a beard, or to at­tend more closely to my shav­ing. As my beard came in as patchy as a pony’s winter coat, I di­li­gently cut my face sev­eral times that morn­ing, be­fore de­cid­ing that a bit of bristle would be less no­tice­able than all the blood. I cur­ried my hair back from my face, and wished I could bind it back in a war­rior’s tail. I set into my shirt the pin that Shrewd had so long ago given me to mark me as his. Then I hur­ried to at­tend my king.

  As I strode hast­ily down the hall to the King’s door, Regal stepped ab­ruptly from his own door­way. I hal­ted not to run into him, and then felt trapped there, star­ing at him. I had seen him sev­eral times since I had re­turned, but it had al­ways been across a hall, or a passing glimpse of him while I was en­gaged in some task. Now we stood, scarce an arm’s length apart, and stared at one an­other. Al­most, we could have been mis­taken for broth­ers, I real­ized with shock. His hair was cur­lier, his fea­tures finer, his bear­ing more ar­is­to­cratic. His gar­ments were pea­cock’s feath­ers com­pared to my wren col­ours, and I lacked sil­ver at my throat and on my hands. Still, the stamp of the Farseers was plain on us both: we shared Shrewd’s jaw and the fold of his eye­lids and the curve of his lower lip. Neither of us would ever com­pare to Ver­ity’s widely-muscled build, but I would come closer than he would. Less than a dec­ade of years sep­ar­ated our ages. Only his skin sep­ar­ated me from his blood. I met his eyes and wished I could spill his guts upon the clean swept floor.