Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  It was as if I had opened a floodgate. He turned to look at me; the lines in his face had been graven deeper over night. He looked hag­gard, sickened. ‘I do not, I dare not. How could I coun­ten­ance such a thing, this hunt­ing down of our own folk and kin! And yet what is my al­tern­at­ive? To hide and mope within the keep walls, while oth­ers go out to avenge this in­sult to my Queen-in-Wait­ing! I dare not for­bid my men to up­hold their hon­our. So I must be­have as if I am un­aware of what goes on in the court­yard. As if I am a sim­pleton, or a lag­gard, or a cow­ard. There will be a bal­lad writ­ten about this day, I doubt it not. What shall it be called? Ver­ity’s Mas­sacre of the Wit­less? Or Queen Kettricken’s Sac­ri­fice of the Forged ?’ His voice rose on every word, and be­fore he was half done, I had stepped to the door and shut it firmly. I looked about the room as he ran­ted, won­der­ing who else be­sides my­self was hear­ing these words.

  ‘Did you sleep at all, my prince? I asked when he had run down.

  He smiled with bleak amuse­ment. ‘Well you know what put an end to my first at­tempt at rest. My second was less … en­ga­ging. My lady came to my cham­ber.’

  I felt my ears be­gin to warm. Whatever he was about to tell me, I did not want to hear it. I had no wish to know what had passed between them last night. Quar­rel or amend­ment, I wanted to know noth­ing of it. Ver­ity was mer­ci­less.

  ‘Not weep­ing, as you might think she would. Not for com­fort. Not to be held against night fears, or re­as­sured of my re­gard. But sword-stiff as a re­buked ser­geant, to stand at the foot of the bed and beg my par­don for her trans­gres­sions. Whiter than chalk and hard as oak …’ His voice trailed off, as if real­iz­ing he be­trayed too much of him­self. ‘She foresaw this hunt­ing mob, not I. She came to me in the middle of the night, ask­ing what must we do? I had no an­swer for her, any more than I do now …’

  ‘At least she foresaw this,’ I ven­tured, hop­ing to bring some res­pite from his an­ger for Kettricken.

  ‘And I did not,’ he said heav­ily. ‘She did. Chiv­alry would have. Oh, Chiv­alry would have known it would hap­pen from the mo­ment she went miss­ing, and would have had all sorts of con­tin­gency plans. But I did not. I thought only to bring her swiftly home, and hope not too many heard of it. As if such a thing could be! And so today I think to my­self that if ever the crown does come to rest on my brow, it will be in a most un­worthy place.’

  This was a Prince Ver­ity I had never seen be­fore, a man with his con­fid­ence in tat­ters. I fi­nally saw how poor a match Kettricken was for him. It was not her fault. She was strong, and raised to rule. Ver­ity of­ten said him­self he had been raised as a second son. The right sort of wo­man would have stead­ied him like a sea an­chor, helped him rise to as­sume his king­ship. A wo­man who had come weep­ing to his bed, to be cuddled and re­as­sured, would have let him arise cer­tain he was a man and fit to be a king. Kettricken’s dis­cip­line and re­straint made him doubt his own strength. My prince was hu­man, I sud­denly per­ceived. It was not re­as­sur­ing.

  ‘You should at least come out and speak to them,’ I ven­tured.

  ‘And say what? “Good hunt­ing”? No. But you go, boy. Go and watch and bring me word of what is hap­pen­ing. Go now. And shut my door. I have no de­sire to see any­one else un­til you re­turn with word of what goes on.’

  I turned and did as he bid me. As I left the Great Hall and went down the pas­sage to the court­yard, I en­countered Regal. He was sel­dom up and about this early, and he looked as if his arising this morn­ing had been no choice of his. His cloth­ing and hair were well ar­ranged, but all the tiny primp­ing touches were miss­ing: no ear­ring, no care­fully-fol­ded and pinned silk at his throat, and the only jew­ellery was his signet ring. His hair was combed, but not scen­ted and curled. And his eyes were net­worked in red. Fury rode him. As I sought to pass him, he seized me and jerked me to face him. That, at least, was his in­ten­tion. I did not res­ist, but merely laxed my muscles. And found, to my de­light and amazement, that he could not move me. He turned to face me, eyes blaz­ing, and found out that he must look up, ever so slightly, to glare at me eye to eye. I had grown and put on weight. I had known that, but had never con­sidered this de­light­ful side-ef­fect. I stopped the grin be­fore it reached my mouth, but it must have showed in my eyes. He gave me a vi­ol­ent shove, and I al­lowed it to rock me. A bit.

  ‘Where’s Ver­ity?’ he snarled.

  ‘My prince?’ I quer­ied, as if not grasp­ing what he de­sired.

  ‘Where is my brother? That wretched wife of his …’ He broke off, strangling on his an­ger. ‘Where is my brother usu­ally at this time of day?’ he fi­nally man­aged.

  I did not lie. ‘Some days he goes early to his tower. Or he may be break­fast­ing, I sup­pose. Or in the baths …’ I offered.

  ‘Use­less bas­tard,’ Regal dis­missed me, and whirled, to hurry off in the dir­ec­tion of the tower. I hoped the climb would amuse him. As soon as he was out of sight, I broke into a run, not to waste the pre­cious time I had gained.

  The mo­ment I entered the court­yard, the reason for Regal’s fury was made clear. Kettricken stood upon a wagon seat, and every head was turned up to­ward her. She wore the same clothes she had the night be­fore. By day­light, I could see how a spray of blood had marked the sleeve of the white fur jacket, and how a heav­ier plume of it had soaked and stained her purple trousers. She was booted and hat­ted, ready to ride. A sword was buckled at her hip. Dis­may rose in me. How could she? I glanced about, won­der­ing what she had been say­ing. Every face was turned to her, eyes wide. I had emerged into a mo­ment of ut­ter si­lence. Every man and wo­man seemed to be hold­ing their breath, await­ing her next words. When they came, they were uttered in a speak­ing voice, calmly, but so si­lent was the crowd that her clear voice car­ried in the cold air.

  ‘This is not a hunt, I say,’ Kettricken re­peated gravely. ‘Put aside your mer­ri­ment and boasts. Re­move from your bod­ies every bit of jew­ellery, every sign of rank. Let your hearts be sol­emn and con­sider what we do.’

  Her words were ac­cen­ted still with the fla­vour of the moun­tains, but a cool part of my mind ob­served how care­fully chosen was each word, how bal­anced each phrase.

  ‘We do not go to hunt,’ she re­peated, ‘but to claim our cas­u­al­ties. We go to lay to rest those the Red Ships have stolen from us. The Red Ships have taken the hearts of the Forged ones, and left their bod­ies to stalk us. None the less, those we put down today are of the Six Duch­ies. Our own.

  ‘My sol­diers, I ask of you that no ar­row be loosed today, no blow struck save for a clean kill. I know you skilled enough to do this. We have all suffered enough. Let each death today be as brief and mer­ci­ful as we can man­age, for all our sakes. Let us clench our jaws, and re­move that which in­fects us with as much re­solve and re­gret as if we severed a maimed limb from a body. For such is what we do. Not ven­geance, my people, but sur­gery, to be fol­lowed by a heal­ing. Do as I say, now.’

  For some few minutes she stood still and looked down at us all. As in a dream, folk began to move. Hunters re­moved feath­ers and rib­bons, tokens and jew­ellery from their gar­ments and handed them to pages. The mood of mer­ri­ment and boast­ing had evap­or­ated. She had stripped that pro­tec­tion away, forced all to con­sider truly what they were about to do. No one rel­ished it. All were poised, wait­ing to hear what she would say next. Kettricken kept her ab­so­lute si­lence and still­ness, so that each eye was per­force drawn back to her. When she saw she had the at­ten­tion of all, she spoke again.

  ‘Good,’ she praised us quietly. ‘And now, heed my words well. I de­sire horse-drawn lit­ters, or wag­ons … whatever you of the stable judge best. Pad them well with straw. No body of our folk will be left to feed foxes or be pecked by crows. They will be brought back here, names noted if known, and pre­pared for the pyre that is the
hon­our of those fallen in battle. If fam­il­ies be known and be near, they shall be summoned to the mourn­ing. To those who live far, word will be sent, and the hon­ours due those who have lost their blood-kin as sol­diers.’ Tears ran un­checked, un­touched down her cheeks. They glin­ted in the early winter sun­light like dia­monds. Her voice thickened as she turned to com­mand an­other group. ‘My cooks and serving-folk! Set all tables in the Great Hall, and pre­pare a fu­neral feast. Set the Lesser Hall with wa­ter and herbs and clean gar­ments, that we may pre­pare the bod­ies of our folk for burn­ing. All oth­ers, leave your or­din­ary du­ties. Fetch wood and build a pyre. We shall re­turn, to burn our dead and mourn them.’ She gazed about, meet­ing every eye. Some­thing in her face set. She drew the sword from her belt and poin­ted it aloft in an oath. ‘When we have done with our griev­ing, we shall make ready to avenge them! Those who have taken our folk shall know our wrath!’ Slowly she lowered her blade, sheathed it cleanly. Again her eyes com­manded us. ‘And now, we ride, my folk!’

  My flesh stood up in goose-bumps. Around me, men and wo­men were mount­ing horses and a hunt was form­ing up. With im­pec­cable tim­ing, Burrich was sud­denly be­side the wagon, with Soft­step saddled and await­ing her rider. I wondered where he had got the black and red har­ness, the col­ours of grief and ven­geance. I wondered if she had ordered it, or if he had simply known. She stepped down, onto her horse’s back, then settled into the saddle and Soft­step stood steady des­pite the novel mount. She lif­ted her hand, and it held a sword. The hunt surged forth be­hind her.

  ‘Stop her!’ hissed Regal be­hind me, and I spun to find that both he and Ver­ity stood at my back, com­pletely un­noticed by the crowd.

  ‘No!’ I dared to breathe aloud. ‘Can­not you feel it? Do not spoil it. She’s given them all some­thing back. I don’t know what it is, but they have been sore miss­ing it for a long time.’

  ‘It is pride,’ Ver­ity said, his deep voice a rumble. ‘What we have all been miss­ing, and I most of all. There rides a queen,’ he con­tin­ued in soft amazement. Was there a shade of envy there as well? He turned slowly and went quietly back into the keep. Be­hind us a babble of voices arose, and folk hastened to do as she had bid­den them. I walked be­hind Ver­ity, near stunned by what I had wit­nessed. Regal pushed past me, to leap in front of Ver­ity and con­front him. He was quiv­er­ing with out­rage. My prince hal­ted.

  ‘How can you have al­lowed this to hap­pen? Have you no con­trol over that wo­man at all? She makes mock­ery of us! Who is she, to thus is­sue com­mands and take out an armed guard from the keep! Who is she, to de­cree all this so high­han­dedly?’ Regal’s voice cracked in his fury.

  ‘My wife,’ Ver­ity said mildly. ‘And your Queen-in-Wait­ing. The one you chose. Father as­sured me you would choose a wo­man worthy to be a queen. I think you picked bet­ter than you knew.’

  ‘Your wife? Your un­do­ing, you ass! She un­der­mines you, she cuts your throat as you sleep! She steals their hearts, she builds her own name! Can­not you see it, you dolt? You may be con­tent to let that moun­tain vixen steal the crown, but I am not!’

  I turned aside hast­ily and bent to retie my shoe, so I could not wit­ness that Prince Ver­ity struck Prince Regal. I did hear some­thing very like the crack of an open-handed blow to a man’s face and a bit­ten-off cry of fury. When I looked up, Ver­ity was stand­ing as quietly as be­fore, while Regal hunkered for­ward with a hand over his nose and mouth. ‘King-in-Wait­ing Ver­ity will brook no in­sults to Queen-in-Wait­ing Kettricken. Or even to him­self. I said my lady had reawakened pride in our sol­diers. Per­haps she has stirred mine as well.’ Ver­ity looked mildly sur­prised as he con­sidered this.

  ‘The King will hear of this!’ Regal took his hand away from his face, looked aghast at the blood on it. He held it up, shak­ing, to show Ver­ity. ‘My father will see this blood you have shed!’ he quavered, and choked on the blood cours­ing from his nose. He leaned for­ward slightly and held his bloody hand away from him­self, so as not to spoil his cloth­ing with a stain.

  ‘What? You in­tend to bleed all the way to this af­ter­noon, when our father arises? If you can man­age that, come and show me as well!’ To me, ‘Fitz! Have you noth­ing bet­ter to do than stand about gap­ing? Be off with you. See that my lady’s com­mands are well obeyed!’

  Ver­ity turned and strode off down the cor­ridor. I made haste to obey and to take my­self out of Regal’s range. Be­hind us, he stamped and cursed like a child in the midst of a tan­trum. Neither of us turned back to him, but I at least hoped that no ser­vants had marked what had tran­spired.

  It was a long and pe­cu­liar day about the keep. Ver­ity made a visit to King Shrewd’s rooms, and then kept him­self to his map-room. I know not what Regal did. All folk turned out to do the Queen’s bid­ding, work­ing swiftly, but al­most si­lently, gos­sip­ing quietly amongst them­selves as they pre­pared the one hall for food and the other for bod­ies. One great change I marked. Those wo­men who had been most faith­ful to the Queen now found them­selves at­ten­ded, as if they were shad­ows of Kettricken. And these nobly born wo­men sud­denly did not scruple to come them­selves to the Lesser Hall, to su­per­vise the pre­par­ing of the herb scen­ted wa­ter, and the lay­ing out of tow­els and lin­ens. I my­self helped with the fetch­ing of wood for the re­quired pyre.

  By late af­ter­noon, the hunt re­turned. They came quietly, rid­ing in sol­emn guard around the wag­ons they es­cor­ted. Kettricken rode at their head. She looked tired, and frozen in a way that had noth­ing to do with the cold. I wanted to go to her, but did not steal the hon­our as Burrich came to take her horse’s head and as­sist her dis­mount. Fresh blood spattered her boots and Soft­step’s shoulders. She had not ordered her sol­diers to do that which she would not do her­self. With a quiet com­mand, Kettricken dis­missed the guard to wash them­selves, to comb hair and beards, and to re­turn freshly clothed to the hall. As Burrich led Soft­step away, Kettricken stood briefly alone. A sad­ness greyer than any­thing I had ever felt em­an­ated from her. She was weary. So very weary.

  I ap­proached her quietly. ‘If you have need, my lady queen,’ I said softly.

  She did not turn. ‘I must do this my­self. But be close, in case I need you.’ She spoke so quietly I am sure none heard her but my­self. Then she moved for­ward, and the wait­ing keep folk par­ted be­fore her. Heads bobbed as she ac­know­ledged them gravely. She walked si­lently through the kit­chens, nod­ding at the food she saw pre­pared, and then paced through the Great Hall, once more nod­ding ap­proval of all she saw there. In the Lesser Hall, she paused, then re­moved her gaily knit cap and her jacket, to re­veal un­der­neath a simple soft shirt of purple linen. The cap and jacket she gave over to a page, who looked stunned by the hon­our. She stepped to the head of one of the tables, and began to fold her sleeves back. All move­ment in the hall ceased as heads turned to watch her. She looked up to our amazed re­gard. ‘Bring in our dead,’ she said simply.

  The pi­ti­ful bod­ies were car­ried in, a heart-break­ing stream of them. I did not count how many. More than I had ex­pec­ted, more than Ver­ity’s re­ports had led us to be­lieve. I fol­lowed be­hind Kettricken, and car­ried the basin of warm, scen­ted wa­ter as she moved from body to body, and gently bathed each rav­aged face and closed tor­men­ted eyes forever. Be­hind us came oth­ers, a snak­ing pro­ces­sion as each body was un­dressed gently, com­pletely bathed, hair combed, and wound in clean cloth. At some point I be­came aware that Ver­ity was there, a young scribe be­side him, go­ing from body to body, tak­ing down the names of those few who were re­cog­nized, writ­ing briefly of every other.

  One name I sup­plied him my­self: Kerry. The last Molly and I had known of this street boy, he had gone off as a pup­pet­eer’s ap­pren­tice. He’d ended his days as little more than a pup­pet. His laugh­ing mouth was stilled forever. As boys, we’d run e
r­rands to­gether, to earn a penny or two. He’d been be­side me the first time I got puk­ing drunk, and laughed un­til his own stom­ach be­trayed him. He’d wedged the rot­ten fish in the trestles of the tav­ern-keeper’s table, the one who had ac­cused us of steal­ing. The days we had shared I alone would re­mem­ber now. I sud­denly felt less real. Part of my past, Forged away from me.

  When we were fin­ished, and stood si­lently look­ing at the tables of bod­ies, Ver­ity stepped for­ward, to read his tally aloud in the si­lence. The names were few, but he did not neg­lect those un­known. ‘A young man, newly bearded, dark hair, the scars of fish­ing on his hands …’ he said of one, and of an­other, ‘A wo­man, curly haired and comely, tat­tooed with the pup­pet­eers’ guild sign.’ We listened to the lit­any of those we had lost, and if any did not weep, they had hearts of stone. As a people, we lif­ted our dead and car­ried them to the fu­neral pyre, to set them care­fully upon this last bed. Ver­ity him­self brought the torch for the kind­ling, but he handed it to the Queen who waited be­side the pyre. As she set flame to the pitch-laden boughs, she cried out to the dark skies, ‘You shall not be for­got­ten!’ All echoed her with a shout. Blade, the old ser­geant, stood be­side the pyre with shears, to take from every sol­dier a fin­ger’s length lock of hair, a sym­bol of the mourn­ing for a fallen com­rade. Ver­ity joined the queue, and Kettricken stood be­hind him, to of­fer up a pale lock of her own hair.

  There fol­lowed a night such as I had never known. Most of Buck­keep Town came to the keep that night, and were ad­mit­ted without ques­tion. All fol­lowed the Queen’s ex­ample and kept a watch­ing fast un­til the pyre had burned it­self to ash and bone. Then the Great Hall and the Lesser were filled, and planks laid as tables out­side in the court­yard for those who could not crowd within. Kegs of drink were rolled out, and such a set­ting out of bread and roas­ted meat and other vi­ands as I had not even ima­gined that Buck­keep pos­sessed. Later I was to learn that much of it had simply come up from the town, un­sought but offered freely.