Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  She smiled. ‘You don’t need to.’

  She fell si­lent again. Little Rose­mary had gone to sit by the hearth. She took up her slate and chalk as if to amuse her­self. Even that child’s nor­mal mer­ri­ment seemed pla­cid today. I turned back to Kettricken and waited. But she only sat look­ing at me, a be­mused smile on her face.

  After a mo­ment or two, I asked, ‘What are we do­ing?

  ‘Noth­ing,’ Kettricken said.

  I copied her si­lence. After a long time, she ob­served, ‘Our own am­bi­tions and tasks that we set for ourselves, the frame­work we at­tempt to im­pose upon the world is no more than a shadow of a tree cast across the snow. It will change as the sun moves, be swal­lowed in the night, sway with the wind and when the smooth snow van­ishes, it will lie dis­tor­ted upon the un­even earth. But the tree con­tin­ues to be. Do you un­der­stand that?’ She leaned for­ward slightly to look into my face. Her eyes were kind.

  ‘I think so,’ I said un­eas­ily.

  She gave me a look al­most of pity. ‘You would if you stopped try­ing to un­der­stand it, if you gave up wor­ry­ing about why this is im­port­ant to me, and simply tried to see if it is an idea that has worth in your own life. But I do not bid you to do that. I bid no one do any­thing here.’

  She sat back again, a gentle loosen­ing that made her straight spine seem ef­fort­less and rest­ful. Again, she did noth­ing. She simply sat across from me and un­furled her­self. I felt her life brush up against me and flow around me. It was but the faintest touch­ing, and had I not ex­per­i­enced both the Skill and the Wit, I do not think I would have sensed it. Cau­tiously, as softly as if I as­sayed a bridge made of cob­web, I over­lay my senses on hers.

  She ques­ted. Not as I did, to­ward a spe­cific beast, or to read what might be close by. I dis­carded the word I had al­ways given to my sens­ing. Kettricken did not seek after any­thing with her Wit. It was as she said, simply a be­ing, but it was be­ing a part of the whole. She com­posed her­self and con­sidered all the ways the great web touched her, and was con­tent. It was a del­ic­ate and tenu­ous thing and I mar­velled at it. For an in­stant I too re­laxed. I breathed out. I opened my­self, Wit wide to all. I dis­carded all cau­tion, all worry that Burrich would sense me. I had never done any­thing to com­pare it to be­fore. Kettricken’s reach­ing was as del­ic­ate as droplets of dew slid­ing down a strand of spider web. I was like a dammed flood, sud­denly re­leased, to rush out to fill old chan­nels to over­flow­ing and to send fin­gers of wa­ter in­vest­ig­at­ing the low­lands.

  Let us hunt! The wolf, joy­fully.

  In the stables, Burrich straightened from clean­ing a hoof, to frown at no one. Sooty stamped in her stall. Molly shrugged away and shook out her hair. Across from me, Kettricken star­ted and looked at me as if I had spoken aloud. A mo­ment more I was held, seized from a thou­sand sides, stretched and ex­pan­ded, il­lu­min­ated piti­lessly. I felt it all, not just the hu­man folk with their com­ings and go­ings, but every pi­geon that fluttered in the eaves, every mouse that crept un­noticed be­hind the wine kegs, every speck of life, that was not and never had been a speck, but had al­ways been a node on the web of life. Noth­ing alone, noth­ing for­saken, noth­ing without mean­ing, noth­ing of no sig­ni­fic­ance, and noth­ing of im­port­ance. Some­where, someone sang, and then fell si­lent. A chorus filled in after that solo, other voices, dis­tant and dim, say­ing, What? Beg par­don? Did you call? Are you here? Do I dream? They plucked at me, as beg­gars pluck at a stranger’s sleeves, and I sud­denly felt that if I did not draw away, I could come un­rav­elled like a piece of fab­ric. I blinked my eyes, see­ing my­self in­side my­self again. I breathed in.

  No time had passed. A single breath, a wink of an eye. Kettricken looked askance at me. I ap­peared not to no­tice. I reached up to scratch my nose. I shif­ted my weight.

  I re­settled my­self firmly. I let a few more minutes pass be­fore I sighed and shrugged apo­lo­get­ic­ally. ‘I do not un­der­stand the game, I am afraid,’ I offered.

  I had suc­ceeded in an­noy­ing her. ‘It is not a game. You don’t have to un­der­stand it, or “do” it. Simply stop all else, and be.’

  I made a show of mak­ing an­other ef­fort. I sat still for sev­eral mo­ments, then fid­geted ab­sently with my cuff un­til she looked at me do­ing it. Then I cast my eyes down as if ashamed. ‘The candle smells very sweet,’ I com­pli­men­ted her.

  Kettricken sighed and gave up on me. ‘The girl who makes them has a very keen aware­ness of scents. She can al­most bring me my gar­dens and sur­round me with their fra­grances. Regal brought me one of her hon­ey­suckle tapers, and after that I sought out her wares my­self. She is a serving-girl here, and does not have the time or re­sources to make too many. So I count my­self for­tu­nate when she brings them to of­fer to me.’

  ‘Regal,’ I re­peated. Regal speak­ing to Molly. Regal know­ing her well enough to know of her candle-mak­ing. Everything in­side me clenched with fore­bod­ing. ‘My queen, I think I dis­tract you from what you wish to be do­ing. That is not my de­sire. May I leave you now, to re­turn again when you wish to have com­pany?’

  ‘This ex­er­cise does not ex­clude com­pany, FitzChiv­alry.’ She looked at me sadly. ‘Will not you try again to let go? For a mo­ment, I thought … No? Ah, then, I let you go.’ I heard re­gret and loneli­ness in her voice. Then she straightened her­self. She took a breath, breathed it out slowly. I felt again her con­scious­ness thrum­ming in the web. She has the Wit, I thought to my­self. Not strong, but she has it.

  I left her room quietly. There was a tiny bit of amuse­ment to won­der­ing what Burrich would think if he knew. Much less amus­ing to re­call how she had been aler­ted to me when I ques­ted out with the Wit. I thought of my night hunts with the wolf. Would soon the Queen be­gin to com­plain of strange dreams?

  A cold cer­tainty welled up in me. I would be dis­covered. I had been too care­less, too long. I knew that Burrich could sense when I used the Wit. What if there were oth­ers? I could be ac­cused of beast ma­gic. I found my re­solve and hardened my­self to it. To­mor­row, I would act.

  EL­EVEN

  Lone Wolves

  The Fool will al­ways re­main one of Buck­keep’s great mys­ter­ies. It is al­most pos­sible to say that noth­ing def­in­ite is known of him. His ori­gin, age, sex and race have all been the sub­ject of con­jec­ture. Most amaz­ing is how such a pub­lic per­son main­tained such an aura of pri­vacy. The ques­tions about the Fool will al­ways out­num­ber the an­swers. Did he ever truly pos­sess any mys­tical powers, any pres­ci­ence, any ma­gic at all, or was it merely that his quick wits and razor tongue made it seem as if he knew all be­fore it came to pass? If he did not know the fu­ture, he ap­peared to, and by his calm as­sump­tion of fore­know­ledge, he swayed many of us to help him shape the fu­ture as he saw fit.

  White on white. An ear twitched, and that minute move­ment be­trayed all.

  You see? I promp­ted him.

  I scent.

  I see. I flicked my eyes to­ward the prey. No more a move­ment than that. It was suf­fi­cient.

  I see! He leaped, the rab­bit star­ted, and Cub went flounder­ing after it. The rab­bit ran lightly over the un­packed snow, while Cub had to surge and bound and leap through it. The rab­bit dar­ted elu­sively, this way, that way, around the tree, around the clump of bushes, into the brambles. Had he stayed in there? Cub snuffed hope­fully, but the dens­ity of the thorns turned his sens­it­ive nose back.

  It’s gone. I told him.

  Are you sure? Why didn’t you help?

  I can’t run down game in loose snow. I must stalk and spring only when one spring is suf­fi­cient.

  Ah. En­light­en­ment. Con­sid­er­a­tion. There are two of us. We should hunt as a pair. I could start game and drive it to­ward you. You could be ready, to leap out and snap its neck. />
  I shook my head slowly. You must learn to hunt alone, Cub. I will not al­ways be with you, in mind or in flesh.

  A wolf is not meant to hunt alone.

  Per­haps not. But many do. As you will. But I did not in­tend that you should start with rab­bits. Come on.

  He fell in at my heels, con­tent to let me lead. We had left the keep be­fore winter light had even greyed the skies. Now they were blue and open, clear and cold above us. The trail we were fol­low­ing was no more than a soft, shouldered groove in the deep snow. I sank calf-deep at every step. About us, the forest was a winter still­ness, broken only by the oc­ca­sional dart of a small bird, or the far-off caw­ing of a crow. It was open forest, mostly sap­lings with the oc­ca­sional gi­ant which had sur­vived the fire that had cleared this hill­side. It was good pas­tur­age for goats in sum­mer. Their sharp little hooves had cut the trail we were now fol­low­ing. It led to a simple stone hut and a tumble­down cor­ral and shel­ter for the goats. It was used only in sum­mer.

  Cub had been de­lighted when I went to get him this morn­ing. He had shown me his round­about path for slip­ping past the guards. An old cattle gate, long bricked up, was his egress. Some shift of the earth had un­settled the stone and mor­tar block­ing it, cre­at­ing a crack wide enough for him to slip through. The beaten-down snow showed me that he had used it of­ten. Once out­side the walls, we had ghos­ted away from the keep, mov­ing like shad­ows in the not-light of stars and moon on white snow. Once safely away from the keep, Cub had turned the ex­ped­i­tion into stalk­ing prac­tice. He raced ahead to lie in wait, to spring out and tag me with a splayed paw or a sharp nip, and then race away in a great circle, to at­tack me from be­hind. I had let him play, wel­com­ing the ex­er­tion that warmed me, as well as the sheer joy of the mind­less romp­ing. Al­ways, I kept us mov­ing, so that by the time the sun and light found us, we were miles from Buck­keep, in an area sel­dom vis­ited dur­ing the winter. My spot­ting of the white rab­bit against the white snow had been pure hap­pen­stance. I had even hum­bler game in mind for his first solo hunt.

  Why do we come here? Cub de­man­ded as soon as we came in sight of the hut.

  To hunt, I said simply. I hal­ted some dis­tance away. The wolf sank down be­side me, wait­ing. Well, go ahead, I told him. Go and check for game sign.

  Oh, this is worthy hunt­ing, this. Sniff­ing about some man den for scraps. Dis­dain­ful.

  Not scraps. Go and look.

  He surged for­ward, and then angled to­ward the hut. I watched him go. Our dream hunts to­gether had taught him much, but now I wished him to hunt en­tirely in­de­pend­ently of me. I did not doubt that he could do it. I chided my­self that de­mand­ing this proof was just one more pro­cras­tin­a­tion.

  He stayed in the snowy brush as much as he could. He ap­proached the hut cau­tiously, ears alert and nose work­ing. Old scents. Hu­mans. Goats. Cold and gone. He froze an in­stant, then took a care­ful step for­ward. His mo­tions now were cal­cu­lated and pre­cise. Ears for­ward, tail straight, he was totally in­tent and fo­cused. MOUSE.’ He sprang and had it. He shook his head, a quick snap, and then let the little an­imal go fly­ing. He caught it again as it came down. Mouse! He an­nounced glee­fully. He flipped his kill up into the air and danced up after it on his hind legs. He caught it again, del­ic­ately, in his small front teeth, and tossed it up again. I ra­di­ated pride and ap­proval at him. By the time he had fin­ished play­ing with his kill, the mouse was little more than a sod­den rag of fur. He gulped it down fi­nally in a single snap, and came bound­ing back to me.

  Mice! The place is riddled with them. Their smell and sign are every­where all about the hut.

  I thought there would be plenty here. The shep­herds com­plain about them, that the mice over­run this place and spoil their pro­vi­sions in the sum­mer. I guessed they would winter here, too.

  Sur­pris­ingly fat, for this time of year, Cub opined, and was off again with a bound. He hunted with frantic en­thu­si­asm, but only un­til his hun­ger was sated. Then it was my turn to ap­proach the hut. Snow had drif­ted up against the rick­ety wooden door, but I shouldered it open. The in­terior was dis­mal. Snow had sifted in through the thatched roof and lay in streaks and stripes on the frozen dirt floor. There was a rudi­ment­ary hearth and chim­ney, with a kettle hook. A stool and a wooden bench were the only fur­nish­ings. There was still a bit of fire­wood left be­side the hearth, and I used it to build a care­ful fire on the blackened stones. I kept it small, just enough to warm my­self and to thaw the bread and meat I had packed with me. Cub came for a taste of that, more for the shar­ing than for any hun­ger. He made a leis­urely ex­plor­a­tion of the hut’s in­terior, then lif­ted his nose ab­ruptly from the corner he’d been sniff­ing. He ad­vanced a few steps to­ward me, then stopped, stand­ing stiff-legged. His eyes met mine and held. The wilds were in their dark­ness. You’re abandon­ing me here.

  Yes. There is food in plenty here. In a while, I will come back to be sure you are all right. I think you will be fine here. You will teach your­self to hunt. Mice at first, and then lar­ger game …

  You be­tray me. You be­tray pack.

  No. We are not pack. I am set­ting you free, Cub. We are be­com­ing too close. That is not good, for either of us. I warned you, long ago, that I would not bond. We can have no part of each other’s lives. It is bet­ter for you to go off, alone, to be­come what you were meant to be.

  I was meant to be a mem­ber of a pack. He lev­elled his stare at me. Will you tell me that there are wolves near here, ones who will ac­cept an in­truder into their ter­rit­ory and make me part of their pack?

  I was forced to look aside from him. No. There are no wolves here. One would have to travel many days to come to a place wild enough for wolves to run freely.

  Then what is there here for me?

  Food. Free­dom. Your own life, in­de­pend­ent of mine.

  Isol­a­tion. He bared his teeth at me, and then ab­ruptly turned aside. He circled past me, a wide circle as he went to the door. Men, he sneered. Truly you are not pack, but man. He paused in the open door to look back at me. Men it is who think they can rule oth­ers’ lives, but have no bonds to them. Do you think that to bond or not to bond is for you alone to de­cide? My heart is my own. I give it where I will. I will not give it to one who thrusts me aside. Nor will I obey one who denies pack and bond. Do you think I will stay here and snuff about this men’s lair, to snap at the mice who have come for their leav­ings, to be like the mice, things that live on the drop­pings of men? No. If we are not pack, then we are not kin. I owe you noth­ing, and least of all obed­i­ence. I shall not stay here. I shall live as I please.

  A sly­ness to his thoughts. He was hid­ing some­thing, but I guessed it. You shall do as you wish, Cub, but for one thing. You shall not fol­low me back to Buck­keep. I for­bid it.

  You for­bid? You for­bid? For­bid the wind to blow past your stone den then, or the grass to grow in the earth around it. You have as much right. You for­bid.

  He snorted and turned away from me. I hardened my will, and spoke a fi­nal time to him. ‘Cub!’ I said in my man voice. He turned back to me, startled. His small ears went back at my tone. Al­most he sneered his teeth at me. But be­fore he could, I re­pelled at him. It was a thing I had al­ways known how to do, as in­stinct­ively as one knows to pull the fin­ger back from the flame. It was a force I had used but sel­dom, for once Burrich had turned it against me, and I did not al­ways trust it. This was not a push, such as I had used on him when he was caged. I put force into it, the men­tal re­pulsing be­com­ing al­most a phys­ical thing as he re­coiled from me. He leaped back a stride then stood splay-legged on the snow, ready for flight. His eyes were shocked.

  ‘GO!’ I shouted at him, man’s word, man’s voice, and at the same time re­pelled him again with every bit of Wit I had. He fled, not grace­fully, but leap­ing and scrab­bling awa
y through the snow. I held my­self within my­self, re­fus­ing to fol­low him with my mind and make sure that he did not stop. The re­pelling was a break­ing of that bond, not only a with­draw­ing of my­self from him, but a push­ing back of every tie he had to me. Severed. And bet­ter to let them re­main that way. Yet as I stood star­ing at the patch of brush where he had dis­ap­peared, I felt an empti­ness that was very like to cold, a tingling itch of some­thing lost, some­thing miss­ing. I have heard men speak so of an am­pu­tated limb, a phys­ical grop­ing about for a part gone forever.

  I left the hut and began my hike home. The farther I walked, the more I hurt. Not phys­ic­ally, but that is the only com­par­ison I have. As raw and flayed as if stripped of skin and meat. It was worse than when Burrich had taken Nosy, for I had done it to my­self. The wan­ing af­ter­noon seemed chil­lier than the dark of dawn had. I tried to tell my­self that I did not feel ashamed. I had done what was ne­ces­sary, as I had with Virago. I pushed that thought aside. No. Cub would be fine. He would be bet­ter off than if he were with me. What life would it be for that wild creature, skulk­ing about, al­ways in danger of dis­cov­ery, by the keep dogs or hunters or any­one who might spot him? He might be isol­ated, he might be lonely, but he would be alive. Our con­nec­tion was severed. There was an in­sist­ent tempta­tion to quest out about me, to see if I could sense him still, to grope and find if his mind still touched mine at all. I res­isted it sternly, and sealed my thoughts against his as firmly as I could. Gone. He would not fol­low me. Not after I had re­pelled him like that. No. I tramped on and re­fused to look back.

  Had I not been so deep in thought, so in­tent on re­main­ing isol­ated in­side my­self, I might have had some warn­ing. But I doubt it. The Wit was never any use against Forged ones. I do not know if they stalked me, or if I blundered right past their hid­ing-place. The first I knew of them was when the weight hit my back and I went down face-first in the snow. At first I thought it was Cub, come back to chal­lenge my de­cision. I rolled and came al­most to my feet be­fore an­other one seized hold of my shoulder. Forged ones, three males, one young, two large and once well-muscled. My mind re­cor­ded it all quickly, cat­egor­iz­ing them as neatly as if this were one of Chade’s ex­er­cises. One big one with a knife, the oth­ers had sticks. Torn and filthy cloth­ing. Faces reddened and peel­ing from the cold, filthy beards, shaggy hair. Faces bruised and cut. Did they fight amongst them­selves, or had they at­tacked someone else be­fore me?