Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  I paused to catch my breath. Shoul­der­ing the door open was do­ing the in­jury on my neck no good at all. My fore­arm throbbed dully. ‘My queen?’ I asked in reply.

  ‘My lord Ver­ity has for­given me. And this is his way of show­ing it. Oh, I shall make a garden for us to share. I shall never shame him again.’ As I stared at her rapt smile, she cas­u­ally put her own shoulder to the door and shoved it open. While I stood blink­ing in the chill and the light of the winter day, she walked out onto the tower top. She waded through crus­ted snow calf-high, and paid it no mind at all. I looked around the bar­ren tower top and wondered if I had lost my mind. There was noth­ing here, only the blown and frozen snow un­der the leaden sky. It had drif­ted up over the dis­carded statu­ary and pots along one wall. I braced my­self for Kettricken’s dis­ap­point­ment. In­stead, in the centre of the tower top, as the wind swirled the fall­ing flakes around her, she stretched out her arms and spun in a circle, laugh­ing like a child. ‘It’s so beau­ti­ful!’ she ex­claimed.

  I ven­tured out after her. Oth­ers came be­hind me. In a mo­ment Kettricken was by the tumbled piles of statu­ary and vases and basins that were heaped along one wall. She brushed snow from a cherub’s cheek as ten­derly as if she were its mother. She swept a load of snow from a stone bench, and then picked up the cherub and set it upon it. It was not a small statue, but Kettricken used her size and strength en­er­get­ic­ally as she ex­tric­ated sev­eral other pieces from the drif­ted snow. She ex­claimed over them, in­sist­ing that her wo­men come and ad­mire them.

  I stood a little apart from them. The cold wind blew past me, awaken­ing the pain in my in­jur­ies and bring­ing me hard memor­ies. Here I had stood once, near na­ked to the cold, while Ga­len had tried to ham­mer the Skill abil­ity into me. Here I had stood, in this very spot, while he beat me as if I were a dog. And here I had struggled with him and, in the struggle, burned and scarred over whatever Skill I had once had. This was a bit­ter place to me still. I wondered if any garden, no mat­ter how green and peace­ful, could charm me if it stood upon this stone. One low wall beckoned me. Had I gone to it and looked over the edge, I knew I would look down on rocky cliffs be­low. I did not. The quick end that fall had once offered me would never tempt me again. I pushed Ga­len’s old Skill-sug­ges­tion aside. I turned back to watch the Queen.

  Against the white back­drop of snow and stone, her col­ours came alive. There is a flower called a snow­drop, that some­times blooms even as the banked snows of winter are re­treat­ing. She re­minded me of one. Her pale hair was sud­denly gold against the green cloak she wore, her lips red, her cheeks pink as the roses that would bloom here again. Her eyes were dart­ing blue jew­els as she ex­cav­ated and ex­claimed over each treas­ure. In con­trast, her dark-tressed ladies with eyes of black or brown were cloaked and hooded against the winter chill. They stood quietly, agree­ing with their queen and en­joy­ing her en­joy­ment, but also rub­bing chilled fin­gers to­gether, or hold­ing cloaks tightly closed against the wind. This, I thought, this is how Ver­ity should see her, glow­ing with en­thu­si­asm and life. Then he could not help but love her. Her vi­tal­ity burned, even as his did when he hunted or rode. Or had once.

  ‘It is, of course, quite lovely,’ one Lady Hope ven­tured to say. ‘But very cold. And there is little that can be done here un­til the snow melts and the wind grows kinder.’

  ‘Oh, but you are wrong!’ Queen Kettricken ex­claimed. She laughed aloud as she straightened up from her treas­ures, walked again to the centre of the tower top. ‘A garden be­gins in the heart. I must sweep the snow and ice from the tower top to­mor­row. And then, all these benches and statues and pots must be set out. But how? Like the spokes of a wheel? As a charm­ing maze? Form­ally, by vari­ation of height and theme? There are a thou­sand ways they could be ar­ranged, and I must ex­per­i­ment. Un­less, per­haps, my lord will re­mem­ber it for me just as it once was. Then I shall re­store it to him, the garden of his child­hood!’

  ‘To­mor­row, Queen Kettricken. For the skies grow dark, and colder,’ ad­vised Lady Mod­esty. I could see what the climb fol­lowed by stand­ing in the cold had cost the older wo­man. But she smiled kindly as she spoke. ‘I could, per­haps, tell you to­night what I re­mem­ber of this garden.’

  ‘Would you?’ Kettricken ex­claimed, and clasped both of her hands in her own. The smile she shed on Lady Mod­esty was like a bless­ing.

  ‘I should be glad to.’

  And on those words we slowly began to file from the rooftop. I was the last to go. I pulled the door closed be­hind me and stood for a mo­ment let­ting my eyes ad­just to the dark­ness in the tower. Be­low me, candles bobbed as the oth­ers des­cen­ded. I blessed whatever page had thought to run and fetch them. I fol­lowed more slowly, my whole arm, from bite to sword cut, throb­bing nas­tily. I thought of Kettricken’s joy, and was glad of it, even as I guiltily re­flec­ted that it was built on a false found­a­tion. Ver­ity had been re­lieved at my sug­ges­tion to turn the garden over to Kettricken, but the act had not the sig­ni­fic­ance to him that it did to Kettricken. She would at­tack this pro­ject as if she were build­ing a shrine to their love. I doubted that by the mor­row Ver­ity would even re­call he had gif­ted her with it. I felt both trait­or­ous and fool­ish as I des­cen­ded the steps.

  I went to the even­ing meal think­ing I wished to be alone, so I avoided the hall, and took my­self in­stead to the guard­room off the kit­chen. There I en­countered both Burrich and Hands at their meal. When they in­vited me to join them, I could not re­fuse. But once I was seated, it was as if I were not there. They did not ex­clude me from their con­ver­sa­tion but they spoke of a life I no longer shared. The im­mensely rich de­tail of all that went on in the stables and mews eluded me now. They dis­cussed prob­lems with the con­fid­ent briskness of men who shared an in­tim­ate back­ground know­ledge. More and more, I found my­self nod­ding at their words, but con­trib­ut­ing noth­ing. They got along well. Burrich did not speak down to Hands. But Hands did not con­ceal his re­spect for a man he clearly re­garded as his su­per­ior. Hands had learned much from Burrich in a short time. He had left Buck­keep as a lowly stable-boy last au­tumn. He now spoke com­pet­ently of the hawks and dogs and asked solid ques­tions con­cern­ing Burrich’s breed­ing choices for the horses. I was still eat­ing when they got up to leave. Hands was con­cerned about a dog that had been kicked by a horse earlier in the day. They wished me good even­ing, and con­tin­ued to talk to­gether as they went out the door.

  I sat quietly. There were oth­ers about me, guards and sol­diers, eat­ing and drink­ing and talk­ing. The pleas­ant sounds of talk, of spoon against the pot’s side, the thud as someone cut a wedge of cheese from a wheel was like a mu­sic. The room smelled of food and folk, of the wood fire and spilled ale and the rich stew bub­bling. I should have felt con­tent, not rest­less. Nor mel­an­choly. Not alone.

  Brother?

  Com­ing. Meet me at the old pig shed.

  Nighteyes had been hunt­ing afar. I was there first, and I stood in the dark­ness and waited for him. There was a pot of un­guent in my pouch, and I bore a sack of bones as well. The snow whirled around me, an end­less dance of winter sparks. My eyes probed the dark­ness. I sensed him, felt him near, but he still man­aged to spring out and startle me. He was mer­ci­ful, giv­ing me no more than a nip and a shake on my un­injured wrist. We went in­side the hut. I kindled the stump of a candle and looked at his shoulder. I had been weary last night, and in pain, so I was pleased to see I had done a good job. I had sheared the dense hair and un­der­coat close to his hide around the cut and wiped the in­jury with clean snow. The scab on it was thick and dark. I could tell it had bled a bit more today. But not much. I smeared my un­guent over it in a thick greasy layer. Nighteyes winced slightly, but suffered my min­is­tra­tions. Af­ter­ward, he turned his head and gave a ques­tion­ing sniff to the s
pot.

  Goose­grease, he ob­served, and began to lick at it. I let him. Noth­ing in the medi­cine would harm him, and his tongue would push it into the wound bet­ter than my fin­gers could.

  Hungry? I asked.

  Not really. There are mice in plenty along the old wall, then as he got a whiff of the bag I’d brought, but a bit of beef or ven­ison would be just as wel­come.

  I tumbled the bones out in a heap for him and he flung him­self down be­side them to pos­sess them. He snuffed them over, then picked out a meaty knuckle to work on. We hunt soon? He im­aged Forged ones for me.

  In a day or so. I want to be able to wield a sword the next time.

  I don’t blame you. Cow’s teeth are not much of a weapon. But don’t wait too long.

  Why is that?

  Be­cause I saw some today. Sense­less ones. They had found a winter-killed buck on a stream bank and were eat­ing it. Fouled, stink­ing meat, and they were eat­ing it. But it won’t hold them for long. To­mor­row, they’ll be com­ing closer.

  Then we hunt to­mor­row. Show me where you saw them. I closed my eyes, and re­cog­nized the bit of creek bank that he re­called for me. I did not know you ranged that far! Did you go all that way today, with an in­jured shoulder?

  It was not far. I sensed a bit of bravado in that an­swer. And I knew we would be seek­ing them. I can travel much faster alone. Easier for me to find them out alone, and then take you to them for the hunt­ing.

  It is scarcely hunt­ing, Nighteyes.

  No. But it is a thing we do for our pack.

  I sat with him for a while in com­pan­ion­able si­lence, watch­ing him gnaw on the bones I had brought him. He had grown well this winter. Given a good diet and freed from the con­fines of a cage, he had put on weight and muscle. Snow might fall on his coat, but the thicker black guard-hairs in­ter­spersed through­out his grey coat shed the snow­flakes and kept any mois­ture from reach­ing his skin. He smelled healthy, too, not the rank dog­gi­ness of an overfed can­ine kept in­side and un­ex­er­cised, but a wild, clean scent. You saved my life, yes­ter­day.

  You saved me from a death in a cage.

  I think that I had been alone so long, I had for­got­ten what it meant to have a friend.

  He stopped chew­ing his bone and looked up at me in mild amuse­ment. A friend? Too small a word for it, brother. And in the wrong dir­ec­tion. So do not look at me like that. I will be to you what you are to me. Bond brother, and pack. But I am not all you will ever need. He went back to chew­ing his bone, and I sat chew­ing over what he had just ad­vised.

  Sleep well, brother, I told him as I left.

  He snorted. Sleep? Hardly. The moon may yet break through this over­cast and give me some hunt­ing light. But if not, I may sleep.

  I nod­ded and left him to his bones. As I walked back to the castle I felt less dis­mal and alone than I had be­fore. But I also had a twinge of guilt that Nighteyes would so ad­apt his life and will to mine. It did not seem a clean thing for him to do, this snuff­ing out of Forged ones.

  For the pack. This is for the good of the pack. The sense­less ones are try­ing to come into our ter­rit­ory. We can­not al­low it. He soun­ded com­fort­able with it, and sur­prised that it should bother me. I nod­ded to ourselves in the dark and pushed my way through the kit­chen door, back into yel­low light and warmth.

  I climbed the stairs to my room, think­ing of what I had wrought over the past few days. I had re­solved to set the cub free. In­stead, we had be­come broth­ers. I was not sorry. I had gone to warn Ver­ity of new Forged ones near Buck­keep. In­stead, I had found he already knew about them, and had gained for my­self the task of study­ing the Eld­er­lings and try­ing to dis­cover other Skilled ones. I had asked him to give the garden to Kettricken, to busy her mind away from her hurts. In­stead, I had de­ceived her, and bound her more to her love for Ver­ity. I paused to catch my breath on a land­ing. Per­haps, I re­flec­ted, we all danced to the Fool’s tune. Had not he sug­ges­ted some of these very things to me?

  I felt again the brass key in my pocket. Now was as good a time as any. Ver­ity was not in his bed­cham­ber, but Charim was. He had no qualms about al­low­ing me to come in and use the key. I took an arm­load of the scrolls I found there; there were more than I had ex­pec­ted. I bore them back to my room and set them down on my dress­ing chest. I built up the fire in the fire­place. I peeked at the dress­ing on the bite on my neck. It was an ugly wad of cloth, sat­ur­ated with blood. I knew I should change it. I dreaded pulling it loose. In a while. I put more wood on my fire. I sor­ted through the scrolls. Spidery little writ­ing, faded il­lus­tra­tions. Then I lif­ted my eyes and looked around my room.

  A bed. A chest. A small stand by the bed. An ewer and bowl for wash wa­ter. A truly ugly tapestry of King Wis­dom con­fer­ring with a yel­low­ish Eld­er­ling. A branch of candles on the man­tel. It had scarcely changed in the years I had lived here from the first night I had moved into it. It was a bare and dreary room, devoid of ima­gin­a­tion. Sud­denly I was a bare and dreary per­son, devoid of ima­gin­a­tion. I fetched and I hunted and I killed. I obeyed. More hound than man. And not even a fa­voured hound, to be pet­ted and praised. One of the work­ing pack. When was the last time I had heard from Shrewd? Or Chade? Even the Fool mocked me. What was I, any more, to any­one, ex­cept a tool? Was there any­one left who cared for me, my­self? Sud­denly I could no longer abide my own com­pany. I set down the scroll I had picked up and left my room.

  When I knocked at the door of Pa­tience’s room, there was a pause. ‘Who is it?’ came Lacey’s voice.

  ‘Only FitzChiv­alry.’

  ‘FitzChiv­alry!’ A bit of sur­prise in the tone. It was late for a visit from me. Usu­ally I came dur­ing the day. Then I was com­for­ted to hear the sound of a bar be­ing re­moved, and a latch worked. She had paid at­ten­tion to what I had told her, I thought. The door opened slowly and Lacey stepped back to ad­mit me, smil­ing du­bi­ously.

  I stepped in, greet­ing Lacey warmly, and then glanced about for Pa­tience. She was in the other cham­ber, I sur­mised. But in a corner, eyes lowered over nee­dle­work, sat Molly. She did not look up at me or ac­know­ledge my pres­ence at all. Her hair was ti­died back in a bun un­der a lacy little cap. On an­other wo­man, her blue dress might have been simple and mod­est. On Molly it was drab. Her eyes stayed down on her work. I glanced at Lacey to find her re­gard­ing me lev­elly. I looked at Molly again and some­thing in­side me gave way. It took me four steps to cross the room to her. I knelt be­side her chair and as she drew back from me, I seized her hand and car­ried it to my lips.

  ‘FitzChiv­alry!’ Pa­tience’s voice be­hind me was out­raged. I glanced at her framed in the door­way. Her lips were set flat in an­ger. I turned away from her.

  Molly had turned her face aside from me. I held her hand and spoke quietly. ‘I can­not go on like this any more. No mat­ter how fool­ish, no mat­ter how dan­ger­ous, no mat­ter what any other may think. I can­not be al­ways apart from you.’

  She pulled her hand away from me, and I let it go not to hurt her fin­gers. But I grasped at her skirt and clutched a fold of it like a stub­born child. ‘At least speak to me,’ I begged her, but it was Pa­tience who spoke.

  ‘FitzChiv­alry, this is not seemly. Stop it at once.’

  ‘It was not seemly, nor wise, nor ap­pro­pri­ate for my father to court you as he did, either. But he did not hes­it­ate. I sus­pect he felt much as I do right now.’ I did not look away from Molly.

  That won me a mo­ment of startled si­lence from Pa­tience. But it was Molly who set aside her nee­dle­work and rose. She stepped away and when it be­came clear that I must let go or tear the fab­ric of her skirt, I re­leased it. She stepped clear of me. ‘If my Lady Pa­tience will ex­cuse me for the even­ing?’

  ‘Cer­tainly,’ Pa­tience replied, but her voice was not at all cer­tain.

 
; ‘If you go away, there is noth­ing for me.’ I knew I soun­ded too dra­matic. I was still on my knees by her chair.

  ‘If I stay, there is still noth­ing for you.’ Molly spoke lev­elly as she took off her ap­ron and hung it on a hook. ‘I am a serving-girl. You are a young noble, of the royal fam­ily. There can never be any­thing between us. I’ve come to see that, over the last few weeks.’

  ‘No.’ I rose and stepped to­wards her, but for­bore to touch her. ‘You are Molly and I am New­boy.’

  ‘Maybe. Once.’ Molly con­ceded. Then she sighed. ‘But not now. Do not make this harder for me than it is, sir. You must leave me in peace. I have no where else to go; I must stay here and work, at least un­til I earn enough …’ She shook her head sud­denly. ‘Good even­ing, my lady. Lacey. Sir.’ She turned aside from me. Lacey stood si­lently. I no­ticed she did not open the door for Molly, but Molly did not pause there. The door shut very firmly be­hind her. A ter­rible si­lence welled up in the room.

  ‘Well,’ Pa­tience breathed at last. ‘I am glad to see that at least one of you has some sense. What on earth were you think­ing, FitzChiv­alry, to barge in here and all but at­tack my maid?’

  ‘I was think­ing that I loved her,’ I said bluntly. I dropped into a chair and put my head into my hands. ‘I was think­ing that I am very weary of be­ing so alone.’

  ‘That is why you came here?’ Pa­tience soun­ded al­most of­fen­ded.

  ‘No. I came here to see you. I did not know she would be here. But when I saw her, it just came over me. It’s true, Pa­tience. I can­not go on like this.’

  ‘Well, you’d bet­ter, be­cause you’re go­ing to have to.’ The words were hard, but she sighed as she said them.