Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘Be on time to­mor­row,’ Burrich charged me as we par­ted at the kit­chen door, he go­ing back to his stables, and I to find break­fast. I ate as I had not in days, with a wolf’s ap­pet­ite, and wondered at the source of my own sud­den vi­tal­ity. Un­like Burrich, I did not put it down to any beat­ing I had re­ceived. Molly, I thought, had healed with a touch what all the herbs and rest in a year could never have put to rights. The day sud­denly stretched long in front of me, full of un­bear­able minutes of un­en­dur­able hours be­fore night­fall and the kindly dark al­lowed us to be to­gether again.

  I set her res­ol­utely from my mind and re­solved to fill the day with tasks. A dozen im­me­di­ately leapt to mind. I had been neg­lect­ing Pa­tience. I had prom­ised my aid with Kettricken’s garden. An ex­plan­a­tion was owed to Brother Nighteyes. A visit was owed King Shrewd. I tried to or­der them in im­port­ance. Molly kept mov­ing to the top of the list.

  I res­ol­utely set her to last. King Shrewd, I de­cided. I gathered my crock­ery from the table and took it back to the kit­chen. The bustle was deaf­en­ing. It puzzled me for a mo­ment, un­til I re­called that to­night was the first night of Win­ter­fest. Old Cook Sara looked up from the bread she was knead­ing and mo­tioned me over. I went and stood be­side her as I of­ten had as a child, ad­mir­ing the deft way her fin­gers shaped hand­fuls of dough into rolls and set them to rise. She was flour to her dimpled el­bows, and flour smudged one cheek as well. The racket and rush of the kit­chen cre­ated a strange sort of pri­vacy. She spoke quietly through the clat­ter and chat­ter, and I had to strain to hear her.

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ she grunted as she fol­ded and pushed a new batch of dough, ‘that I know when a ru­mour is non­sense. And I speak it so when any­one tries to tell it here in my kit­chen. They can gos­sip all they like in the laun­dry court, and tattle tales as much as they wish while they spin, but I’ll not have ill said of you here in my kit­chen.’ She glanced up at me with snap­ping black eyes. My heart stood still with dread. Ru­mours? Of Molly and me?

  ‘You’ve et at my tables, and of­ten enough, stood aside me and stirred a pot while we chat­ted when you were small. I think that maybe I know you bet­ter than most. And them what says you fight like a beast be­cause you’re more than a half beast are talk­ing evil non­sense. Them bod­ies was tore up bad, but I’ve seen worse done by men in a rage. When Sal Flat­fish’s daugh­ter was raped, she cut up that beast with her fish-knife, chop, chop, chop, right there in the mar­ket, just like she was cut­ting bait to set her lines. What you done was no worse than that.’

  I knew an in­stant of dizzy­ing ter­ror. More than half beast … It wasn’t so long ago or far away that folk with the Wit were burned alive. ‘Thank you,’ I said, fight­ing for a calm voice. I ad­ded a modicum of truth when I said, ‘Not all of that was my do­ing. They were fight­ing over … their prey when I came on them.’

  ‘Ginna’s daugh­ter. You need not hide words from me, Fitz. I’ve chil­dren of my own, growed now, but if any was to at­tack them, why, I’d pray there’d be one like to you to de­fend them, no mat­ter how. Or avenge them, if that’s all you could do.’

  ‘I’m afraid it was, Cook.’ The shud­der that ran over me was not feigned. I saw again the lines of blood trickled over a fat little fist. I blinked, but the im­age stayed. ‘I’ve got to hurry off now. I’m to wait on King Shrewd this day.’

  ‘Are ye? Well, there’s a spot of good news, then. You just run these up with you, then.’ She trundled over to a cup­board, to take out a covered tray of small pastries baked rich with soft cheese and cur­rants. She set a pot of hot tea be­side them, and a clean cup. She ar­ranged the pastries lov­ingly. ‘And you see he eats them, Fitz. His fa­vour­ites, they are, and if he tastes one, I know he’ll eat them all. And do him good, too.’

  Mine, too.

  I jumped as if poked with a pin. I tried to cover it with a cough, as if I had sud­denly choked, but Cook still looked at me oddly. I coughed again, and nod­ded at her. ‘I’m sure he’ll love them,’ I said in a choked voice, and bore the tray out of the kit­chen. Sev­eral sets of eyes fol­lowed me. I smiled pleas­antly and tried to pre­tend I didn’t know why.

  I didn’t real­ize you were still with me, I told Ver­ity. A tiny part of me was re­view­ing every thought I’d had since I left his tower, and was thank­ing Eda that I had not de­cided to seek out Nighteyes first, even as I pushed such thoughts aside, un­sure how private they were.

  I know. I didn’t in­tend to be spy­ing on you. Only to show you that when you do not fo­cus so tightly on this, you are able to do it.

  I groped after his Skilling. More your ef­fort than mine, I poin­ted out as I climbed the stairs.

  You’re an­noyed with me. Beg par­don. From now on, I shall be sure you are aware of me whenever I am with you. Shall I leave you to your day?

  My own sur­li­ness had left me feel­ing em­bar­rassed. No. Not yet. Ride with me a bit more while I visit King Shrewd. Let’s see how far we can carry this.

  I sensed his as­sent. I paused be­fore Shrewd’s door, and bal­anced the tray with one hand as I hast­ily smoothed my hair back and tugged my jer­kin straight. My hair had be­gun to be a prob­lem lately. Jon­qui had cut it short dur­ing one of my fevers in the moun­tains. Now that it was grow­ing out, I didn’t know whether to tie it back in a tail as Burrich and the guards­men did, or keep it at my shoulders as if I were a page still. I was much too old to wear it in the half-braid of a child.

  Tie it back, boy. I’d say you’d earned the right to wear it as a war­rior, as much as any guards­man. Just don’t start fuss­ing about it and twin­ing it into oiled curls as Regal does.

  I fought the smirk off my face and knocked at the door.

  I waited a bit, then knocked again, more loudly.

  An­nounce your­self and open it, Ver­ity sug­ges­ted.

  ‘It’s FitzChiv­alry, sire. I’ve brought you some­thing from Cook.’ I set my hand to the door. It was latched from within.

  That’s pe­cu­liar. It has never been my father’s way to latch a door. Put a man on it, yes, but not latch it and ig­nore someone knock­ing. Can you slip it?

  Prob­ably. But let me try knock­ing again first. I all but poun­ded on the door.

  ‘A mo­ment! A mo­ment!’ someone hissed from in­side. But it was con­sid­er­ably more than that be­fore sev­eral latches were un­done and the door opened a hand’s width. Wal­lace peered out at me like a rat from un­der a cracked wall. ‘What do you want?’ he de­man­ded ac­cus­ingly.

  ‘Audi­ence with the King.’

  ‘He’s asleep. Or was be­fore you came pound­ing and shout­ing. Be off with you.’

  ‘A mo­ment.’ I shoved my booted foot into the clos­ing door. With one free hand, I turned up the col­lar of my jer­kin, to ex­pose the red-stoned pin I was sel­dom without. The door was closed firmly on my foot. I put a shoulder against it, leaned as much as I could without drop­ping the tray I still car­ried. ‘This was given to me by King Shrewd a num­ber of years ago. With it he gave the prom­ise that whenever I showed it, I would be ad­mit­ted to see him.’

  ‘Even if he’s asleep?’ Wal­lace asked snidely.

  ‘He placed no lim­it­a­tions on it. Do you?’ I glared at him through the cracked door. He con­sidered a mo­ment, then stepped back from it.

  ‘By all means, then, do come in. Come and see your king asleep, try­ing to get the rest he so badly needs in his con­di­tion. But do you dis­turb it, and I as his healer shall tell him to take away that pretty pin and see that you do not bother him again.’

  ‘You may re­com­mend that as you wish. And if my king de­sires it, I shall not dis­pute it.’

  He stood aside from me with an elab­or­ate bow. I des­per­ately wanted to knock that know­ing sneer from his face, but I ig­nored it.

  ‘Won­der­ful,’ he elab­or­ated as I passed him. ‘Sweet pastrie
s to up­set his di­ges­tion and tax him all the more. Thought­ful lad, aren’t you?’

  I kept my tem­per. Shrewd was not in his sit­ting room. The bed­cham­ber?

  ‘Will you truly bother him there? Well, why not? You’ve shown no other man­ners, why should I ex­pect con­sid­er­a­tion now?’ Wal­lace’s voice was full of snide con­des­cen­sion.

  I gripped my tem­per.

  Don’t just ac­cept that from him. Turn and face him down now. This was not ad­vice from Ver­ity, but a com­mand. I set the tray down care­fully upon a small table. I took a breath and turned to face Wal­lace. ‘Have you a dis­like of me?’ I asked dir­ectly.

  He took a step back but tried to keep his sneer in place. ‘A dis­like? Why should I, a healer, mind if someone comes to dis­turb an ill man when he is fi­nally rest­ing?’

  ‘This room reeks of Smoke. Why?’

  Smoke?

  A herb they use in the moun­tains. Sel­dom for medi­cine, save pains noth­ing else will halt. But more of­ten the burn­ing fumes are breathed for pleas­ure. Much as we use car­ris seed at Spring­fest. Your brother has a lik­ing for it.

  As did his mother. If it is the same herb. She called it mirth­leaf.

  Al­most the same leaf, but the moun­tain plant grows taller with flesh­ier leaves. And thicker smoke.

  My ex­change with Ver­ity had taken less than a blink of an eye. One can Skill in­form­a­tion as fast as one can think it. Wal­lace was still purs­ing his lips over my ques­tion. ‘Are you claim­ing to be a healer?’ he de­man­ded.

  ‘No. But I’ve a work­ing know­ledge of herbs, one that sug­gests Smoke is not ap­pro­pri­ate to a sick man’s cham­bers.’

  Wal­lace was still a mo­ment as he for­mu­lated an an­swer. ‘Well. A king’s pleas­ures are not his healer’s area of con­cern.’

  ‘Per­haps they are mine, then,’ I offered, and turned away from him. I picked up the tray and pushed open the door to the King’s dimly-lit bed­cham­ber.

  The reek of Smoke was heav­ier here, the air thick and cloy­ing with it. Too hot a fire was burn­ing, mak­ing the room close and stuffy. The air was still and stale as if no fresh wind had blown through the room for weeks. My own breath seemed heavy in my lungs. The King lay still, breath­ing ster­tor­ously be­neath a mound of feather quilts. I looked about for a place to set down the tray of pastries. The small table close to his bed was littered. There was a censer for Smoke; the drift­ing ash thick on its top, but the burner was out and cold. Be­side it was a gob­let of luke­warm red wine, and a bowl with some nasty grey gruel in it. I set the ves­sel on the floor, and brushed the table clean with my shirt sleeve be­fore set­ting the tray down. As I ap­proached the King’s bed, there was a fusty, foetid smell that be­came even stronger as I leaned over the King.

  This is not like Shrewd at all.

  Ver­ity shared my dis­may. He has not summoned me much of late. And I have been too busy to call upon him un­less he bids me to. The last time I saw him was in his sit­ting room, in an even­ing. He com­plained of head­aches, but this…

  The thought trailed away between us. I glanced up from the King to find Wal­lace peer­ing in round the door at us. There was some­thing in his face; I know not whether to call it sat­is­fac­tion or con­fid­ence, but it roused me to fury. In two steps I had reached the door. I slammed it, and had the sat­is­fac­tion of hear­ing him yelp as he jerked his pinched fin­gers out. I dropped into place an an­cient bar that had prob­ably never been used in my life­time.

  I moved to the tall win­dows, jerked aside the tapestries that covered them, and flung wide the wooden shut­ters. Clear sun­light and fresh cold air spilled into the room.

  Fitz, this is rash.

  I made no reply. In­stead, I moved about the room, dump­ing censer after censer of ash and herb out of the open win­dow. I brushed the cling­ing ash out with my hand to free the room from its reek. From about the room I gathered a half a dozen sticky gob­lets of stale wine, and a tray full of bowls and plates of un­touched or half-eaten food. I stacked them by the door. Wal­lace was pound­ing on it and howl­ing with fury. I leaned against it and spoke through the crack. ‘Hush!’ I told him sweetly. ‘You’ll waken the King.’

  Have a boy sent with ewers of warm wa­ter. And tell Mis­tress Hasty that the King’s bed re­quires clean lin­ens, I re­ques­ted of Ver­ity.

  Such or­ders can­not come from me. A pause. Don’t waste time in an­ger. Think, and you’ll see why it must be so.

  I un­der­stood, but knew also that I would not leave Shrewd in this dingy, smelly room any more than I would aban­don him to a dun­geon. There was half an ewer of wa­ter, stale, but mostly clean. I set it to warm by the hearth. I wiped his bed table clean of ash, and set out the tea and pastry tray upon it. Rum­ma­ging boldly through the King’s chest, I found a clean night­shirt, and then wash­ing herbs. Leftover, no doubt, from Chef­fer’s time. I had never thought I would so miss a valet.

  Wal­lace’s pound­ing ceased. I did not miss it. I took the warmed wa­ter scen­ted with the herbs and a wash­ing cloth and set it by the King’s bed­side. ‘King Shrewd,’ I said gently. He stirred slightly. The rims of his eyes were red, the lashes gummed to­gether. When he opened his eyes, he blinked red-veined eyes at the light.

  ‘Boy?’ He squin­ted about the room. ‘Where is Wal­lace?’

  ‘Away for the mo­ment. I’ve brought you warm wash wa­ter, and fresh pastries from the kit­chen. And hot tea.’

  ‘I … I don’t know. The win­dow’s open. Why is the win­dow open? Wal­lace has warned me about tak­ing a chill.’

  ‘I opened it to clear the air in the room. But I’ll close it if you like.’

  ‘I smell the sea. It’s a clear day, isn’t it? Listen to those gulls cry a storm com­ing … No. No, close the win­dow, boy. I dare not take a chill, not as ill as I am already.’

  I moved slowly to close the wooden shut­ters. ‘Has your majesty been ill long? Not much has been said of it about the palace.’

  ‘Long enough. Oh, forever it seems. It is not so much that I am ill as that I am never well. I am sick, and then I get a bit bet­ter, but as soon as I try to do any­thing, I am sick again, and worse than ever. I am so weary of be­ing sick, boy. So tired of al­ways feel­ing tired.’

  ‘Come, sir. This will make you feel bet­ter.’ I damped the cloth and wiped his face gently. He re­covered him­self enough to mo­tion me aside as he washed his own hands, and then wiped his face again more firmly. I was ap­palled at how the wash wa­ter had yel­lowed as it cleansed him.

  ‘I’ve found a clean night­shirt for you. Shall I help you into it? Or would you rather that I sent for a boy to bring a tub and warm wa­ter? I would bring clean lin­ens for the bed while you bathed.’

  ‘I, oh, I haven’t the en­ergy, boy. Where is that Wal­lace? He knows I can­not man­age alone. What pos­sessed him to leave me?’

  ‘A warm bath might help you to rest,’ I tried per­suas­ively. Up close, the old man smelled. Shrewd had al­ways been a cleanly man; I think that his grub­bi­ness dis­tressed me more than any­thing else.

  ‘But bathing can lead to chills. So Wal­lace says. A damp skin, a cool wind, and whisk, I’m gone. Or so he says.’ Had Shrewd really be­come this fret­ful old man? I could scarcely be­lieve what I was hear­ing from him.

  ‘Well, per­haps just a hot cup of tea then. And a pastry. Cook Sara said these were your fa­vour­ites.’ I poured the steam­ing tea into the cup and saw his nose twitch ap­pre­ci­at­ively. He had a sip or two, and then sat up to look at the care­fully ar­ranged pastries. He bade me join him, and I ate a pastry with him, lick­ing the rich filling from my fin­gers. I un­der­stood why they were his fa­vour­ites. He was well into a second when there were three solid thuds against the door.

  ‘Un­bar it, Bas­tard. Or the men with me will take it down. And if any harm has come to my father, you shall die where you stand.’ Regal did no
t sound at all pleased with me.

  ‘What’s this, boy? The door barred? What goes on here? Regal, what goes on here?’ It pained me to hear the King’s voice crack quer­ulously.

  I crossed the room, I un­barred the door. It was flung open be­fore I could touch it, and two of Regal’s more mus­cu­lar guards seized me. They wore his satin col­ours like bull­dogs with rib­bons about their necks. I offered no res­ist­ance, so they had no real ex­cuse to throw me up against the wall, but they did. It awoke every pain I still bore from yes­ter­day. They held me there while Wal­lace rushed in, tut-tut­ting about how cold the room was, and what was this, eat­ing this, why, it was no less than poison to a man in King Shrewd’s con­di­tion. Regal stood, hands on hips, very much the man in charge, and stared at me through nar­rowed eyes.

  Rash, my boy. I very much fear that we have over­played our hand.

  ‘Well, Bas­tard? What have you to say for your­self? Ex­actly what were your in­ten­tions?’ Regal de­man­ded when Wal­lace’s lit­any ran down. He ac­tu­ally ad­ded an­other log to the fire in the already stifling room, and took the half-eaten pastry from the King’s hand.

  ‘I came to re­port. And find­ing the King ill cared for, sought to rem­edy that situ­ation first.’ I was sweat­ing, more from pain than nervous­ness. I hated to see Regal smile at it.