Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  For a brief time we scrambled about on the rocks and drift­wood, look­ing for treas­ures tossed up by the storm. I felt more like my­self than I had since I had re­turned from the moun­tains, and Molly looked very much the wild hoy­den of my child­hood. Her hair came un­braided and blew about her face. She slipped when I chased her, and stumbled into a tide pool. We went back to the blanket, where she took off her shoes and hose to let them dry by the fire. She leaned back on the blanket and stretched.

  Tak­ing things off sud­denly seemed a very good idea.

  Molly was not as sure of that as I. ‘There’s fully as much stone as sand un­der this blanket. I’ve no wish to go back with bruises up my back!’

  I leaned over her to kiss her. ‘Am not I worth it?’ I asked per­suas­ively.

  ‘You? Of course not!’ She gave me a sud­den push that sent me sprawl­ing on my back. Then she flung her­self boldly upon me. ‘But I am.’

  The wild sparkle in her eyes as she looked down on me took my breath away. After she had claimed me ruth­lessly, I dis­covered she had been right, both about the rocks, and her be­ing well worth the bruises. I had never seen any­thing so spec­tac­u­lar as the blue sky glimpsed through the cas­cade of her hair over my face.

  Af­ter­ward she lay more than half on top of me and we dozed in the chill sweet air. Even­tu­ally she sat up, shiv­er­ing, to pull her cloth­ing back around her­self. Re­luct­antly I watched her lace up her blouse again. Dark­ness and candle-light had al­ways hid­den too much from me. She looked down at my be­mused look, stuck her tongue out at me, then paused. My hair had come loose from its tail. She pulled it for­ward to frame my face, then set a fold of her red cloak across my fore­head. She shook her head. ‘You would have been a sin­gu­larly homely girl.’

  I snorted. ‘I am not so much bet­ter as a man, either.’

  She looked of­fen­ded. ‘You are not ill-fa­voured.’ She traced a fin­ger down the mus­cu­lature of my chest spec­u­lat­ively. ‘The other day, in the washer-courts, some were say­ing you were the best thing to come out of the stables since Burrich. I think it is your hair. It is not near as coarse as most Buck men.’ She twined strands of it through her fin­gers.

  ‘Burrich!’ I said with a snort. ‘You can­not tell me he is fa­voured among the wo­men!’

  She quirked a brow at me. ‘And why not? He is a very well-made man, and clean and mannered be­sides. He has good teeth, and such eyes! His dark hu­mours are daunt­ing, but not a few would like to try their hands at light­en­ing those. The wash­ing maids agreed that day that, were he to turn up in their sheets, they would not hurry to shake him out.’

  ‘But that is not likely to hap­pen,’ I poin­ted out.

  ‘No,’ she agreed pens­ively. ‘That was an­other thing they agreed on. Only one claimed to have ever had him, and she ad­mit­ted he was very drunk at the time. At a Spring­fest, I be­lieve she said.’ Molly glanced at me, then laughed aloud at the in­cred­u­lous look on my face. ‘She said,’ Molly went on teas­ingly, ‘“he has used his time well amongst the stal­lions to learn their ways. I car­ried the mark of his teeth on my shoulders for a week.”’

  ‘That can­not be,’ I de­clared. My ears burned for Burrich’s sake. ‘He would not mis­treat a wo­man, no mat­ter how drunk he was.’

  ‘Silly boy!’ Molly shook her head over me as her nimble fin­gers set to braid­ing her hair up again. ‘No one said she was mis­treated.’ She glanced at me coyly, ‘Or dis­pleased.’

  ‘I still do not be­lieve it,’ I de­clared. Burrich? And the wo­man had liked it?

  ‘Has he really a small scar, here, shaped like a cres­cent moon?’ She put her hand high on my hip and looked at me from un­der her lashes.

  I opened my mouth, shut it again. ‘I can­not be­lieve that wo­men chat­ter of such things,’ I said at last.

  ‘In the washer-courts, they talk of little else,’ Molly di­vulged calmly.

  I bit my tongue un­til curi­os­ity over­whelmed me. ‘What do they say of Hands?’ When we had worked in the stables to­gether, his tales of wo­men had al­ways as­ton­ished me.

  ‘That he has pretty eyes and lashes, but that all the rest of him needs to be washed. Sev­eral times.’

  I laughed joy­ously, and saved the words for when next he bragged to me. ‘And Regal?’ I en­cour­aged her.

  ‘Regal. Uummm.’ She smiled dream­ily at me, then laughed at the scowl on my face. ‘We do not speak of the princes, my dear. Some pro­pri­ety is kept.’

  I pulled her back down be­side me and kissed her. She fit her body to mine and we lay still un­der the arch­ing blue sky. Peace that had eluded me for so long now filled me. I knew that noth­ing could ever part us, not the plans of kings nor the vagar­ies of fate. It seemed, fi­nally, to be the right time to tell her of my prob­lems with Shrewd and Celer­ity. She res­ted warm against me and listened si­lently as I spilled out to her the fool­ish­ness of the King’s plan and my bit­ter­ness at the awk­ward po­s­i­tion it brought me. It did not oc­cur to me that I was an idiot un­til I felt a warm tear spill and then slide down the side of my neck.

  ‘Molly?’ I asked in sur­prise as I sat up to look at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ her voice went high on the words. She took a shud­der­ing breath. ‘You lie be­side me and tell me you are prom­ised to an­other. And then you ask me what’s wrong?’

  ‘The only one I am prom­ised to is you,’ I said firmly.

  ‘It’s not that simple, FitzChiv­alry.’ Her eyes were very wide and ser­i­ous. ‘What will you do when the King tells you that you must court her?’

  ‘Stop bathing?’ I asked.

  I had hoped she would laugh. In­stead she pulled away from me. She looked at me with a world of sor­row in her eyes. ‘We haven’t got a chance. Not a hope.’

  As if to prove her words, the sky darkened sud­denly above us and the squall winds rose. Molly leaped to her feet, snatch­ing up her cloak and shak­ing sand from it. ‘I’m go­ing to get soaked. I should have been back to Buck­keep hours ago.’ She spoke flatly, as if those two things were the only con­cerns that she had.

  ‘Molly, they would have to kill me to keep me from you,’ I said an­grily.

  She gathered up her mar­ket pur­chases. ‘Fitz, you sound like a child,’ she said quietly. ‘A fool­ish, stub­born child.’ With a pat­ter­ing like flung pebbles, the first rain drops began to hit. They made dimples in the sand and swept across the sea in sheets. Her words had left me speech­less. I could not think of a worse thing for her to have said to me.

  I gathered up the red blanket, shook sand from it. She pulled her cloak tight against the wind that whipped at it. ‘Best we don’t go back to­gether,’ she ob­served. She came close to me, stood on tip­toe to kiss the angle of my jaw. I could not de­cide who I was an­gri­est at: King Shrewd for cre­at­ing this mess, or Molly for be­liev­ing in it. I did not turn to her kiss. She said noth­ing of that, but only hur­ried away, to scrabble lightly up the rock chim­ney and van­ish from sight.

  All joy had gone out of my af­ter­noon. What had been as per­fect as a gleam­ing sea­shell was now crushed bits un­der my feet. I walked dis­con­sol­ately home through gust­ing winds and pelt­ing rain. I had not re­bound my hair and it whipped in lank strands across my face. The wet blanket stank as only wool can and bled red dye onto my hands. I went up to my room and dried off, then amused my­self by care­fully pre­par­ing the per­fect poison for Wal­lace. One that would rack his bowels be­fore he died. When the powder was mixed fine and put in a twist of pa­per, I set it down and looked at it. For a while I con­sidered tak­ing it my­self. In­stead, I took up needle and thread, to de­vise a pocket in­side my cuff where I could carry it. I wondered if I would ever use it. The won­der­ing made me feel more a cow­ard than ever.

  I did not go down to din­ner. I did not go up to Molly. I opened my shut­ters and let the storm spill rain acro
ss my floor. I let the hearth fire go out and re­fused to light any candles. It seemed a time for ges­tures like those. When Chade opened his pas­sage to me, I ig­nored it. I sat on the foot of my bed, star­ing out into the rain.

  After a time I heard hes­it­ant foot­steps come down the stairs. Chade ap­peared in my darkened room like a wraith. He glared at me, then crossed to the shut­ters and slammed them shut. As he hooked them, he asked me an­grily, ‘Have you any idea of the kind of draught that cre­ates in my rooms?’ When I didn’t reply, he lif­ted his head and snuffed, for all the world like a wolf. ‘Have you been work­ing with baneleaf in here?’ he asked sud­denly. He came to stand be­fore me. ‘Fitz, you’ve not done any­thing stu­pid, have you?’

  ‘Stu­pid? Me?’ I choked on a laugh.

  Chade stooped to peer into my face. ‘Come up to my cham­ber,’ he said, in an al­most kindly voice. He took my arm and I went with him.

  The cheery room, the crack­ling fire, the au­tumn fruit ripe in a bowl; all of it clashed so badly with what I felt that I wanted to smash things. In­stead I asked Chade, ‘Does any­thing feel worse than be­ing angry with people you love?’

  After a bit he spoke. ‘Watch­ing someone you love die. And be­ing angry, but not know­ing where to dir­ect it. I think that’s worse.’

  I flung my­self onto a side chair, kicked my feet out in front of me. ‘Shrewd has taken up Regal’s habits. Smoke. Mirth­weed. El only knows what else in his wine. This morn­ing, without his drugs, he began to shake, and then he drank them mixed with his wine, took a chest­ful of Smoke and went to sleep in my face. After telling me, again, that I must court and marry Celer­ity, for my own good.’ The words spilled from me. I had no doubt that Chade already knew of everything I told him.

  I pinned Chade with my eyes. ‘I love Molly,’ I told him bluntly. ‘I have told Shrewd that I love an­other. Yet he in­sists that I will be paired with Celer­ity. He asks how I can­not un­der­stand he means the best for me. How can he not un­der­stand that I wish to wed whom I love?’

  Chade looked con­sid­er­ing. ‘Have you dis­cussed this with Ver­ity?’

  ‘What good would that do? He could not even save him­self from be­ing wed off to a wo­man he did not de­sire.’ I felt dis­loyal to Kettricken as I said this. But I knew it was true.

  ‘Would you care for wine?’ Chade asked me mildly. ‘It might calm you.’

  ‘No.’

  He raised his eye­brows at me.

  ‘No. Thank you. After watch­ing Shrewd “calm” him­self with wine this morn­ing …’ I let my com­plaint trail away. ‘Was that man never young?’

  ‘Once he was very young.’ Chade per­mit­ted him­self a small smile. ‘Per­haps he re­mem­bers that Con­stance was a wo­man chosen for him by his par­ents. He did not court her will­ingly, nor wed her gladly. It took her death to make him know how deeply he had come to love her. De­sire, on the other hand, he chose for him­self, in a pas­sion that fevered him.’ He paused. ‘I will not speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘This is dif­fer­ent,’ I said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I am not to be king. Whom I wed af­fects no one but me.’

  ‘Would it were that simple,’ Chade said softly. ‘Can you be­lieve you can re­fuse Celer­ity’s court­ship without of­fend­ing Brawndy? At a time when the Six Duch­ies needs every bond of unity?’

  ‘I am con­vinced I can make her de­cide she does not want me.’

  ‘How? By be­ing an oaf? And sham­ing Shrewd?’

  I felt caged. I tried to think of solu­tions, but found only one an­swer in me. ‘I will marry no one ex­cept Molly.’ I felt bet­ter simply by say­ing it aloud. I met Chade’s eyes.

  He shook his head. ‘Then you will marry no one,’ he poin­ted out.

  ‘Per­haps not,’ I ac­ceded. ‘Per­haps we shall never be mar­ried in name. But we shall have a life to­gether …’

  ‘And little bas­tards of your own.’

  I stood con­vuls­ively, my fists knot­ting of their own ac­cord. ‘Don’t say that,’ I warned Chade. I turned away from him to glare into his fire.

  ‘I wouldn’t. But every­one else will.’ He sighed. ‘Fitz, Fitz, Fitz.’ He came up be­hind me and put his hands on my shoulders. Very, very gently, he said, ‘It might be best to let her go.’

  The touch and the gen­tle­ness had dis­armed me of my an­ger. I lif­ted my hands to cover my face. ‘I can­not,’ I said through my fin­gers. ‘I need her.’

  ‘What does Molly need?’

  A little chand­lery with bee hives in the back yard. Chil­dren. A le­git­im­ate hus­band. ‘You are do­ing this for Shrewd. To make me do as he wishes,’ I ac­cused Chade.

  He lif­ted his hands from my shoulders. I listened to him walk away, to wine be­ing poured into a single cup. He brought his wine with him to his chair and sat down be­fore his fire.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He looked at me. ‘Someday, FitzChiv­alry,’ he warned me, ‘those words will not be enough. Some­times it is easier to pull a knife out of a man than to ask him to for­get words you have uttered. Even words uttered in an­ger.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I re­peated.

  ‘So am I,’ he said shortly.

  After a time, I asked humbly, ‘Why did you wish to see me to­night?’

  He sighed. ‘Forged ones. South­w­est of Buck­keep.’

  I felt ill. ‘I had thought I would not have to do that any more,’ I said quietly. ‘When Ver­ity put me on a ship to Skill for him, he said that per­haps …’

  ‘This does not come from Ver­ity. It was re­por­ted to Shrewd, and he wishes it taken care of. Ver­ity is already … over­taxed. We do not wish to trouble him with any­thing else just now.’

  I put my head back into my hands. ‘Is there no one else who can do this?’ I begged him.

  ‘Only you and I are trained for this.’

  ‘I did not mean you,’ I said wear­ily. ‘I do not ex­pect you to do that sort of work any more.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ I looked up to find the an­ger back in his eyes. ‘You ar­rog­ant pup! Who do you think kept them from Buck­keep all sum­mer, Fitz, while you were out on the Rurisk? Did you think that be­cause you wished to avoid a task, the need for such work ceased?’

  I was as shamed then as I have ever been. I looked aside from his an­ger. ‘Oh, Chade. I am sorry.’

  ‘Sorry that you avoided it? Or sorry that you thought me in­cap­able of do­ing it any more?’

  ‘Both. Everything,’ I con­ceded it all sud­denly. ‘Please, Chade, if one more per­son I care about be­comes angry with me, I don’t think I shall be able to bear it.’ I lif­ted my head and looked at him stead­ily un­til he was forced to meet my eyes.

  He lif­ted a hand to scratch at his beard. ‘It has been a long sum­mer for both of us. Pray El for storms to drive the Red Ships away forever.’

  We sat a time in si­lence.

  ‘Some­times,’ Chade ob­served, ‘it would be much easier to die for one’s king than to give one’s life for him.’

  I bowed my head in as­sent. The rest of the night we spent pre­par­ing the pois­ons I would need in or­der to be­gin killing for my king again.

  EIGHT­EEN

  Eld­er­lings

  The au­tumn of the third year of the Red Ship War was a bit­ter one for King-in-Wait­ing Ver­ity. His war­ships had been his dream. He had foun­ded all his hopes on them. He had be­lieved he could rid his own coast of Raid­ers, and be so suc­cess­ful at it that he could send forth raid­ers against the hos­tile Outis­land coasts even dur­ing the worst of the winter storms. Des­pite early vic­tor­ies, the ships never achieved the com­mand of the coast that he had hoped they would. Early winter found him with a fleet of five ships, two of which had re­cently sus­tained severe dam­age. One in­tact was the cap­tured Red Ship ves­sel, which had been re­fit­ted and sent out with a crew to as­sist in patrols and es­cort­ing of mer�
�chant ves­sels. When the winds of au­tumn fi­nally ar­rived, only one of his ship­mas­ters ex­pressed enough con­fid­ence in his crew’s skills and his ves­sel to be will­ing to un­der­take a raid against the Outis­lander coasts. The other mas­ters ar­gued for at least one winter of prac­tising seaman­ship along our own rough coast, and an­other sum­mer of prac­tising tac­tics be­fore un­der­tak­ing such an am­bi­tious goal.

  Ver­ity would not send un­will­ing men, but neither did he hide his dis­ap­point­ment. He ex­pressed it well when he out­fit­ted the one will­ing ship, for the Re­venge, as the ves­sel had been re­named, was pro­vi­sioned hand­somely. The mas­ter’s hand-picked crew were out­fit­ted as well, in whatever ar­mour they chose for them­selves, and were given new weapons of the best crafts­man­ship avail­able. There was quite a ce­re­mony at her send-off, with even King Shrewd in at­tend­ance des­pite his fail­ing health. The Queen her­self hung the gull’s feath­ers from the ship’s mast that are said to bring a ves­sel swiftly and safely back to her home port. A great cheer arose as the Re­venge set out, and the health of the cap­tain and crew were drunk many times over that even­ing.

  A month later, to Ver­ity’s chag­rin, we would re­ceive word that a ves­sel match­ing that de­scrip­tion was pir­at­ing in the calmer wa­ters to the south of the Six Duch­ies, and bring­ing much misery to the mer­chants of Bing­town and the Chalced States. That was as much news of the cap­tain and crew and ship as ever came back to Buck­keep. Some blamed it on the Outis­landers among the crew, but there were as many good Six Duch­ies hands aboard as Outis­landers, and the cap­tain had been raised right in Buck­keep Town. This was a crush­ing blow to Ver­ity’s pride and to his lead­er­ship of his people. Some be­lieve it was then that he de­cided to sac­ri­fice him­self in the hopes of find­ing a fi­nal solu­tion.