Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  She paused, as if she could not de­cide, then shook her head wildly. ‘Not as you fear. He just … held me down. And laughed. The other one, he said, he said, I was pretty stu­pid, let­ting my­self be used by a bas­tard. They said …’

  She paused a mo­ment. Whatever they had said to her, called her, was ugly enough that she could not re­peat it to me. It was like a sword through me, that they had been able to hurt her so badly she would not even share the pain. ‘They warned me,’ she went on at last. ‘They said, stay away from the Bas­tard. Don’t do his dirty work for him. They said … things I didn’t un­der­stand, about mes­sages and spies and treason. They said they could make sure that every­one knew I was the Bas­tard’s whore.’ She tried just to say the word, but it came out with greater force. She de­fied me to flinch from it. ‘Then they said … I would be hanged … if I didn’t pay at­ten­tion. That to run er­rands for a traitor was to be a traitor.’ Her voice grew strangely calmer. ‘Then they spat on me. And they left me. I heard them ride away, but for a long time, I was afraid to get up. I have never been so scared.’ She looked at me and her eyes were like open wounds. ‘Not even my father ever scared me that badly.’

  I held her close to me. ‘It’s all my fault.’ I did not even know I had spoken aloud un­til she drew back from me, to look up in puz­zle­ment.

  ‘Your fault? Did you do some­thing wrong?’

  ‘No. I am no traitor. But I am a bas­tard. And I’ve let that spill over onto you. Everything Pa­tience warned me of, everything Ch … every­one warned me about, it’s all com­ing true. I’ve got you caught up in it.’

  ‘What is hap­pen­ing?’ she asked softly, eyes wide. Her breath sud­denly caught. ‘You said … the guard wouldn’t let you out the gate. That you can’t leave Buck­keep? Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, ex­actly. There’s a lot I don’t un­der­stand. But one thing I do know. I have to keep you safe. That means stay­ing away from you, for a time. And you from me. Do you un­der­stand?’

  A glint of an­ger came into her eyes. ‘I un­der­stand you’re leav­ing me alone in this!’

  ‘No. That’s not it. We have to make them be­lieve that they’ve scared you, that you’re obey­ing them. Then you’ll be safe. They’ll have no reason to come after you again.’

  ‘They have scared me, you idiot!’ she hissed at me. ‘One thing I know. Once someone knows you’re afraid of him, you’re never safe from that per­son. If I obey them now, they will come after me again. To tell me to do other things, to see how far I’ll obey them in my fear.’

  These were the scars her father had left on her life. Scars that were a kind of strength, but also a vul­ner­ab­il­ity. ‘Now is not the time to stand up to them,’ I whispered. I kept look­ing over her shoulder, ex­pect­ing that at any mo­ment the guard would come to see where we had van­ished. ‘Come,’ I said, and led her deeper into the maze of ware­houses and out­build­ings. She walked si­lently be­side me for a way, then sud­denly jerked her hand from mine.

  ‘It is time to stand up to them,’ she de­clared. ‘Be­cause once you start put­ting it off, you never do it. Why should not this be the time?’

  ‘Be­cause I don’t want you caught up in this. I don’t want you hurt. I don’t want people say­ing you are the Bas­tard’s whore.’ I could barely force the words from my mouth.

  Molly’s head came up. ‘I have done noth­ing I’m ashamed of,’ she said evenly. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No. But …’

  ‘“But.” Your fa­vour­ite word,’ she said bit­terly. She walked away from me.

  ‘Molly!’ I sprang after her, seized her by the shoulders. She spun and hit me. Not a slap. A solid punch in the mouth that rocked me back and put blood in my mouth. She stood glar­ing, dar­ing me to touch her again. I didn’t. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight back. Only that I didn’t want you caught up in it. Give me a chance to fight this my way,’ I said. I knew blood was run­ning over my chin. I let her look at it. ‘Trust that, given time, I can find them and make them pay. My way. Now. Tell me about the men. What they wore, how they rode. What did the horses look like? Did they speak like Buck folk, or In­land­ers? Did they have beards? Could you tell the col­our of their hair, their eyes?’

  I saw her try­ing to think, saw her mind veer away from think­ing about it. ‘Brown,’ she said at last. ‘Brown horses, with black manes and tails. And the men talked like any­body else. One had a dark beard. I think. It’s hard to see face-down in the dirt.’

  ‘Good. That’s good,’ I told her, though she had told me noth­ing at all. She looked down, away from the blood on my face. ‘Molly,’ I said more quietly. ‘I won’t be com­ing … to your room. Not for a while. Be­cause …’

  ‘You’re afraid.’

  ‘Yes!’ I hissed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid. Afraid they’ll hurt you, afraid they’ll kill you. To hurt me. I won’t en­danger you by com­ing to you.’

  She stood still. I could not tell if she was listen­ing to me or not. She fol­ded her arms across her chest, hugged her­self.

  ‘I love you too much to see that hap­pen.’ My words soun­ded weak, even to my­self.

  She turned and walked away from me. She still hugged her­self, as if to keep her­self from fly­ing apart. She looked very alone, in her draggled blue skirts with her proud head bowed. ‘Molly Red Skirts,’ I whispered after her, but I could no longer see that Molly. Only what I had made of her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Neat­bay

  The Pocked Man is the le­gendary har­binger of dis­aster for the folk of the Six Duch­ies. To see him strid­ing down the road is to know that dis­ease and pes­ti­lence will soon come to call. To dream of him is said to be a warn­ing of a death to come. Of­ten the tales of him show him ap­pear­ing to those de­serving of pun­ish­ment, but some­times he is used, most of­ten in pup­pet-shows, as a gen­eral omen of dis­aster to come. A ma­ri­on­ette of the Pocked Man, hung dangling across the scenery, is a warn­ing to all in the audi­ence that soon they will wit­ness a tragedy.

  The days of winter dragged ag­on­iz­ingly slow. With every passing hour, I was braced for some­thing to hap­pen. I never walked into a room without sur­vey­ing it first, ate no food I had not seen pre­pared, drank only the wa­ter I drew from the well my­self. I slept poorly. The con­stant watch­ful­ness told on me in a hun­dred ways. I was snap­pish to those who spoke to me cas­u­ally, moody when I checked on Burrich, reti­cent with the Queen. Chade, the only one to whom I could have un­burdened my­self, did not sum­mon me. I was miser­ably alone. I dared not go to Molly. I kept my vis­its to Burrich as brief as pos­sible for fear of bring­ing my troubles down on him. I could not openly leave Buck­keep to spend time with Nighteyes, and I feared to leave by our secret way lest I be watched. I waited and I watched, but that noth­ing fur­ther happened to me be­came a soph­ist­ic­ated tor­ture of sus­pense.

  I did call on King Shrewd daily. I watched him dwindle be­fore my eyes, saw the Fool be­come daily more mor­ose, his hu­mour more acid. I longed for sav­age winter weather to match my mood, but the skies con­tin­ued blue and the winds calm. Within Buck­keep, the even­ings were noisy with gaiety and revel. There were masked balls, and sum­mon­ings of min­strels to com­pete for fat purses. The In­land dukes and nobles ate well at Regal’s table, and drank well with him late into the night.

  ‘Like ticks on a dy­ing dog,’ I said sav­agely to Burrich one day as I was chan­ging the dress­ing on his leg for him. He had made com­ment that it was no trick to stay awake on his night guard-duty at Kettricken’s door, for the noise of the rev­elry would have made it dif­fi­cult to sleep.

  ‘Who’s dy­ing?’ he asked.

  ‘All of us. One day at a time, we’re all dy­ing. Did no one ever tell you that? But this is heal­ing, and sur­pris­ingly well for all you’ve done to it.’

  He looked down at his bared leg and cau­tiously flexed it. The tis­sue pulled un­evenly, but held.
‘Maybe the gash is closed up, but it doesn’t feel healed in­side,’ he ob­served. It was not a com­plaint. He lif­ted his brandy cup and drained it off. I eyed it nar­rowly. His days had a pat­tern now. Once he left Kettricken’s door in the morn­ing, he went to the kit­chen and ate. Then he came back to his room and began drink­ing. After I ap­peared and helped him change the bandaging on his leg, he would drink un­til it was time for him to sleep. And wake up in the even­ing, just in time to eat and then go to guard Kettricken’s door. He no longer did any­thing in the stables. He had given them over to Hands, who went about look­ing as if the job were a pun­ish­ment he hadn’t de­served.

  Every other day or so, Pa­tience sent Molly up to tidy Burrich’s room for him. I knew little of these vis­its other than they had happened, and that Burrich, sur­pris­ingly, tol­er­ated them. I had mixed feel­ings about them. No mat­ter how much Burrich drank, he al­ways treated wo­men gra­ciously; yet the emp­tied brandy bottles in a row could not but re­mind Molly of her father. Still, I wished them to know one an­other. One day I told Burrich that Molly had been threatened be­cause of her as­so­ci­ation with me. ‘As­so­ci­ation?’ he had asked sharply.

  ‘Some few know that I care for her,’ I ad­mit­ted gingerly.

  ‘A man does not bring his prob­lems down on a wo­man he cares for,’ he told me severely.

  I had no reply to that. In­stead I gave him the few de­tails Molly had re­called about her at­tack­ers, but they sug­ges­ted noth­ing to him. For a time he had stared off, right through the walls of his room. After a time, he picked up his cup and drained it. He spoke care­fully. ‘I am go­ing to tell her that you are wor­ried about her. I am go­ing to tell her that if she fears danger, she must come to me. I am more in a po­s­i­tion to deal with it.’ He looked up and met my eyes. ‘I am go­ing to tell her that you are wise to stay away from her, for her sake.’ As he poured him­self an­other drink, he had ad­ded quietly to the table-top, ‘Pa­tience was right. And she was wise to send her to me.’

  I blanched to con­sider the full im­plic­a­tions of that state­ment. For once, I was smart enough to know when to be quiet. He drank his brandy down, then looked at the bottle. Slowly, he slid it across the table to­ward me. ‘Put that back on the shelf for me, will you?’ he re­ques­ted.

  An­im­als and winter stores con­tin­ued to be drained from Buck­keep. Some were sold off cheaply to the In­land duch­ies. The very finest of the hunt­ing and rid­ing horses were barged up the Buck, to an area near Tur­lake. Regal an­nounced this as a plan to pre­serve our best breed­ing stock far from the rav­ages of the Red Ships. The mut­ter of the folk in Buck­keep Town, so Hands told me, was that if the King could not hold his own castle, what hope was there for them? When a ship­ment of fine old tapestries and fur­niture was sent up­river as well, the mur­mur be­came that soon the Farseers would aban­don Buck­keep en­tirely, without even a fight, without even wait­ing for an as­sault. I had the un­com­fort­able sus­pi­cion that the ru­mour was cor­rect.

  Con­fined as I was to Buck­keep, I had little dir­ect ac­cess to the talk of the com­mon folk. A si­lence greeted my entry to the watch-room now. With my re­stric­tion to the keep had come gos­sip and spec­u­la­tion. The talk that had flown about me on the day I had failed to save the little girl from the Forged ones found new life. Few of the guard spoke to me of any­thing other than the weather or other pleas­ant­ries. While they did not make me a total pariah, I was ban­ished from the easy con­ver­sa­tions and ram­bling ar­gu­ments that usu­ally filled the watch-room. To talk to me had be­come bad luck. I wouldn’t in­flict that on men and wo­men I cared about.

  I was still wel­come about the stables, but I strove not to talk to any one per­son too much, or ap­pear too close to any of the beasts. The stable-work­ers were a mor­ose lot these days. There was not enough work to busy them, so quar­rels were more fre­quent. The stable-hands were my ma­jor source of news and ru­mours. None of it was cheery. There were garbled stor­ies of raids on Bearns towns, gos­sip about brawls in the tav­erns and on the docks of Buck­keep Town, and ac­counts of folk mov­ing south or in­land as their means al­lowed. What talk there was of Ver­ity and his quest was de­mean­ing or ri­dicul­ing. Hope had per­ished. Like me, the folk of Buck­keep were wait­ing in sus­pense for dis­aster to come to their door­steps.

  We had a month of stormy weather, and the re­lief and re­joicing in Buck­keep were more de­struct­ive than the pre­ced­ing period of ten­sion had been. A wa­ter­front tav­ern caught fire dur­ing an es­pe­cially wild even­ing of rev­elry. The fire spread, and only the drench­ing rain that fol­lowed the gust­ing winds saved it from spread­ing to the dock ware­houses. That would have been a dis­aster in more than one way, for as Regal drained the keep ware­houses of grain and sup­plies, folk in the town saw little reason to con­serve what was left. Even if the Raid­ers never came to Buck­keep it­self, I was resigned to short ra­tions be­fore the winter was out.

  I woke one night to stark still­ness. The howl of the storm winds and the rat­tling of rain had stilled. My heart sank. A ter­rible pre­mon­i­tion filled me, and when I rose to a clear blue morn­ing, my dread in­creased. Des­pite the sunny day, the at­mo­sphere in the keep was op­press­ive. Sev­eral times I felt the tick­ling of the Skill against my senses. It nearly drove me mad, for I did not know if it was Ver­ity at­tempt­ing bet­ter con­tact, or Justin and Se­rene pry­ing. A late af­ter­noon visit to King Shrewd and the Fool dis­heartened me fur­ther. The King, wasted to little more than bones, was sit­ting up and smil­ing vaguely. He Skilled feebly to­ward me as I came in the door, and then greeted me with, ‘Ah, Ver­ity, my lad. How did your sword les­son go today?’ The rest of his con­ver­sa­tion made as much sense. Regal ap­peared al­most im­me­di­ately after I ar­rived. He sat on a straight-backed chair, arms crossed on his chest and looked at me. No words were ex­changed between us. I could not de­cide if my si­lence were cow­ardice or self-re­straint. I es­caped him as soon as I de­cently could, des­pite a re­buk­ing look from the Fool.

  The Fool him­self looked little bet­ter than the King. On so col­our­less a creature as the Fool, the dark circles un­der his eyes looked painted on. His tongue had grown as still as the clap­pers in his bells. When King Shrewd died, noth­ing would stand between the Fool and Regal. I wondered if there were any way I could aid him.

  As if I could aid my­self, I re­flec­ted sourly.

  In the solitude of my room that even­ing, I drank more than I should of the cheap black­berry brandy that Burrich des­pised. I knew I would be sick from it to­mor­row. I didn’t care. Then I lay on my bed, listen­ing to the dis­tant sounds of mer­ri­ment from the Great Hall. I wished Molly were there to scold me for be­ing drunk. The bed was too large, the lin­ens gla­cier-white and cold. I closed my eyes and sought com­fort in the com­pany of a wolf. Con­fined as I was to the keep, I had be­gun to seek his dream com­pany on a nightly basis, just to have an il­lu­sion of free­dom.

  I came awake just be­fore Chade seized me and shook me. It was good I had re­cog­nized him in that split in­stant, for oth­er­wise I am sure I would have tried to kill him. ‘Up!’ he hissed hoarsely. ‘Get up, you sod­den fool, you idiot! Neat­bay is un­der siege. Five Red Ships. I wager they’ll leave noth­ing stand­ing if we delay. Get up, damn you!’

  I staggered to my feet, the muzzi­ness of drink giv­ing way be­fore the shock of his words.

  ‘What can we do?’ I asked stu­pidly.

  ‘Tell the King. Tell Kettricken, tell Regal. Surely not even Regal can ig­nore this, it is at our very door­step. If the Red Ships take and hold Neat­bay, they will have us brack­eted. No ships will get out of Buck Har­bour. Even Regal will see that. Now go! Go!’

  I dragged on trousers and a tu­nic, ran for the door bare­foot with my hair drag­gling about my face. I hal­ted there. ‘How do I know this? Whence do I say this warn­i
ng comes?’

  Chade hopped up and down in frus­tra­tion. ‘Damn and damn! Tell them any­thing! Tell Shrewd you had a dream of the Pocked Man scry­ing it in a pool of wa­ter! He at least should un­der­stand that! Tell them an Eld­er­ling brought you the news! Say any­thing, but get them to act and now!’

  ‘Right!’ I raced off down the hall­way, skid­ded down the steps and raced down the cor­ridor to King Shrewd’s cham­bers. I hammered on Shrewd’s door. At the far end of the hall, Burrich stood be­side his chair out­side Kettricken’s door. He looked at me, drew his short sword, and took a ready stance, eyes dart­ing every­where. ‘Raid­ers!’ I called down the hall to him, not caring who over­heard or how they re­acted. ‘Five Red Ships in Neat­bay! Rouse her majesty, tell her they need our aid now!’

  Burrich turned without a ques­tion, to tap on Kettricken’s door and be im­me­di­ately ad­mit­ted. It did not go so eas­ily for me. Wal­lace fi­nally opened the door a grudging crack, but would not budge un­til I sug­ges­ted he should be the one to race down the stairs and in­form Regal of my tid­ings. I be­lieve it was the pro­spect of mak­ing a dra­matic en­trance and con­fer­ring with the Prince be­fore all the merry-makers that de­cided him. He left the door un­guarded as he hur­ried to his small ante­cham­ber to make him­self present­able.

  The King’s bed­cham­ber was in total dark­ness and heavy with the reek of Smoke. I took a candle from his sit­ting room, kindled it at the dwind­ling fire and hastened in. In the dark­ness, I nearly trod upon the Fool, who was curled up like a cur at the King’s bed­side. I gaped in as­ton­ish­ment. He had not so much as a blanket or cush­ion for com­fort, but huddled on the rug be­side the King’s bed. He un­curled stiffly, com­ing awake, and then alarmed in an in­stant. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ he de­man­ded.

  ‘Raid­ers in Neat­bay. Five Red Ships. I have to rouse the King. What are you do­ing, sleep­ing here? Are you afraid to go back to your own room any more?’