Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

I real­ized that Brawndy had fallen si­lent. ‘Do not fear, FitzChiv­alry,’ he said quietly. ‘Do not doubt the right­ness of what we do, or we are all un­done. If yours was not the hand that reached forth to claim Buck­keep, an­other would have. We could not leave Buck with no one at the helm. Be glad it is your­self, as we are. Regal has gone where none of us may fol­low, fled in­land to hide be­neath his mother’s bed. We must stand on our own. All the omens and portents point us that way. They say the Pocked Man was seen drink­ing blood from a Buck­keep well, and that a ser­pent coiled on the main hearth in the Great Hall, and dared to strike at a child. I my­self, rid­ing south to be here, wit­nessed a young eagle be­dev­illed by crows. But just as I thought she must plunge into the sea to avoid them, she turned and, in mid-air, seized a crow that had sought to dive on her from above. She clenched him and dropped him bloody to the wa­ter, and all the other crows fled squawk­ing and flap­ping. These are signs, FitzChiv­alry. We’d be fools to ig­nore them.’

  Des­pite my scep­ti­cism for such signs, a shiver ran up me, set­ting the hair on my arms up­right. Brawndy glanced away from me, to the in­ner door of the cham­ber. I fol­lowed his eyes. Celer­ity stood there. The short, dark hair framed her proud face and her eyes gleamed fierce blue. ‘Daugh­ter, you have chosen well,’ the old man told her. ‘I wondered, once, what you saw in a scriber. Per­haps now I see it as well.’

  He beckoned her into the room, and she came in a rustle of skirts. She stood by her father, look­ing boldly at me. For the first time I glimpsed the steel will that hid in­side the shy child. It was un­nerv­ing.

  ‘I bade you wait, and you have,’ Duke Brawndy said to me. ‘You have shown your­self a man of hon­our in this. I have given you my loy­alty this day. Will you take my daugh­ter’s pledge to be your wife as well?’

  What a pre­cip­ice I teetered on. I met Celer­ity’s eyes. She had no doubts. If I had never known Molly, I would have found her beau­ti­ful. But when I looked at her, all I could see was who she was not. I had no heart left to give to any wo­man, let alone at a time like this. I turned my eyes back to her father, de­term­ined to speak firmly.

  ‘You do me more hon­our than I de­serve, sir. But, Duke Brawndy, it is as you have said. These are evil times, and un­cer­tain. With you, your daugh­ter is safe. At my side, she could know only greater un­cer­tainty. What we have dis­cussed here, today, some would call treason. I will not have it said that I took your daugh­ter to bind you to me in a ques­tion­able en­deav­our, nor that you gave your daugh­ter for such a reason.’ I forced my­self to look back at Celer­ity, to meet her eyes. ‘Brawndy’s daugh­ter is safer than FitzChiv­alry’s wife. Un­til my po­s­i­tion is more cer­tain, I pledge no one to me in any way. My re­gard for you is great, Lady Celer­ity. I am not a duke, nor even a lord. I am as I am named, an il­le­git­im­ate son of a prince. Un­til I can say I am more than that, I will seek no wife, nor court any wo­man.’

  Celer­ity was clearly dis­pleased. But her father nod­ded slowly to my words. ‘I see the wis­dom of your words. My daugh­ter, I fear, sees only the delay.’ He looked at Celer­ity’s pout, smiled fondly. ‘Someday she will un­der­stand that the people who seek to pro­tect her are the people who care for her.’ He ran his eyes over me as if I were a horse. ‘I be­lieve,’ he said quietly, ‘that Buck will stand. And that Ver­ity’s child shall in­herit the throne.’

  I left him with those words echo­ing in my mind. Again and again, I told my­self I had done noth­ing wrong. If I had not reached forth to claim Buck­keep, an­other would have.

  ‘Who?’ Chade de­man­ded an­grily of me some hours later.

  I sat look­ing down at my feet. ‘I don’t know. But they would have found someone. And that per­son would have been far more likely to cause blood­shed. To act at the King-in-Wait­ing ce­re­mony, and jeop­ard­ize our ef­forts to get Kettricken and Shrewd clear of this mess.’

  ‘If the Coastal dukes are as close to re­bel­lion as your re­port in­dic­ates, then per­haps we should re­con­sider that plan.’

  I sneezed. The room still smelled of birch­bark. I had used too much. ‘Brawndy did not come to me speak­ing of re­bel­lion, but of loy­alty to the true and right­ful king. And that was the spirit in which I re­spon­ded. I have no wish to over­throw the throne, Chade, only to se­cure it for its law­ful heir.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said briefly. ‘Oth­er­wise I would go straight to King Shrewd with this … mad­ness. I know not what to call it. It is not treason, quite, and yet …’

  ‘I am no traitor to my king.’ I spoke with quiet vehe­mence.

  ‘No? Let me ask you this, then. If, des­pite or, save us all, be­cause of our ef­forts to save Shrewd and Kettricken, they both per­ish with the child un­born, and Ver­ity never re­turns; what then? Will you still be so eager to cede the throne to the right­ful king?’

  ‘Regal?’

  ‘By the line of suc­ces­sion, yes.’

  ‘He is no king, Chade. He’s an in­dulged princeling, and al­ways will be. I’ve as much Farseer blood as he does.’

  ‘And so you might say of Kettricken’s child, when the time comes. Do you see what a dan­ger­ous path we set ourselves on, when we set ourselves above our places? You and I, we swore to the Farseer line, of which we are but ran­dom shoots. Not to King Shrewd alone, or to a wise king alone, but to up­hold the right­ful king of the Farseer line. Even if he is Regal.’

  ‘You would serve Regal?’

  ‘I have seen more fool­ish princes than he be­come wise as they aged. What you con­tem­plate will bring us civil war. Far­row and Tilth …’

  ‘Have no in­terest in any kind of a war. They will say, “good rid­dance” to us, and let the Coastal duch­ies go. Regal has al­ways said as much.’

  ‘And he prob­ably thinks he be­lieves it. But when he finds that he can­not buy fine silk, and that the wines of Bing­town and bey­ond no longer flow up the Buck River to his pal­ate, he will think bet­ter. He needs his port cit­ies, and he will come back for them.’

  ‘So what are we to do? What should I have done?’

  Chade sat down across from me, clasped his mottled hands between his bony old knees. ‘I do not know. Brawndy is des­per­ate in­deed. If you had loftily re­fused him and re­buked him with treason, well … I don’t say he’d have done away with you. But re­mem­ber he had no hes­it­a­tion about deal­ing quickly with Virago when she rep­res­en­ted a threat to him. This is all too much for one old as­sas­sin. We need a king.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Could you skill again to Ver­ity?’

  ‘I fear to try. I do not know how to guard against Justin and Se­rene. Or Will.’ I sighed. ‘Still, I will try. Surely Ver­ity will know if they ride with my Skilling.’ An­other thought in­truded. ‘Chade, to­mor­row night, when you lead Kettricken to es­cape, you must find a mo­ment or two, to tell her of what has tran­spired, and as­sure her of my loy­alty.’

  ‘Oh, those will be re­as­sur­ing tid­ings to give her, as she flees back to the moun­tains. No. Not to­mor­row night. I will see that word reaches her, when she is safe. And you must con­tinue to try to reach Ver­ity, but be­ware of hav­ing your Skilling spied upon. Are you sure our plans are un­known to them?’

  I had to shake my head. ‘But I be­lieve they are safe. I had told all to Ver­ity when first I Skilled him. It was not un­til the end that he said someone tried to spy upon us.’

  ‘You prob­ably should have killed Justin,’ Chade grumbled to him­self. Then he laughed at my out­raged look. ‘No, no, calm your­self. I will not re­buke you that you re­frained from it. Would that you had been so cir­cum­spect with the scheme that Brawndy brought you. Even a breath of this would be suf­fi­cient for Regal to have your neck stretched. And were he ruth­less and fool­ish, he could try to hang his dukes as well. No. Let us not even think of that! The halls of Buck­keep would run blood be­fore that was done. Woul
d you had found a way to turn the con­ver­sa­tion, be­fore ever he made you such an of­fer. Save, as you say, that they might have found an­other. Ah, well. We can­not put old heads on young shoulders. Un­for­tu­nately, Regal could re­move your young head from your shoulders all too eas­ily.’ He knelt and put an­other piece of wood on the fire. He took a breath and sighed it out. ‘Have you got all other things in read­i­ness?’ he asked ab­ruptly.

  I was only too glad to change the topic. ‘As much as I could. Burrich will be in place and wait­ing, in the alder copse where the dog-fox used to den.’

  Chade rolled his eyes. ‘How do I find that? Ask a passing dog-fox?’

  I smiled in­ad­vert­ently. ‘Close. Where will you emerge from Buck Castle?’

  He was stub­bornly si­lent for a mo­ment. Still that old fox hated to re­veal his back door. Fi­nally he said, ‘We will come out of the grain shed, the one third back from the stables.’

  I nod­ded slowly. ‘A grey wolf will meet you. Fol­low him si­lently, and he will show you a way out of the walls of Buck that does not take you through the gates.’

  For a long mo­ment Chade just looked at me. I waited. For con­dem­na­tion, for a look of dis­gust, even for curi­os­ity. But the old as­sas­sin had stud­ied too long how to mask his feel­ings. He said at last, ‘We are fools if we do not use every weapon that comes to hand. Is he any … danger to us?’

  ‘No more than I am. You need not wear wolfs­bane, nor of­fer him mut­ton to be al­lowed to pass.’ I was as fa­mil­iar with the old folk­lore as Chade was. ‘Simply show your­self and he will ap­pear to guide you. He will take you through the walls, and out to the copse where Burrich waits with the horses.’

  ‘Is it a long walk?’

  I knew he was think­ing of the King. ‘It is not overly long, but it is not short, and the snow is deep and un­packed. It will not be easy to scrabble through the gap in the wall, but it can be done. I could ask Burrich to meet you at the wall in­stead, but I do not wish to draw at­ten­tion to it. Per­haps the Fool could help you man­age?’

  ‘He will have to, from the sounds of things. I am not will­ing to bring any oth­ers in on this plot. Our po­s­i­tion seems only to be­come more and more un­ten­able.’

  I bowed my head to the truth of that. ‘And you?’ I ven­tured to ask.

  ‘My tasks are done as com­pletely as they could be, ahead of time. The Fool has as­sisted me. He has spir­ited away both cloth­ing and coin for his king’s jour­ney. Shrewd has re­luct­antly agreed to our plan. He knows it is wise, but every part of it chafes him. Des­pite all, Fitz, Regal is his son, his fa­voured young­est. Even hav­ing felt Regal’s ruth­less­ness, it is still hard for him to say the Prince threatens his life. You see how he is bound: to ad­mit that Regal would turn on him is to ad­mit he was wrong about his son. To flee Buck­keep is even worse, for that is ad­mit­ting not only that Regal would turn on him, but that flight is his only op­tion. Our king has never been a cow­ard. It galls him now to run from one who should be most loyal to him. Yet he must. Of that I have con­vinced him; mostly, I’ll ad­mit, by say­ing that without his ac­know­ledge­ment, Kettricken’s child will have a poor claim on the throne.’ Chade sighed. ‘All is as ready as I can make it. I have pre­pared the medi­cines, and all is well packed.’

  ‘The Fool un­der­stands he can­not go with his king?’

  Chade rubbed his fore­head. ‘He in­tends to fol­low, a few days be­hind. He would not be dis­suaded en­tirely. The best I could do was to get him to travel sep­ar­ately.’

  ‘Then it but de­pends on me to find a way to empty the king’s room of wit­nesses, and for you to spirit him away.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Chade ob­served mirth­lessly. ‘All is well planned and ready to carry out, save for the ac­tual deed.’

  We stared to­gether into the fire.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Es­capes and Cap­tures

  The out­break of strife between the Coastal and In­land duch­ies at the end of King Shrewd’s reign was not a new sun­der­ing, but rather a re­sump­tion of old dif­fer­ences. The four Coastal duch­ies, Bearns, Buck, Rip­pon and Shoaks were a king­dom long be­fore the Six Duch­ies came to be. When the uni­fied battle tac­tics of the Chalced States con­vinced King Wielder that their con­quest would be un­prof­it­able, he turned his am­bi­tions in­land. The Far­row re­gion, with its scattered, no­madic tri­bal pop­u­la­tions fell eas­ily to the or­gan­ized armies he led. The more pop­u­lous and settled Tilth grudgingly sur­rendered to him when the erstwhile king of that re­gion found his ter­rit­ory sur­roun­ded and his trade routes severed.

  Both the old king­dom of Tilth and the re­gion that would come to be known as Far­row were held as conquered ter­rit­ory for over a gen­er­a­tion. The wealth of their granar­ies, orch­ards and herds were ex­ploited lav­ishly for the be­ne­fit of the Coastal duch­ies. Queen Mu­ni­fi­cence, grand­daugh­ter of Wielder, was wise enough to see that this was breed­ing dis­con­tent in the in­land areas. She showed great tol­er­ance and wis­dom in el­ev­at­ing the tri­bal eld­ers of the Far­row folk and the former rul­ing fam­il­ies of Tilth to nobles. She used mar­riages and grants of land to forge al­li­ances between Coastal and In­land folk. She first re­ferred to her king­dom as the Six Duch­ies. But all of her polit­ical man­oeuvres could not change the geo­graphic and eco­nomic in­terests of the dif­fer­ent areas. Cli­mate, folk and live­li­hoods of the In­land duch­ies re­mained vastly dif­fer­ent from those of the Coastal peoples.

  Dur­ing Shrewd’s reign, the dif­fer­ing in­terests of the two re­gions were ex­acer­bated by the off­spring of his two queens. His elder sons, Ver­ity and Chiv­alry, were the sons of Queen Con­stance, a noble­wo­man of Shoaks with re­l­at­ives among the no­bil­ity of Bearns as well. She was very much of the Coastal folk. Shrewd’s second queen, De­sire, was from Far­row, but traced her fam­ily lin­eage back to the long-foundered roy­alty of Tilth as well as to a dis­tant Farseer con­nec­tion. Hence came her oft-re­peated claim that her son Regal was more royal than either of his half-broth­ers, and hence had more right to the throne.

  With the dis­ap­pear­ance of King-in-Wait­ing Ver­ity and ru­mours of his death, and the ob­vi­ous fail­ing of King Shrewd, it ap­peared to the Coastal dukes that power and title would be passed on to Prince Regal, born of In­land lin­eage. They pre­ferred to align with the un­born child of Ver­ity, a Coastal prince, and pre­dict­ably did all they could to re­tain and con­sol­id­ate power in the Coastal blood-lines. Threatened as the Coastal duch­ies were by Raid­ers and For­gings, it was really the only ra­tional choice they could make.

  The King-in-Wait­ing ce­re­mony was too long. Folk were as­sembled well ahead of time, to al­low Regal to make a stately en­trance through our ranks and as­cend to the high seat, where a drows­ing King Shrewd awaited him. Queen Kettricken, pale as a wax taper, stood be­hind Shrewd at his left shoulder. Shrewd was be­decked in robes and fur col­lars and the full re­galia of the royal jew­els, but Kettricken had res­isted Regal’s sug­ges­tions and en­tice­ments. She stood very tall and straight in a plain robe of purple, belted above her round­ing belly. A simple circlet of gold con­fined the cropped rem­nants of her hair. Other than that band of metal at her temples, she might have been a ser­vant stand­ing ready to at­tend Shrewd. I knew she saw her­self still as Sac­ri­fice rather than Queen. She could not see that the stark­ness of her at­tire made her look dra­mat­ic­ally for­eign to the court. The Fool was there as well, in a well-worn mot­ley of black and white, and with Ratsy once more upon his sceptre. He had striped his face in black and white as well, and I wondered if this was to cam­ou­flage his bruises, or simply to com­ple­ment his mot­ley. He had ap­peared some time be­fore Regal had, and had very ob­vi­ously en­joyed the spec­tacle he cre­ated by saun­ter­ing up the aisle, wav­ing Ratsy about in airy be­ne­dic­tion, curt­sey­ing to t
he as­semblage and then plop­ping grace­fully at the King’s feet. Guards had be­gun to move to in­ter­cept him, but were blocked by grin­ning, cran­ing people. When he reached the dais and seated him­self, the King had reached down ab­sently to tousle the Fool’s sparse locks, and so he had been suffered to re­main where he was. Scowls or grins were ex­changed over the Fool’s per­form­ance, de­pend­ing largely on how deeply people had pledged their al­le­gi­ance to Regal. I feared my­self that it would be the Fool’s last prank.

  The at­mo­sphere in the keep all day had been like to that of a seeth­ing pot. My trust that Bearns was a tight-lipped man had been mis­placed. En­tirely too many minor nobles were sud­denly nod­ding to me, or catch­ing my eye for an ex­changed look. I feared it could not be missed by any of Regal’s min­ions, and so had kept my­self to my room, or, for a good part of the early af­ter­noon, in Ver­ity’s tower, where I had vainly at­temp­ted to Skill forth to him. I had chosen that spot in the hopes of in­vok­ing his memory cleanly to my mind, but I failed. In­stead I found my­self strain­ing for a hint of Will’s foot­step on the tower stairs, or a brush of Justin’s or Se­rene’s pres­ence against my Skill sense.

  After I gave up on Skilling, I sat long, pon­der­ing the un­solv­able riddle of how I would empty the King’s room of guards. Out­side I could hear the pound­ing of the sea and the wind, and when I opened the win­dows briefly the gust­ing storm fair blew me across the room. Most saw this as a fair day for the ce­re­mony; the rising storm might keep Raid­ers berthed wherever they were at present and as­sure us no new raids. I watched the freez­ing rain put­ting a crust on the banked snow while mak­ing the roads treach­er­ously slick, and ima­gined Burrich trav­el­ling through it by night with the Queen and King Shrewd in his lit­ter. It was not a task I would en­joy.

  The tone for some­thing of great portent to hap­pen had been well set. Now, in ad­di­tion to stor­ies of the Pocked Man and snakes on the hearth, there was des­pair in the kit­chens. The day’s bake of bread had failed to rise, and the milk had curdled in the casks be­fore even the cream could be skimmed from it. Poor Cook Sara had been shaken to her core, and de­clared that never be­fore had such a thing dared to hap­pen in her kit­chens. The pig-men would not even let the soured milk be given to the swine, so sure were all that it was cursed. The fail­ure of the bread had meant twice the catch-up work for the kit­chen ser­vants, who were already over­burdened with feed­ing all the guests who had come for the ce­re­mony. I could now vouch that the tem­pers of an en­tire keep could be dis­turbed by an un­happy kit­chen crew.