Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘Per­haps I shall,’ said Kettricken, rising with sur­pris­ing alac­rity. ‘Come, Rose­mary. Good night, my king.’

  She swept from the room, with Rose­mary prac­tic­ally trot­ting at her heels. The child gave us many a back­ward glance. As soon as the door cur­tain fell be­hind them, I was at the King’s side. ‘My king, it is time,’ I told him gently. ‘I shall keep watch here as you go. Is there any­thing spe­cial you wished to take with you?’

  He swal­lowed, then fo­cused his eyes on me. ‘No. No, there is noth­ing here for me. Noth­ing to leave be­hind, and noth­ing to stay for.’ He closed his eyes, spoke softly. ‘I have changed my mind, Fitz. I think I shall stay here, and die in my own bed this night.’

  The Fool and I were both struck dumb for an in­stant.

  ‘Ah, no!’ the Fool cried softly, while I said, ‘My king, you are but tired.’

  ‘And the only thing I shall get is more tired.’ There was a strange lu­cid­ity in his eyes. The boy-king I had touched briefly when we Skilled to­gether looked out at me from that pain-racked body. ‘My body fails me. My son has be­come a ser­pent. Regal knows his brother lives. He knows the crown he wears is not right­fully his. I did not think he would … I thought at the last, he would think bet­ter …’ Tears welled in his an­cient eyes. I had thought to save my king from a dis­loyal prince. I should have known there was no sav­ing a father from the be­trayal of a son. He reached a hand to­ward me, a hand gone from a muscled sword-holder to a gaunt and yel­lowed claw. ‘I would say farewell to Ver­ity. I would have him know, from me, that I did not coun­ten­ance any of this. Let me at least keep that much faith with the son who kept faith with me.’ He poin­ted to a spot by his feet. ‘Come, Fitz. Take me to him.’

  There was no re­fus­ing that com­mand. I did not hes­it­ate. I came and knelt be­fore him. The Fool stood be­hind him, tears cut­ting grey paths through the black and white paint on his face. ‘No,’ he whispered ur­gently. ‘My king, rise, let us go into hid­ing. There you may think this through. You need not de­cide this now.’

  Shrewd paid him no mind. I felt Shrewd’s hand settle on my shoulder. I opened my strength to him, sor­row­fully sur­prised that I had at last learned how to do that at will. We plunged to­gether into the black Skill river. We turned in that cur­rent as I waited for him to give us dir­ec­tion. In­stead, he sud­denly em­braced me. Son of my son, blood of my blood. In my own way, I have loved you.

  My king.

  My young as­sas­sin. What have I made of you? How I have twis­ted my own flesh. You do not know how young you still are. Chiv­alry’s son, it is not too late to grow straight again. Lift up your head. See bey­ond all this.

  I had spent my life be­com­ing what he wished me to be. These words now filled me with con­fu­sion and ques­tions there was no time to an­swer. I could feel his strength fad­ing.

  Ver­ity, I whispered to re­mind him.

  I felt him reach out, and stead­ied that reach­ing for him. I felt the brush of Ver­ity’s pres­ence, and then a sud­den dwind­ling of the King. I groped after him as one would dive after a drown­ing man in deep wa­ter. I seized his con­scious­ness, held it to me, but it was like grip­ping a shadow. He was a boy in my arms, frightened and strug­gling against he knew not what.

  Then he was gone.

  Like a bubble pop­ping.

  I had thought I had glimpsed the frailty of life when I held the dead child in my arms. Now I knew it. Here, and then not here. Even a snuffed candle may leave a trail­ing wisp of smoke. My king was simply gone.

  But I was not alone.

  I think every child has flipped over the dead bird found in the woods, only to be shocked and ter­ri­fied by the busy work­ings of the mag­gots on the un­der­side. Fleas cluster thick­est and ticks grow fast­est on a dy­ing dog. Justin and Se­rene, like suck­ing leeches for­sak­ing a dy­ing fish, rose and tried to fasten to me. Here, the source of their in­creased strength and the King’s slow fail­ing. Here the mist that had clouded his mind and filled his days with wear­i­ness. Ga­len, their mas­ter, had made Ver­ity his tar­get. But he had missed his kill, and in­stead met his own death. How long these had been fastened to the King, how long they had sucked Skill strength from him, I would never know. They would have been privy to all he Skilled through me to Ver­ity. Much was sud­denly made clear to me, but it was all too late. They closed on me, and I had no concept of how to evade them. I felt them fasten to me, knew they were draw­ing off my strength now, and that with no reason to re­frain from it, they would kill me in mo­ments.

  Ver­ity! I cried out, but I was already too weakened. I would never reach him.

  Off him, curs! A fa­mil­iar snarl, and then Nighteyes re­pelled through me. I did not think it would work, but as be­fore, he forced the Wit weapon upon them through the chan­nel the Skill had opened. The Wit and the Skill were two dif­fer­ent things, as un­like as read­ing and singing, or swim­ming and rid­ing a horse. Yet when they were linked to me by the Skill, they must be vul­ner­able to this other ma­gic. I felt them re­pulsed from me, but there were two of them to with­stand the im­pact of Nighteyes’ at­tack. It would not de­feat them both.

  Up and run! Flee those you can­not fight!

  I found it a wise sug­ges­tion. Fear drove me back into my own body and I slammed the guards of my mind closed to their Skill touch. When I could, I opened my eyes. I lay on the floor of the King’s study, gasp­ing, while above me the Fool had thrown his body across the King’s and was weep­ing wildly. I felt the creep­ing tendrils of the Skill sense grop­ing after me. I with­drew deep into my­self, shiel­ded frantic­ally in the way Ver­ity had taught me. And still I felt their pres­ence, like ghostly fin­gers pluck­ing at my clothes, trail­ing down my skin. It filled me with re­vul­sion.

  ‘You’ve killed him, you’ve killed him! You’ve killed my king, you rot­ten traitor!’ The Fool shrieked at me.

  ‘No! It was not I!’ I could barely gasp out the words.

  To my hor­ror Wal­lace stood in the door, tak­ing in the whole scene with wild eyes. Then he lif­ted his glance, and screamed aloud in hor­ror. He dropped the arm­ful of wood he had brought. Both the Fool and I turned our heads.

  Stand­ing in the door of the King’s bed­cham­ber was the Pocked Man. Even know­ing it was Chade, I still knew one mo­ment of hair-rais­ing ter­ror. He was dressed in tattered grave-clothes, smeared with earth and mil­dew. His long grey hair hung in filthy locks about his face, and he had smeared his skin with ash that the livid scars might stand out the bet­ter. He lif­ted a slow hand to point at Wal­lace. The man screamed, and then fled shriek­ing down the halls. His yam­mer­ing for the guards echoed through the keep.

  ‘What goes on here?’ Chade de­man­ded as soon as Wal­lace had fled. He crossed to his brother in a single stride, laid long thin fin­gers across the King’s throat. I knew what he would find. I clambered pain­fully to my feet.

  ‘He’s dead. I DID NOT KILL HIM!’ My shout cut across the Fool’s rising wail. The Skill fin­gers plucked at me in­sist­ently. ‘I go to kill those who did. Take the Fool to safety. Have you the Queen?’

  Chade’s eyes were very wide. He stared at me as if he had never seen me be­fore. All the candles in the room went sud­denly to sput­ter­ing blue. It seemed only fit­ting. ‘Get her to safety,’ I ordered my mas­ter. ‘And see the Fool goes with her. If he stays here, he’s dead. Regal will let no one live who has been in this room to­night.’

  ‘No! I will not leave him!’ The Fool’s eyes were wide and empty as a mad thing’s.

  ‘Take him how­ever you can, Chade! His life de­pends on it!’ I grabbed the Fool by the shoulders and shook him sav­agely. His head whipped back and forth on his thin neck. ‘Go with Chade and be si­lent. Be si­lent, if you want your king’s death avenged. For that is what I go to do.’ A sud­den tremor ran over me and the world rocked, black at the edges. ‘Elf­bark!’ I gasped. ‘I need el
f­bark from you. Then flee!’ I thrust the Fool into Chade’s arms, and the old man took him in his ropy grasp. It was like watch­ing him taken into the arms of death. They left the room, Chade pro­pelling the weep­ing Fool along. After a mo­ment, I heard the barest grat­ing of stone on stone. I knew they were gone.

  I sank to my knees, then could not keep from top­pling. I fetched up against my dead king’s lap. His cool­ing hand fell from the chair arm to rest upon my head.

  ‘A stu­pid time for tears,’ I said aloud to the empty room. But that did not stop them. Black­ness swirled at the edge of my vis­ion. The ghostly Skill fin­gers plucked at my walls, scrap­ing at the mor­tar, try­ing every stone. I pushed at them, but they came right back. The way Chade had looked at me, I sud­denly doubted that he would be back. Still. I took a breath.

  Nighteyes. Guide them to the fox’s den. I showed him the shed they would emerge from and where they must go. It was all I could man­age.

  My brother?

  Guide them, my heart! I pushed him feebly away, and felt him go. Still the fool­ish tears tracked down my face. I reached to steady my­self. My hand fell at the King’s waist. I opened my eyes, forced my vis­ion to clear. His knife. Not some jew­elled dag­ger, but the simple knife that every man car­ries at his waist, for the simple day-to-day tasks he does. I took a breath, then pulled it from its sheath. I held it in my lap and looked at it. An hon­est blade, honed thin from years of use. A handle of antler, prob­ably carved once, but worn smooth with the grip of his hand. I ran my fin­gers lightly over it, and they found what my eyes could no longer read. Hod’s sign. The Weapon­mas­ter had made this for her king. And he had used it well.

  A memory tickled at the back of my mind. ‘We are tools,’ Chade had told me. I was the tool he had forged for the King. The King had looked at me, and wondered, what have I made of you? I did not need to won­der. I was the King’s as­sas­sin. In more ways than one. But I would see that I served him as I had been in­ten­ded, one last time.

  Someone crouched be­side me. Chade. I turned my head slowly to look at him. ‘Car­ris seed,’ he told me. ‘No time to pre­pare elf­bark. Come. Let me take you into hid­ing as well.’

  ‘No.’ I took the small cake of car­ris seed com­pressed with honey. I put the whole thing in my mouth and chewed, grind­ing the seed between my back teeth to re­lease the full strength. I swal­lowed. ‘Go,’ I bid him. ‘I have a task, and so have you. Burrich is wait­ing. The alarm will be raised soon. Get the Queen away quickly, while you have a chance of get­ting ahead of the hunt. I will keep them busy.’

  He re­leased me. ‘Good­bye, boy,’ he said gruffly, and stooped to kiss me on the fore­head. It was farewell. He didn’t ex­pect to see me alive again.

  That made two of us.

  He left me there, and be­fore even I heard the grate of stone on stone, I felt the work­ing of the car­ris seed. I had had the seed be­fore, at Spring­fest when every­one does. A tiny pinch of it sprinkled across the top of a sugar cake brings a merry gid­di­ness to the heart. Burrich had warned me that some dis­hon­est horse-traders fed their charges car­ris oil on their grain, for the pur­pose of win­ning a race, or to make a sick horse show well at an auc­tion. He had also warned me that a horse so treated was of­ten never the same beast again. If he sur­vived. I knew Chade had used it, on oc­ca­sion, and I had seen him drop like a stone when the ef­fects wore off. Yet I did not hes­it­ate. Per­haps, I con­ceded briefly, per­haps Burrich was right about me. The ec­stasy of the Skill, or the frantic flush and heat of the hunt. Did I taunt self-de­struc­tion, or did I de­sire it? I did not worry about it for long. The car­ris seed took me. My strength was as the strength of ten, and my heart soared like an eagle. I sprang to my feet. I star­ted for the door, then turned back.

  I knelt be­fore my dead king. I lif­ted his knife, held it be­fore my brow as I swore to him, ‘This blade shall take your ven­geance.’ I kissed his hand and left him there be­fore the fire.

  If I had thought the candles spit­ting blue sparks were un­nerv­ing, then the blue glow of the torches in the hall was other-worldly. It was like look­ing down through still deep wa­ter. I sprin­ted down the hall, gig­gling to my­self. Be­low, I could hear a clam­our, with Wal­lace’s voice raised shrill above the rest. Blue flames and the Pocked Man, he was yam­mer­ing. Not as much time had passed as I had thought, and now time waited for me. Light as the wind I dar­ted down the hall. I found a door that would open and slipped within. I waited. They took forever to come up the stairs, even longer to go past my door. I let them reach the King’s cham­ber, and when I heard the shouts of alarm be­gin, I sprang from my hid­ing-place and dashed down the stairs.

  Someone shouted after me as I fled, but no one gave chase. I was to the bot­tom of the stairs be­fore I heard someone fi­nally give the or­der to catch me. I laughed aloud. As if they could! Buck­keep Castle was a war­ren of back ways and ser­vants’ pas­sages for a boy who had grown up there. I knew where I was go­ing, but I didn’t go there dir­ectly. Like a fox I ran, ap­pear­ing briefly in the Great Hall, dash­ing across the cobbles of the washer-courts, ter­ri­fy­ing Cook with my frantic dash through her kit­chens. And al­ways, al­ways, the pale Skill fin­gers plucked and fingered me, not know­ing at all that I was com­ing, com­ing my dears, com­ing to find you.

  Ga­len, born and raised in Far­row, had al­ways hated the sea. He feared it, I think, and so his cham­ber had been on the side of the keep that faced the moun­tains. After he had died, I had heard it had be­come a shrine to him. Se­rene had taken over his bed­cham­ber, but kept his sit­ting room as a gath­er­ing place for the co­terie. I had never vis­ited his rooms, but I knew the way. I took the steps up like an ar­row in flight, whisked down the hall past a couple in a heated em­brace and stopped at a heavy door ban­ded with iron. But a thick door that is not prop­erly barred is no bar­rier at all, and in mo­ments this one swung open to my touch.

  There was a semi-circle of chairs set up around a tall table. A fat candle burned in the centre of it. For fo­cus, I ima­gined. Only two of the chairs were oc­cu­pied. Justin and Se­rene sat side by side, hands clasped, eyes closed, heads lolled back in the throes of Skilling. No Will. I had hoped to find him here as well.

  For the barest in­stant I looked at their faces. Per­spir­a­tion gleamed on them, and I was flattered that they put so much ef­fort to break­ing down my walls. Their mouths twitched in small smiles, res­ist­ing the ec­stasy of the Skill user, fo­cus­ing on the ob­ject rather than on the pleas­ure of the pur­suit. I did not hes­it­ate. ‘Sur­prise!’ I said softly. I jerked Se­rene’s head back and pulled the King’s blade across her ex­posed throat. She jerked once, and I let her fall to the floor. There was a re­mark­able amount of blood.

  Justin leaped to his feet with a shriek and I braced my­self for his on­slaught. He fooled me, though. He fled squeal­ing down the hall and I fol­lowed, knife in hand. He soun­ded just like a pig, and he was in­cred­ibly fast. No fox-tricks for Justin, he fa­voured the most dir­ect route to the Great Hall, shriek­ing all the way. I laughed as I ran. Even now it seems to me in­cred­ible to re­call that, but I can­not deny it. Did he sup­pose Regal would draw sword to de­fend him? Did he think, hav­ing killed my king, that any­thing in the world could stand between me and him?

  In the Great Hall, mu­si­cians had been play­ing and folk dan­cing, but Justin’s en­trance put an end to that. I had gained on him so that there were scarce a score of steps between us when he caromed into one of the laden tables. Folk were still stand­ing shocked at his en­trance when I leaped on him and pulled him down. I punched the knife in and out of him half a dozen times be­fore any­one thought they should in­ter­fere. As Regal’s Far­row-bred guards reached for me, I flung his twitch­ing body into them, found a table at my back, and leaped onto it. I held up my drip­ping blade. ‘The King’s knife!’ I told them, and showed it round. ‘Tak­ing blood in ven­geance f
or the King’s death. That is all!’

  ‘He’s mad!’ someone cried. ‘Ver­ity’s death has driven him mad!’

  ‘Shrewd!’ I cried in fury. ‘King Shrewd has fallen to treach­ery this night!’

  Regal’s In­lander guards hit my table in a wave. I had not thought there were that many of them. We all went down in a wave of food and crock­ery. Folk were scream­ing, but as many surged for­wards to wit­ness as re­treated in hor­ror. Hod would have been proud of me. With the King’s belt knife, I held off three men with short swords. I danced, I leaped, I pi­rou­et­ted. I was much too fast for them and the cuts they did in­flict on me caused me no pain. I scored two good slashes on two of them, simply be­cause they did not think I would dare lunge close enough to in­flict them.

  Some­where back in the crowd, someone raised a cry. ‘Arms! To the Bas­tard! They are killing FitzChiv­alry!’ A struggle began but I could not see who was in­volved, nor give it any at­ten­tion at all. I stabbed one of the guards in the hand and he dropped his blade. ‘Shrewd!’ Someone cried above the din. ‘King Shrewd is slain!’ By the sounds of the other struggle, more folk were be­com­ing in­volved. I could not look to see. I heard an­other table crash to the floor, and a scream across the room. Then Buck­keep’s own guard came pour­ing into the room. I heard Kerf’s voice raised above the gen­eral din. ‘Sep­ar­ate them! Quell it! Try not to spill blood in the King’s own hall!’ I saw my at­tack­ers ringed, saw Blade’s look of con­sterna­tion as he saw me and then cried out over his shoulder, ‘It’s FitzChiv­alry! They’re try­ing to take down the Fitz!’

  ‘Sep­ar­ate them! Dis­arm them!’ Kerf but­ted heads with one of Regal’s guards, drop­ping him. Bey­ond him I saw knots of strug­gling break out as Buck guards fell on Regal’s per­sonal guard, bat­ter­ing blades down, and de­mand­ing that swords be sheathed. I had space for a breath, and could lift my eyes from my own struggle to see that, in­deed, a great many folk had be­come in­volved, and not just guards. Fist fights had broken out amongst the guests as well. It looked to be­come both brawl and riot when sud­denly Blade, one of our own guards­men, shouldered between two of my at­tack­ers, send­ing them sprawl­ing to the floor. He leaped for­ward and con­fron­ted me.