Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  Time passed slowly in that un­chan­ging place. I was not given food nor wa­ter un­less I asked for them, and some­times not then, so meals were no meas­ure of the day. Awake, I was a pris­oner of my thoughts and wor­ries. Once I tried to Skill to Ver­ity, but the ef­fort brought on a dark­en­ing of my vis­ion and a long period of pound­ing head­ache. I had not the strength for a second ef­fort. Hun­ger be­came a con­stant, as un­re­lent­ing as the cold of the cell. I heard the guards twice turn Pa­tience away, heard them re­fuse to give me the food and band­ages she had brought. I did not call to her. I wanted her to give up, to dis­as­so­ci­ate her­self from me. My only res­pite came when I slept and dream-hunted with Nighteyes. I tried to use his senses to ex­plore what went on at Buck­keep, but he at­tached only a wolf’s im­port­ance to things, and when I was with him, I shared his val­ues. Time was not di­vided by days and nights, but from kill to kill. The meat I de­voured with him could not sus­tain my hu­man body, and yet there was sat­is­fac­tion in the gor­ging. With his senses I found the weather chan­ging, and awoke one morn­ing know­ing that a clear winter day had dawned. Raider weather. The Coastal dukes could not linger much longer in Buck­keep, if they had lingered at all.

  As if to bear me out, there were voices at the guard sta­tion and the rasp of boots against the stone floor. I heard Regal’s voice, strained with an­ger, and the guard’s con­cili­at­ory greet­ing, and then they came down the cor­ridor. For the first time since I had awakened there, I heard a key in the lock of my cell, and the door was swung open. I sat up slowly. Three dukes and a traitor prince peered in at me. I man­aged to come to my feet. Be­hind my lords stood a row of sol­diers armed with pikes, as if ready to hold a maddened beast at bay. A guard with a drawn sword stood be­side the open door, between Regal and me. He did not un­der­es­tim­ate my hatred.

  ‘You see him,’ Regal de­clared flatly. ‘He is alive and well. I have not done away with him. But know also that I have the right to. He killed a man, my ser­vant, right in my hall. And a wo­man up­stairs in her cham­ber. I have a right to his life, for those crimes alone.’

  ‘King-in-Wait­ing Regal. You charge FitzChiv­alry with killing King Shrewd us­ing the Wit,’ Brawndy stated. With pon­der­ous lo­gic he ad­ded, ‘I have never heard of such a thing be­ing pos­sible. But if this is so, then the Coun­cil has first right to his life, for he would have killed the King first. It would take a con­ven­ing of the Coun­cil, to de­cide his guilt or in­no­cence, and to set his sen­tence.’

  Regal sighed in ex­as­per­a­tion. ‘Then I will con­vene the Coun­cil. Let us get it done and have it over with. It is ri­dicu­lous to delay my coron­a­tion for a mur­derer’s ex­e­cu­tion.’

  ‘My lord, a king’s death is never ri­dicu­lous,’ Duke Shem­shy of Shoaks poin­ted out quietly. ‘And we will have done with one king be­fore we have an­other, Regal, King-in-Wait­ing.’

  ‘My father is dead and bur­ied. How much more done with him can you be?’ Regal was be­com­ing reck­less. There was noth­ing of grief or re­spect in his re­tort.

  ‘We will know how he died, and at whose hand,’ Brawndy of Bearns told him. ‘Your man Wal­lace said FitzChiv­alry killed the King. You, King-in-Wait­ing Regal, agreed, say­ing he used the Wit to do it. Many of us be­lieve that FitzChiv­alry was sin­gu­larly de­voted to his king and would not do such a thing. And FitzChiv­alry said the Skill users did.’ For the first time, Duke Brawndy looked dir­ectly at me. I met his eyes and spoke to him as if we were alone.

  ‘Justin and Se­rene killed him,’ I said quietly. ‘By treach­ery, they killed my king.’

  ‘Si­lence!’ Regal bawled. He lif­ted his hand as if to strike me. I did not flinch.

  ‘And so I killed them,’ I con­tin­ued, look­ing only at Brawndy. ‘With the King’s knife. Why else would I have chosen such a weapon?’

  ‘Crazy men do strange things.’ This from Duke Kelvar of Rip­pon, while Regal strangled, livid with fury. I met Kelvar’s eyes calmly. Last time I had spoken with him had been at his own table, at Neat­bay.

  ‘I am not crazy,’ I as­ser­ted quietly. ‘I was no more crazy that night than I was the night I wiel­ded an axe out­side the walls of Bay­guard.’

  ‘That may be so,’ Kelvar af­firmed thought­fully. ‘It is com­mon talk that he goes ber­serk when he fights.’

  A glint came into Regal’s eyes. ‘It is com­mon talk, too, that he has been seen with blood on his mouth after he has fought. That he be­comes one of the an­im­als that he was raised with. He is Wit­ted.’

  Si­lence greeted this re­mark. The Dukes ex­changed glances, and when Shem­shy glanced back at me, there was dis­taste in the look. Brawndy fi­nally answered Regal. ‘This is a grave charge you level. Have you a wit­ness?’

  ‘To blood on his mouth? Sev­eral.’

  Brawndy shook his head. ‘Any man may fin­ish a battle with a bloody face. An axe is not a tidy weapon. I can at­test to that. No. It would take more than that.’

  ‘Then let us con­vene the Coun­cil,’ Regal re­peated im­pa­tiently. ‘Hear what Wal­lace has to say about how my father died and at whose hand.’

  The three dukes ex­changed glances. Their eyes came back to me, con­sid­er­ing. Duke Brawndy led the Coast now. I was cer­tain of it when he was the one who spoke. ‘King-in-Wait­ing Regal. Let us speak plainly. You have ac­cused FitzChiv­alry, son of Chiv­alry, of us­ing the Wit, the beast ma­gic, to slay King Shrewd. This is in­deed a grave charge. To sat­isfy us of it, we ask that you prove to us that not only is he Wit­ted, but that he can use it to do in­jury to an­other. All of us were wit­ness that there were no marks on King Shrewd’s body, no sign of a death struggle at all. Had not you raised this cry of treach­ery, we might have ac­cep­ted that he had died of his years. Some, even, have whispered that you but seek an ex­cuse to be rid of FitzChiv­alry. I know you have heard these ru­mours; I speak them aloud that we may con­front them.’ Brawndy paused, as if de­bat­ing with him­self. He glanced once more at his peers. When neither Kelvar nor Shem­shy gave sign of dis­sen­sion, he cleared his throat and con­tin­ued.

  ‘We have a pro­posal, King-in-Wait­ing Regal. Prove to us, sir, that FitzChiv­alry is Wit­ted, and that he used that Wit to kill King Shrewd, and we will let you put him to death as you see fit. We will wit­ness your coron­a­tion as King of the Six Duch­ies. Fur­ther, we will ac­cept Lord Bright as your pres­ence in Buck­keep and al­low you to re­tire your court to Trade­ford.’

  Tri­umph gleamed briefly on Regal’s face. Then sus­pi­cion masked it. ‘And if, Duke Brawndy, I do not prove this to your sat­is­fac­tion?’

  ‘Then FitzChiv­alry lives,’ Brawndy calmly de­creed. ‘And you give him stew­ard­ship of Buck­keep and the forces of Buck in your ab­sence.’ All three Coastal dukes lif­ted their eyes to meet Regal’s.

  ‘This is treason and treach­ery!’ Regal hissed.

  Shem­shy’s hand al­most went to his sword. Kelvar reddened but said noth­ing. The ten­sion in the line of men be­hind them tightened a notch. Only Brawndy re­mained un­moved. ‘My lord, do you bring more charges?’ he asked calmly. ‘Again, we will de­mand them proved. It could fur­ther delay your coron­a­tion.’

  After a mo­ment of their stony eyes and si­lence, Regal said quietly, ‘I spoke in haste, my dukes. These are try­ing times for me. Bereft of my father’s guid­ance so sud­denly, be­reaved of my brother, our lady queen and the child she car­ries gone miss­ing … These surely are enough cause to drive any man to hasty state­ments. I … very well. I will ac­qui­esce to this … bar­gain you set be­fore me. I will prove FitzChiv­alry Wit­ted, or I will set him free. Does that sat­isfy you?’

  ‘No, my King-in-Wait­ing,’ Brawndy said quietly. ‘Such were not the terms we set. If in­no­cent, FitzChiv­alry will be set in com­mand of Buck­keep. If you prove him guilty, we shall ac­cept Bright. Those were our terms.’

  ‘An
d the deaths of Justin and Se­rene, valu­able ser­vants and co­terie mem­bers? Those deaths at least we know we may put at his door. He has ad­mit­ted as much.’ The look Regal turned on me should have killed me right there. How deeply he must have re­gret­ted char­ging me with mur­der­ing Shrewd. But for Wal­lace’s wild ac­cus­a­tions and Regal’s back­ing of them, he could have de­man­ded me drowned for Justin’s death. That, as every­one had wit­nessed, was my do­ing. Iron­ic­ally, his own de­sire to vil­ify me was what was stav­ing off my ex­e­cu­tion.

  ‘You will have every chance to prove him Wit­ted and the killer of your father. For those crimes, only, will we let you hang him. As to the oth­ers … he claims they are the killers of the King. If he is not the guilty one, we are will­ing to ac­cept that those he killed died justly.’

  ‘This is in­tol­er­able!’ Regal spat.

  ‘My lord, those are our terms,’ Brawndy re­turned calmly.

  ‘And if I re­fuse them?’ Regal flared an­grily.

  Brawndy shrugged. ‘The skies are clear, my lord. Raider weather, for those of us with coasts. We must dis­perse to our own keeps, to guard our coasts as well we may. Without the con­ven­ing of the full Coun­cil, you can­not crown your­self king, nor law­fully ap­point a man to hold Buck in your stead. You must winter at Buck­keep, my lord, and con­front the sea-pir­ates even as we do.’

  ‘You ring me round with tra­di­tions and petty laws, all to force me to your will. Am I your king or am I not?’ Regal de­man­ded bluntly.

  ‘You are not our king.’ Brawndy poin­ted it out quietly but firmly. ‘You are our King-in-Wait­ing. And likely to con­tinue wait­ing un­til these charges and this is­sue is re­solved.’

  The black­ness of Regal’s glare plainly showed how little this was to his lik­ing. ‘Very well,’ he said flatly, all too quickly. ‘I sup­pose I must sub­mit to this … be­gin­ning. Re­mem­ber that you have de­creed it must be this way, not I.’ He turned and looked at me. I knew then that he would not keep his word; I knew I would die in this cell. That sick and sud­den know­ledge of my own death blackened the edges of my vis­ion, set me sway­ing on my feet. I felt I had taken two steps back from life. A cold­ness crept up in­side me.

  ‘Then we are agreed,’ Brawndy said smoothly. He turned his eyes back to me, and frowned. Some­thing of what I was feel­ing must have showed on my face, for he asked quickly, ‘FitzChiv­alry. Are you fairly treated here? Do they feed you?’ As he asked this, he un­fastened the brooch at his shoulder. His cloak was much worn, but of wool, and when he threw it to me the weight of it knocked me back against the wall.

  I clutched the cloak, warm still with his body heat, grate­fully. ‘Wa­ter. Bread,’ I said briefly. I looked down at the heavy wool gar­ment. ‘Thank you,’ I said more quietly.

  ‘It’s bet­ter than many have!’ Regal re­tor­ted an­grily. ‘Times are hard,’ he ad­ded lamely. As if those he spoke to did not know that bet­ter than he did.

  Brawndy re­garded me for a few mo­ments. I said noth­ing. Fi­nally he swung a cold look to Regal. ‘Too hard to at least give him some straw to sleep on, in­stead of a slab of stone?’

  Regal re­turned his glare. Brawndy did not quail. ‘We will need proof of his guilt, King-in-Wait­ing Regal, be­fore we will coun­ten­ance his ex­e­cu­tion. In the mean­time, we ex­pect you to keep him alive.’

  ‘At least give him march­ing ra­tions,’ Kelvar ad­vised. ‘No one will say you have pampered him with those, and we shall have a live man, either for you to hang or to com­mand at Buck for us.’

  Regal crossed his arms on his chest and made no reply. I knew I would get but wa­ter and half a loaf. I think he would have tried to take Brawndy’s cloak away from me, save that he knew I would have fought for it. With a jerk of his chin, Regal in­dic­ated to the guard that he could close my door. As it slammed shut, I flung my­self for­ward, to grip the bars and stare after them. I thought of call­ing out, of telling them all that Regal would not let me live, that he would find a way to kill me here. But I did not. They would not have be­lieved me. They still did not fear Regal as they needed to. If they had known him as I did, they would have known that no prom­ise could bind him to their bar­gain. He would kill me. I was too deeply within his power for him to res­ist end­ing me.

  I let go of the door and walked woodenly back to my bench. I sat down. Re­flex more than thought made me drape Brawndy’s cloak about my shoulders. The cold I felt now would not be warmed away by wool. As the wave of a rising tide rushes into a sea cav­ern, so the know­ledge of my death once more filled me. Once again, I thought I might faint. I pushed at it, vaguely re­pelling at my own thoughts of how Regal might choose to kill me. There were so many ways I sus­pec­ted he would try to wring a con­fes­sion from me. Given enough time, he might be suc­cess­ful. The thought made me sick. I tried to pull my­self back from the brink, to not real­ize so thor­oughly that I was go­ing to die pain­fully.

  With a pe­cu­liar light­en­ing of heart, I re­flec­ted that I could cheat him. Within my blood-mat­ted sleeve cuff was the tiny pocket that still held the poison I had so long ago pre­pared for Wal­lace. Had it offered a less hor­rendous death, I would have taken it right then. But I had not for­mu­lated that poison for a quick and pain­less sleep, but for cramps and flux and fever. Later, I thought, it might be­come prefer­able to whatever Regal offered. There was no com­fort in that thought. I lay back on my slab, and rolled my­self up well in Brawndy’s ample cloak. I hoped he would not miss it too much. It was prob­ably the last kind thing any­one would ever do for me. I did not fall asleep. I fled, wil­fully sub­mer­ging my­self into my wolf’s world.

  I awoke later from a hu­man dream in which Chade had been lec­tur­ing me for not pay­ing at­ten­tion. I drew my­self smal­ler in Brawndy’s cloak. Torch­light trickled into my cell. Day or night, I could not tell, but I thought it was deep night. I tried to find sleep again. Chade’s ur­gent voice had been plead­ing with me …

  I sat up slowly. The ca­dence and tone of the muffled voice was def­in­itely Chade’s. It seemed fainter when I sat up. I lay down again. Now it was louder, but I still couldn’t pick out the words. I pressed my ear to the stone bench. No. I got up slowly and moved about my small cell, from wall to corner and back again. There was one corner in which the voice was loudest but I still could not make out the words. ‘I can’t un­der­stand you,’ I said to my empty cell.

  The muffled voice paused. Then it spoke again, a ques­tion­ing in­flec­tion.

  ‘I can’t un­der­stand you!’ I said more loudly.

  Chade’s voice re­sumed, more ex­citedly, but no louder.

  ‘I can’t un­der­stand you!’ I shouted in frus­tra­tion.

  Foot­steps out­side my cell. ‘FitzChiv­alry!’

  The guard was short. She couldn’t see in. ‘What?’ I asked sleepily.

  ‘What were you shout­ing?’

  ‘What? Oh. Bad dream.’

  The foot­steps went away. I heard her laugh to the other guard, ‘Hard to ima­gine what dream could be worse than wak­ing up for him.’ She had an In­land ac­cent.

  I went back to my bench and lay down. Chade’s voice had stopped. I ten­ded to agree with the guard. I would not sleep again for a while, but would won­der what Chade had been so des­per­ately try­ing to tell me. I doubted it would be good news, and I did not want to ima­gine bad. I was go­ing to have to die here. At least let it be be­cause I had aided the Queen’s es­cape. I wondered how far she was on her jour­ney. I thought of the Fool, and wondered how well he would with­stand the rigours of a winter jour­ney. I for­bade my­self to won­der why Burrich was not with them. In­stead, I thought of Molly.

  I must have drowsed, for I saw her. She was toil­ing up a path, a yoke of wa­ter buck­ets on her shoulders. She looked pale and sick and worn. On top of the hill was a tumble-down cot­tage, snow banked against its walls. She stopped and set her wa­ter bu
ck­ets down at the door and stood look­ing out, over the sea. She frowned at the fair weather and the light wind that only tipped the waves with white. The wind lif­ted her thick hair just as I used to and slid its hand along the curve of her warm neck and jaw. Her eyes went sud­denly wide. Then tears brimmed them. ‘No,’ she said aloud. ‘No. I won’t think of you any more. No.’ She stooped and lif­ted the heavy buck­ets and went into the cot­tage. She shut the door firmly be­hind her. The wind blew past it. The roof was poorly thatched. The wind blew harder and I let it carry me away.

  I tumbled on it, dived through it, and let it flow my pains away. I thought of diving deeper, down into the main flow of it, where it could sweep me en­tirely away, right out of my­self and all my petty wor­ries. I trailed my hands in that deeper cur­rent, swift and heavy as a mov­ing river. It tugged at me.

  I’d stand back from that if I were you.

  Would you? I let Ver­ity con­sider my situ­ation for a mo­ment.

  Per­haps not, he replied grimly. Some­thing like a sigh. I should have guessed at how bad it was. It seems it takes great pain, or ill­ness or ex­treme duress of some kind to break down your walls so you can Skill. He paused long and we were both si­lent, think­ing of noth­ing and everything all at once. So. My father is dead. Justin and Se­rene. I should have guessed some­how. His wear­i­ness and dwind­ling strength; those are the hall­marks of a King’s Man, drained too low too of­ten. I sus­pect it had been go­ing on long, prob­ably since be­fore Ga­len … died. Only he could have con­ceived of such a thing let alone de­vised a way to do it. What a loath­some way to use the Skill. And they spied upon us?

  Yes. I do not know how much they learned. And there is an­other to fear. Will.

  Damn me thrice for a fool. Look at it, Fitz. We should have known. The ships worked so well for us at first, and then, as soon as they knew what we were up to, you and I, they found ways to block us. The co­terie has been in Regal’s pocket since they were formed. Thus we have delayed mes­sages, or mes­sages not de­livered. Help al­ways sent too late, or never sent at all. He is as full of hate as a tick is full of blood. And he has won.