Royal Assassin tft-2

by Robin Hobb

  "Even if he's asleep?" Wallace asked snidely.

  "He placed no limitations on it. Do you?" I glared at him through the cracked door. He considered a moment, then stepped back from it.

  "By all means, then, do come in. Come and see your king asleep, trying to get the rest he so badly needs in his condition. But do you disturb it, I as his healer shall tell him to take away that pretty pin and see that you do not bother him again."

  "You may recommend that as you wish. And if my king desires it, I shall not dispute it."

  He stood aside from me with an elaborate bow. I desperately wanted to knock that knowing sneer from his face, but I ignored it.

  "Wonderful," he elaborated as I passed him. "Sweet pastries to upset his digestion and tax him all the more. Thoughtful lad, aren't you?"

  I kept my temper. Shrewd was not in his sitting room. The bedchamber?

  "Will you truly bother him there? Well, why not? You've shown no other manners, why should I expect consideration now?" Wallace's voice was full of snide condescension.

  I gripped my temper.

  Don't just accept that from him. Turn and face him down now. This was not advice from Verity, but a command. I set the tray down atop a small table carefully. I took a breath and turned to face Wallace. "Have you a dislike of me?" I asked directly.

  He took a step back but tried to keep his sneer in place. "A dislike? Why should I, a healer, mind if someone comes to disturb an ill man when he is finally resting?"

  "This room reeks of Smoke. Why?"

  Smoke?

  An herb they use in the Mountains. Seldom for medicine, save pains nothing else will halt. But more often the burning fumes are breathed for pleasure. Much as we use carris seed at Springfest. Your brother has a liking for it.

  As did his mother. If it is the same herb. She called it mirthleaf.

  Almost the same leaf, but the Mountain plant grows taller with fleshier leaves. And thicker smoke.

  My exchange with Verity had taken less than a blink of an eye. One can Skill information as fast as one can think it. Wallace was still pursing his lips over my question. "Are you claiming to be a healer?" he demanded.

  "No. But I've a working knowledge of herbs, one that suggests Smoke is not appropriate to a sick man's chambers."

  Wallace was still a moment as he formulated an answer. "Well. A King's pleasures are not his healer's area of concern."

  "Perhaps they are mine, then," I offered, and turned away from him. I picked up the tray and pushed open the door to the King's dimly lit bedchamber.

  The reek of Smoke was heavier here, the air thick and cloying with it. Too hot a fire was burning, making the room close and stuffy. The air was still and stale as if no fresh wind had blown through the room for weeks. My own breath seemed heavy in my lungs. The King lay still, breathing stertorously beneath a mound of feather quilts. I looked about for a place to set down the tray of pastries. The small table close to his bed was littered. There was a censer for Smoke, the drifting ash thick on its top, but the burner was out and cold. Beside it was a goblet of lukewarm red wine, and a bowl with some nasty gray gruel in it. I set the vessels on the floor and brushed the table clean with my shirtsleeve before setting the tray down. As I approached the King's bed there was a fusty, fetid smell that became even stronger as I leaned over the King.

  This is not like Shrewd at all.

  Verity shared my dismay. He has not summoned me much of late. And I have been too busy to call upon him unless he bids me to. The last time I saw him was in his sitting room, in an evening. He complained of headaches, but this…

  The thought trailed away between us. I glanced up from the King to find Wallace peering 'round the door at us. There was something in his face; I know not whether to call it satisfaction or confidence, but it roused me to fury. In two steps I had reached the door. I slammed it, and had the satisfaction of hearing him yelp as he jerked his pinched fingers out. I dropped into place an ancient bar that had probably never been used in my lifetime.

  I moved to the tall windows, jerked aside the tapestries that covered it, and flung wide the wooden shutters. Clear sunlight and fresh cold air spilled into the room.

  Fitz, this is rash.

  I made no reply. Instead, I moved about the room, dumping censer after censer of ash and herb out the open window. I brushed the clinging ash out with my hand to free the room from its reek. From about the room I gathered half a dozen sticky goblets of stale wine, and a trayful of bowls and plates of untouched or half-eaten food. I stacked them by the door. Wallace was pounding on it and howling with fury. I leaned against it and spoke through the crack. "Hush!" I told him sweetly. "You'll waken the King."

  Have a boy sent with ewers of warm water. And tell Mistress Hasty that the King's bed requires clean linens, I requested of Verity.

  Such orders cannot come from me. A pause. Don't waste time in anger. Think, and you'll see why it must be so.

  I understood, but knew also that I would not leave Shrewd in this dingy, smelly room any more than I would abandon him to a dungeon. There was half a ewer of water, stale, but mostly clean. I set it to warm by the hearth. I wiped his bed table clean of ash and set out the tea and pastry tray atop it. Rummaging boldly through the King's chest, I found a clean nightshirt, and then washing herbs. Leftover, no doubt, from Cheffers's time. I had never thought I would so miss a valet.

  Wallace's pounding ceased. I did not miss it. I took the warmed water scented with the herbs and a washing cloth and set it by the King's bedside. "King Shrewd," I said gently. He stirred slightly. The rims of his eyes were red, the lashes gummed together. When he opened his lids, he blinked red veined eyes at the light.

  "Boy?" He squinted about the room. "Where is Wallace?"

  "Away for the moment. I've brought you warm wash water and fresh pastries from the kitchen. And hot tea."

  "I… I don't know. The window's open. Why is the window open? Wallace has warned me about taking a chill."

  "I opened it to clear the air in the room. But I'll close it if you like."

  "I smell the sea. It's a clear day, isn't it? Listen to those gulls cry a storm coming… No. No, close the window, boy. I dare not take a chill, not as ill as I am already."

  I moved slowly to close the wooden shutters. "Has Your Majesty been ill long? Not much has been said of it about the palace."

  "Long enough. Oh, forever it seems. It is not so much that I am ill as that I am never well. I am sick, and then I get a bit better, but as soon as I try to do anything, I am sick again, and worse than ever. I am so weary of being sick, boy. So tired of always feeling tired."

  "Come, sir. This will make you feel better." I damped the cloth and wiped his face gently. He recovered himself enough to motion me aside as he washed his own hands, and then wiped his face again more firmly. I was appalled at how the wash water had yellowed as it cleansed him.

  "I've found a clean nightshirt for. you. Shall I help you into it? Or would you rather that I sent for a boy to bring a tub and warm water? I would bring clean linens for the bed while you bathed."

  "I, oh, I haven't the energy, boy. Where is that Wallace? He knows I cannot manage alone. What possessed him to leave me?"

  "A warm bath might help you to rest," I tried persuasively. Up close, the old man smelled. Shrewd had always been a cleanly man; I think that his grubbiness distressed me more than anything else.

  "But bathing can lead to chills. So Wallace says. A damp skin, a cool wind, and whisk, I'm gone. Or so he says." Had Shrewd really become this fretful old man? I could scarcely believe what I was hearing from him.

  "Well, perhaps just a hot cup of tea, then. And a pastry. Cook Sara said these were your favorites." I poured the steaming tea into the cup and saw his nose twitch appreciatively. He had a sip or two, and then sat up to look at the carefully arranged pastries. He bade me join him, and I ate a pastry with him, licking the rich filling from my fingers. I understood why they were his favorites. He was well into a seco
nd when there were three solid thuds against the door.

  "Unbar it, Bastard. Or the men with me will take it down. And if any harm has come to my father, you shall die where you stand." Regal did not sound at all pleased with me.

  "What's this, boy? The door barred? What goes on here? Regal, what goes on here?" It pained me to hear the King's voice crack querulously.

  I crossed the room, I unbarred the door. It was flung open before I could touch it, and two of Regal's more muscular guards seized me. They wore his satin colors like bulldogs with ribbons about their necks. I offered no resistance, so they had no real excuse to throw me up against the wall, but they did. It awoke every pain I still bore from yesterday. They held me there while Wallace rushed in, tut-tutting about how cold the room was, and what was this, eating this, why, it was no less than poison to a man in King Shrewd's condition. Regal stood, hands on hips, very much the man in charge, and stared at me through narrowed eyes.

  Rash, my boy. I very much fear that we have overplayed our hand.

  "Well, Bastard? What have you to say for yourself? Exactly what were your intentions?" Regal demanded when Wallace's litany ran down. He actually added another log to the fire in the already stifling room, and took the half-eaten pastry from the King's hand.

  "I came to report. And finding the King ill cared for, sought to remedy that situation first." I was sweating, more from pain than nervousness. I hated to see Regal smile at it.

  "Ill cared for? What exactly are you saying?" he accused me.

  I took a breath for courage. Truth. "I found his chamber untidy and musty. Dirty plates left about. The linens of his bed unchanged—"

  "Dare you to say such things?" Regal hissed.

  "I do. I speak the truth to my king, as I ever have. Let him look about with his own eyes and see if it is not so."

  Something in the confrontation had stirred Shrewd to a shadow of his old self. He pushed himself up in bed and looked about himself. "The Fool has likewise made these complaints, in his own acid way—" he began.

  Wallace dared to interrupt him. "My lord, the state of your health has been tender. Sometimes uninterrupted rest is more important than rolling you out of your bed to fuss with a change of blankets or linen. And a dish or two stacked about is less annoyance than the rattle and prattle of a page come in to tidy."

  King Shrewd looked suddenly uncertain. My heart smote me. This was what the Fool had wished me to see, why he had so often urged me to visit the King. Why had not he spoken more plainly? But then, when did the Fool ever speak plainly? Shame rose in me. This was my king, the King I had sworn to. I loved Verity, and my loyalty to him was unquestioning. But I had abandoned my king at the very moment when he needed me most. Chade was gone, for how long I did not know. I had left King Shrewd with no more than the Fool to protect him. And yet when had King Shrewd ever needed anyone to shelter him before? Always that old man had been more than capable of guarding himself. I chided myself that I should have bee more emphatic with Chade about the changes I noted when first returned home. I should have been more watchful of my sovereign.

  "How did he get in here?" Regal suddenly demander with a savage glare at me.

  "My prince, he had a token from the King himself, he claimed. He said the King had promised always to see him if he but showed that pin—"

  "What rot! You believed such nonsense—"

  "Prince Regal, you know it is true. You were witness whey King Shrewd first gave it to me." I spoke quietly but clearly. Within me, Verity was silent, waiting and watching, and learning much. At my expense, I thought bitterly, and then strove to call back the thought.

  Moving calmly and unthreateningly, I pulled one wrist free of a bulldog's grip. I turned back the collar of my jerkin and drew the pin out. I held it up for all to see.

  "I recall no such thing," Regal snapped, but Shrew sat up.

  "Come closer, boy," he instructed me. Now I shrugged clear of my guards and tugged my clothing straight. Then bore the pin up to the King's bedside. Deliberately, King Shrewd reached out. He took the pin away from me. My hear sank inside me.

  "Father, this is—" Regal began annoyedly, but Shrews interrupted him.

  "Regal. You were there. You do recall it, or you should.' The King's dark eyes were bright and alert as I remembered them, but also plain were the lines of pain about those eyes and the corner of his mouth. King Shrewd fought for this lucidity. He held the pin up and looked at Regal with a shadow of his old calculating glance. "I gave the boy this pin. And my word in exchange for his."

  "Then I suggest you take them back again, pin and word both. You will never get well with this type of disruption going on in your rooms." Again, that edge of command in Regal's voice. I waited, silent.

  The King lifted a hand to shakily rub his face and eyes. "I gave those things," he said, and the words were firm, but the strength was fading from his voice. "Once given, a man's word is no longer his to call back. Am I right about this, FitzChivalry? Do you agree that once a man has given his word, he may not take it back?" The old test was in that question.

  "As ever I have, my king, I agree with you. Once a man has given his word, he may not call it back. He must abide by what he has promised."

  "Good, then. That's settled. It's all settled." He proffered the pin to me. I took it from him, relief so immense it was like vertigo. He leaned back into his pillows. I had another dizzying moment. I knew those pillows, this bed. I had lain there, and looked with the Fool down on the sack of Siltbay. I had burned my fingers in that fireplace…

  The King heaved a heavy sigh. There was exhaustion in it. In another moment he would be asleep.

  "Forbid him to come and disturb you again, unless you summon him," Regal commanded.

  King Shrewd pried his eyes open one more time. "Fitz. Come here, boy."

  Like a dog, I came closer to him. I knelt by his bed. He lifted a thinned hand, patted me awkwardly. "You and I, boy. We have an understanding, don't we?" A genuine question. I nodded. "Good lad. Good. I've kept my word. You see that you keep yours, now. But," — he glanced at Regal, and that pained me, — "it were better if you came to see me in the afternoons. I am stronger in the afternoons." He was slipping away again.

  "Shall I come back this afternoon, sire?" I asked quickly.

  He lifted a hand and waved it in a vaguely denying gesture. "Tomorrow. Or the next day." His eyes closed and he sighed out as heavily as if he would never breathe in again.

  "As you wish, my lord," I concurred. I bowed deeply, formally. As I straightened I carefully returned the pin to my jerkin lapel. I let them all spend a moment or two watching me do that. Then: "If you will excuse me, my prince?" I requested formally.

  "Get out of here," Regal growled.

  I bowed less formally to him, turned carefully, and left.

  His guards' eyes watched me go. I was outside the room before I recalled that I had never brought up the subject of me marrying Molly. Now it seemed unlikely I would have an opportunity to for some time. I knew that afternoons would now find Regal or Wallace or some spy of theirs always at King Shrewd's side. I had no wish to broach that topic before anyone save my king.

  Fitz?

  I'd like to be alone for a while just now, my prince. If you do not mind?

  He vanished from my mind like a bursting soap bubble. Slowly I made my way down the stairs.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN. Secrets

  PRINCE VERITY CHOSE to unveil his fleet of warships on the midday of Winterfest that decisive year. Tradition would have had him wait until the coming of better weather, to launch them on the first day of Springfest. That is considered a more auspicious time to launch a new ship. But Verity had pushed his shipwrights and their crews hard to have all four vessels ready for a midwinter launch. By choosing the midday of Winterfest, he ensured himself a large audience, both for the launch and for his words. Traditionally, a hunt is held that day, with the meat brought in seen as a harbinger of days to come. When he had the ships pushed out of th
e sheds on their rollers, he announced to the gathered folk that these were his hunters, and that the only prey that would slake them would be Red-Ships. The reaction to his announcement was muted, and clearly not what he had hoped for. It is my belief that the people wanted to put all thoughts of the Red-Ships from their minds, to hide themselves in winter and pretend that the spring would never come. But Verity refused to let them. The ships were launched that day, and the training of the crews begun.

  Nighteyes and I spent the early afternoon hunting. He grumbled about it, saying it was a ridiculous time of day to hunt, and why had I wasted the early dawn hours tussling with my litter mate? I told him that that was simply a thing that had to be, and would continue to be for several days, and possibly longer. He was not pleased. But neither was I. It rattled me not a little that he could be so clearly aware of how I spent my hours even if I had no conscious sense of being in touch with him. Had Verity been able to sense him?

  He laughed at me. Hard enough to make you hear me sometimes. Should I batter through to you and then shout for him as well?

  Our hunting success was small. Two rabbits, neither with much fat. I promised to bring him kitchen scraps on the morrow. I had even less success at conveying to him my demand for privacy at certain times: He could not grasp why I set mating apart from other pack activities such as hunting or howling. Mating suggested offspring in the near future, and offspring were the care of the pack. Words cannot convey the difficulties of that discussion. We conversed in images, in shared thoughts, and such do not allow for much discretion. His candor horrified me. He assured me he shared my delight in my mate and my mating. I begged him not to. Confusion. I finally left him eating his rabbits. He seemed piqued that I would not accept a share of the meat. The best I had been able to get from him was his understanding that I did not want to be aware of him sharing my awareness of Molly. That was scarcely what I wanted, but it was the best I could convey it to him. The idea that at times I would want to sever my bond to him completely was not a thought he could comprehend. It made no sense, he argued. It was not pack. I left him wondering if I would ever again really and truly have a moment to myself.