by Robin Hobb
I shook my head silently.
‘Neither had your body. I’ve seen you from the inside out, Fitz. Seen the damage done to your skull in Regal’s dungeons, and other long-healed fractures in your face and spine. The Skill-healing seems to have put right a lot of old damage. It interests me that you do not have a headache after Skilling. It will interest me even more if you cease having to fear seizures.’
He left my side and went to his scroll-rack. He returned with a copy of that most horrific of books, Man’s Flesh by Verdad the Flayer. It was a beautifully-made thing, layers of paper bound between carved covers of Inkwood, and still smelled of its inks. Obviously this copy had been recently created. That corrupt and ruthless Jamaillian priest had flayed and dismembered bodies for years in a monastery in that distant land, but when his depravity was discovered, his notoriety spread even as far as the Six Duchies. I had heard of this treatise, but never before seen a copy. ‘Where did this come from?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Some years ago, I sent for it. It took me two years to find one. And the text is obviously corrupted. Verdad never referred to himself as “the flayer” as this manuscript does. And I doubt that he rejoiced in the smell of rotting flesh, as this claims he did. No, I sought it out for the copies of his illustrations, not the words others have added.’
Chade opened it reverently and set it before me. As he had bidden me, I ignored the ornate Jamaillian lettering and focused instead on the detailed depictions of the interiors of bodies. As a boy, I had seen the sketches that Chade had made, and those he had from his master before him, but they had been crude things compared to these. Charts that show the most swiftly lethal places to thrust a dagger are not to be compared with a map of a man’s exposed vitals. The colors were very true. It was strange to look at them and find myself reminded of the steaming entrails of a gutted deer. How can I explain how vulnerable I suddenly felt? All these soft structures, deep red and glistening grey, gleaming liver and intricately coiled intestines fit so precisely inside my body. Then Laudwine had thrust a sword blade through my back and into them. Without thinking, I set a hand to the false sword scar on my lower back. No ribs had shielded me there, only overlapping strands of muscle. Chade saw the gesture. ‘Now you see why I feared so for you. From the start, I suspected that only the Skill could restore you to health.’
‘Close it, please’ I said, and turned away from his treasured book, feeling ill. He ignored me, turning a page to yet another drawing. This was of a hand, skin and muscle pulled aside and pinned to show the bone and hinges.
‘I studied this before I tried to repair my hands. I do not think his drawings are precisely correct, and yet I feel they were helpful to me. Who would have imagined there were so many individual bones in a man’s hands and fingers?’ Then he finally glanced up and, becoming aware of my discomfort, closed the tome. ‘When you are better recovered, I recommend you study this, Fitz. I think perhaps every Skilled one should.’
‘Even Thick?’ I asked wryly.
He surprised me by lifting a shoulder. ‘It would not hurt to show it to him. Sometimes he is capable of very fixed thought, Fitz. Who knows how much he retains in that misshapen skull?’
This brought a new thought to me. ‘Misshapen. Do you think, then, that the Skill might be used on Thick? To repair what is wrong and make him normal?’
Chade shook his head slowly. ‘“Different” is not “wrong”, Fitz. Thick’s body recognizes itself as correct. His differences are no more to him than… well, here I am guessing, but I suspect that just as one man is tall and another is short, so it is with Thick. His body grew to some plan of its own. Thick is what he is. Perhaps we should just be grateful that we have him, even if he is different.’
‘You have been investigating this most thoroughly, then.’ I tried to keep condemnation from my voice.
‘You cannot imagine what this is like for me, Fitz,’ he affirmed quietly. ‘It is as if a cell door has opened and I am allowed to walk free in the world. I am dazzled by all that I see. A blade of grass is as wonderful to such a freed prisoner as is the wide spread of a valley. I resent everything that calls me away from this exploration. I do not want to sleep or pause for meals. It is difficult for me to force my mind to the Queen’s business. What do I care of Bingtown Traders and dragons and Narcheskas? The Skill has seized my imagination and my heart. Exploring it is all I truly want to do.’
My heart sank. I recognized Chade’s obsession for what it was. Often and often had I seen him go through such fevers of fascination. Once his mind seized on an area of study, he would pursue it until he grasped it thoroughly. Or until another frenzy stole his attention away. ‘So.’ I attempted to speak lightly. ‘Does this mean you will set aside your explosive experiments for a time?’
For an instant, he looked puzzled, as if he had completely forgotten. Then, ‘Oh. That. I think I’ve discovered what I was attempting to discern about that. There are ways it may be useful, but it is too difficult to regulate to rely upon it. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. ‘I have set it aside. This is far more important for me to grasp now.’
‘Chade.’ I spoke quietly. ‘You must not venture alone into this. Even more, you must not draw Thick in after you. I hope you can see now that I speak for concern for you, not to hold you back from any selfish secret of mine.’ I took a breath. ‘You need a foundation. When I have my strength back, when Dutiful and Thick and I resume studying together, you must come to the tower with us.’
He was silent for a time, studying me. ‘And Lord Golden?’ He cocked his head at me. ‘You did say before that he, too, was a member of this coterie.’
‘Did I?’ I feigned confusion for a moment. ‘Oh. He was there, at my healing. And I thought I felt… do you think he truly contributed to my healing?’
Chade looked at me oddly. ‘Don’t you think you would be a better judge of that than I? You told me he did, but a day ago.’
I looked at my strange but strong reluctance to bring the Fool into our Skill lessons. He would not come anyway, I told myself, and then wondered if I were right. ‘I could tell he was there, but I could not tell what he was doing’ I amended.
Chade’s manner was grave. ‘Guiding us, I thought. He said he had been part of something similar once, when Nighteyes was stricken.’ He paused, then said without inflection, ‘He knows you well. I think that was what he contributed most. He knows you well and he seemed to know… a way into you.’ He sighed. ‘Fitz, you have already admitted as much.’
‘He was there when I used both the Wit and the Skill to heal the wolf. But he did not help with the healing. He helped me recover myself afterwards.’ Then I stopped. After a time, I said, ‘The reticence and secrecy. Does it become a habit? I swear, Chade, I don’t know why… Damn this. Yes. The Fool and I have a Skill-bond. Thin but there, a remnant from when he first got the Skill on his fingers when he touched Verity and then me. And when he used it to pull me back to my body, it grew stronger. I suspect that if I considered it, I would find it stronger still since this healing. I rather doubt that he has any true Skill of his own. Only what is on his fingers, and perhaps his bond can only be with me.’
Chade smile almost guiltily. ‘Well. A double relief. To hear you speak truth to me, and to let me know that… well. I’ve known the Fool a long time. I value him. But there is still about him a strangeness, even when he masquerades as Lord Golden that can make me uneasy at times. He knows too much, it sometimes seems, and at other times, I wonder if the things that matter to us concern him at all. Now that I have experienced the Skill a bit, and realized how open it makes us to one another… well. As you say, reticence and secrecy become a habit. A habit we both must preserve if we are to live. I am as reluctant to make the Fool privy to all my secrets as I am to share his.’
His honesty jolted me, and his opinion confounded me. And yet, he was right. It felt good to know there was honesty between us. ‘I will speak to Lord Golden myself about what place he holds in our coterie,’ I said. ‘M
uch depends on what he is willing to do. No one can be forced to aid us.’
‘Yes. And patch this foolish quarrel between you at the same time. Being in the same room with you two is as comfortable as standing between two snarling dogs. Who knows who will get bitten when they finally decide to rush one another?’
I ignored that. ‘And you will join us in the Skill-tower for our lessons?’
‘I will.’
I waited, then decided that this, too, was a thing that must be spoken openly. ‘And your private Skill experiments?’
‘They will go on,’ he said quietly. ‘As they must. Fitz, you know me. And you know the pattern of my years. Always I have learned alone and quietly, and always when I discovered a thread of learning that I felt I must possess, I pursued it ardently. Do not ask me to change that now. I cannot.’
And I truly believe he spoke the truth there, also. I sighed heavily, but did not dare try to forbid it to him. ‘Go carefully then, my friend. Go very carefully. The currents are strong and the footing treacherous. If you are ever swept away…’
‘I’ll be careful’ he said. And then he left me, and I crawled into the bed that was now more mine than his, and dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
TWENTY-TWO
Connections
Your estimation of the funds needed for this journey has fallen far short of the reality, nor would I have undertaken this inquiry if I had fully known about the foul weather, foul food and fouler people who inhabit these islands. I shall expect exceptional remuneration when I return.
I succeeded at last in visiting your demon-blasted island. Securing passage to visit that piece of ice and rock took the last of my insufficient funds, plus a day’s labor of my stacking salt cod for a foul-tempered sea-bitch. The boat offered was leaky and unwieldy, of a kind I have never before seen and without proper oars. It was a miracle that I was able to navigate the icy waters to reach Askvjal. Once there, I landed on a black and rocky shore. The glacier that once covered the entire island right down to the tideline seems to have retreated. An abandoned dock and pilings are visible, but all pieces that were easily scavenged are gone. The beach gives onto a wasteland of black stone. Tiny pockets of soil support little more than moss and scrubby grasses. There may have been crude buildings here at some time, but like the docks, any thing usable was taken. Stone quarrying has evidently taken place here in the past but from the look of the place, has been abandoned for at least a decade. Immense blocks of stone were cut and lined up end-to-end as for an immense wall, but it is a wall that begins and ends with a single run of blocks. Apparently efforts were made to chisel this run of stone into some sort of a horizontal statue, but the attempt was abandoned before it was even a quarter finished. It was impossible for me to discern what it was meant to be.
I walked as much of the beach as was bared and ventured briefly onto the glacial ice before nightfall caught me there. I saw no dragon, neither alive nor trapped in ice, nor anything even remotely resembling a live creature. I groped my way back to the beach and spent an icy night sheltered behind the stone blocks. Not a scrap of wood for a fire. I slept poorly, being troubled by horrendous dreams in which I was one of a mob of Six Duchies folk trapped in a dreadful stone prison. When dawn came, I was thankful to leave. Any other should take care to bring with them everything to this island, as it certainly offers nothing to a man.
— Report to Chade Fallstar, unsigned
Restoring my scars had delayed the recovery of my strength. For the next three days, I withdrew into myself and regaining my health. I slept and ate and slept again. I remained at the workroom. Chade himself brought meals to me. They followed no regular schedule, but he brought ample quantities of food when he did come, and I had the hearth for making tea or heating soup so it mattered little.
There were no windows in the workroom, and time lost all meaning for me. I returned to the wolfish habits I had shared for years. At dawn and at twilight I was most alert, and during those times I studied the scrolls. Then I ate, and dozed in front of the fire, or slept in the bed for the rest of the day's circle. Not all my waking hours were spent in reading. I amused myself and Gilly by hiding bits of meat when he was not in the room and then watching him ferret them out when he returned. I did simple projects such as suited my fancy. I made a board for playing the Stones game, burning the lines into it, and then carved the markers from a whale tusk that Chade had said I might use. I dyed them red and black, and left an equal quantity unmarked. I hoped for a game with Chade in vain, however. He spoke little to me of his Skill-studies, and when he came and went he seemed always in a hurry. Likely it was for the best. I slept more deeply when I was left alone.
He was very close-mouthed about the other news of the keep. What little I squeezed out of him worried me. The Queen was still in negotiations with the Bingtown Traders, but had graciously given the Dukes of Shoaks and Farrow permission to pressure Chalced along their borders as they wished. There would be no formal declaration of warfare, but the normal harrying and raiding that went on along that boundary would be increased, with her tacit blessings. There was little new in this: the slaves of Chalced had known for generations that they could claim freedom if they could manage to escape to the Six Duchies. Once free, they often turned against their old masters, raiding across the border the flocks and herds that once they had tended. For all that, trade between Chalced and duchies remained lively and prosperous. For the Six Duchies to side openly with Bingtown could put an end to that.
The Bingtown war with Chalced had horribly disrupted Chade’s flow of spy information from that area. He had to rely on second- and third-hand accounts and, as with all such heavily-handled information, there were contradictions. We were both sceptical of the ‘facts’ we received. Yes, the Bingtown Traders had a dragon-breeding plantation far up the Rain Wild River. One, or perhaps two, full-grown dragons had been seen in flight. They were variously described as blue, silver or blue and silver. The Bingtown Traders fed the dragons, and in return, the dragons guarded Bingtown Harbour. But they would not fly out of sight of shore, which was why the Chalcedean ships still were able to menace and plunder Bingtown’s trading fleet. The dragon-breeding farm was tended by a race of changelings, half-dragon and half-human. It was in the midst of a beautiful city, where wondrous gems glowed from the walls at night. The humans who also dwelt there preferred to live in lofty timber castles high in the tops of immense trees.
Such information more frustrated than enlightened us. ‘Do you think they lied to us when they told us about the dragons?’ I asked him.
‘They likely told us their truth,’ Chade replied tersely. ‘That is the whole purpose of spies: to give us the other truths of the story, so that from all of them, we can cobble together our own truth. There is not enough meat here to make a meal from, only enough to torment us. What can we deduce for certain from these rumours? Only that a dragon has been seen, and that something peculiar is going on somewhere on the Rain Wild River.’
And that was as much as he would say on that subject. But I suspected he knew far more than he admitted, and that he had other irons in the fire than the ones he discussed with me. So my days passed in sleep, study and rest. Once, when rustling through Chade’s scrolls for one I recalled on the history of Jamaillia, I found the feathers from the treasure-beach. I stood looking at them in the dimness, and then carried them over to Chade’s worktable and examined them there in a better light. Just touching them was unsettling. They stirred to life memories of my days on that desolate beach, and awoke a hundred questions.
There were five feathers in all, about the size of the curving feathers in a cockerel’s tail. They were carved in extreme detail, so that each separate rib of the feather lay against the next. They I seemed to be made from wood, though they weighed oddly heavy in my hands. I tried several blades against them; the sharpest one made only a fine silvery scratch. If this was wood, it was near as hard as metal. Some trick of their carving seemed to catch the light stra
ngely. The feathers were plain and grey and yet, seen from the tail of my eye, color seemed to run over them. They had no discernible smell. Setting my tongue to one gave me a faint taste of brine followed by bitterness. That was all.
And having tested all of my senses against them, I surrendered to the mystery. I suspected they would fit the Fool’s Rooster Crown. I wondered again whence that strange artefact had originated. He had unwrapped it from a length of fabric so wondrous that it could only have come from Bingtown. Yet the old wooden circlet seemed too humble to have come from a city of marvels and magic. When he had shown the ancient crown to me, I had recognized it immediately, having seen it once before, in a dream. In my vision, it had been colourfully painted and bright feathers had stood up above the circlet to nod in the breeze. A woman had worn it, pale even as the Fool had been pale then, and the folk of some ancient Elderling city had paused in their celebration to listen and laugh at her mocking words. I had interpreted her status as a jester. Now I wonder if I had missed a subtler meaning. I looked at them, spread like a fan, and a sudden shiver ran over me. They linked us, I knew with a sudden chill. They linked the Fool and me, not only to one another, but to another life. Hastily I wrapped them in a cloth and hid them under my pillow.
I could not decide what it meant that the feathers had come to me; but I did not want to discuss them with Chade. The Fool might have the answers, I suspected, and yet I felt a shamed reluctance to take them to him. There was not only the gulf of our present quarrel between us, but the fact that I had had them for so long and hadn’t spoken of them to him. I knew that neither of those things would be improved by waiting longer, yet I truly felt too weak to present them to him. So I slept with them under my pillow each night.
In the deeps of my third night in the workroom, Nettle invaded my sleep. She came as a weeping woman. In my dream, a statue stood in a stream of the tears she had shed. Her tears were a silvery gown that she wore, and her mourning was a fog around her. I stood for a time, watching her cry. Each silver tear that ran down her cheeks splashed into a thread of gossamer that became part of her raiment before it turned into the stream that flowed past her. ‘What is wrong?’ I asked the apparition at last.
