Farseer 1 - Assassin's Apprentice

by Robin Hobb

  "What do you want?" I demanded of them.

  "What do you have?" one of them said. His voice was rusty and hesitant, as if long unused, and his words lacked any inflection. He moved slowly around me, in a wide circle that kept me turning. Dead men talking, I thought to myself, and couldn't stop the thought from echoing through my mind.

  "Nothing," I panted, jabbing to keep one from moving any closer. "I don't have anything for you. No money, no food, nothing. I lost all my things, back down the road."

  "Nothing," said the other, and for the first time I realized she had been a woman, once. Now she was this empty malevolent puppet, whose dull eyes suddenly lit with avarice as she said, "Cloak. I want your cloak."

  She seemed pleased to have formulated this thought, and it made her careless enough to let me crack her on the shin. She glanced down at the injury as if puzzled, and then continued to limp after me.

  "Cloak," echoed the other. For a moment they glared at one another in dull realization of their rivalry. "Me. Mine," he added.

  "No. Kill you," she offered calmly. "Kill you, too," she reminded me, and came close again. I swung my staff at her, but she leaped back, and then made a snatch at it as it went by. I turned, just in time to whack the one whose wrist I had already damaged. Then I leaped past him and raced down the road. I ran awkwardly, holding on to my staff with one hand as I fought the fastening of my cloak with the other. At last it came undone and I let it fall from me as I continued to run. The rubberiness in my legs warned me that this was my last gambit. But a few moments later they must have reached it, for I heard angry cries and screams as they quarreled over it. I prayed it would be enough to occupy all four of them and kept running. There was a bend in the road, not much but enough to take me out of their sight. Still, I kept running, and then trotting as long as I could before I dared to look back. The road shone wide and empty behind me. I pushed myself on, and when I saw a likely spot, I left the road.

  I found a savagely nasty thicket of brambles and forced my way into the heart of it. Shaking and exhausted, I crouched down on my heels in the thick of the spiny bushes and strained my ears for any sign of pursuit. I took short sips from my water and tried to calm myself. I had no time for this delay; I had to get back to Buckkeep; but I dared not emerge.

  It is still inconceivable to me that I fell asleep there, but I did.

  I came awake gradually. Groggy, I felt sure I was recovering from a severe injury or long illness. My eyes were gummy, my mouth thick and sour. I forced my eyelids open and looked around me in bewilderment. The light was ebbing, and an overcast defeated the moon.

  My exhaustion had been such that I had leaned over into the thornbushes and slept despite a multitude of jabbing prickles. I extricated myself with much difficulty, leaving bits of cloth, hair, and skin behind. I emerged from my hiding place as cautiously as any hunted animal, not only questing as far as my sense would reach, but also snuffing the air and peering all about me. I knew that my questing would not reveal to me any Forged ones, but hoped that if any were nearby, the forest animals would have seen them and reacted. But all was quiet.

  I cautiously emerged onto the road. But it was wide and empty. I looked once at the sky, and then set out for Forge. I stayed close to the edge of the road, where the shadows of the trees were thickest. I tried to move both swiftly and silently, and did neither as well as I wanted to. I had stopped thinking of anything except vigilance and my need to get back to Buckkeep. Smithy's life was the barest tendril in my mind. I think the only emotion still active in me was the fear that kept me looking over my shoulder and scanning the woods to either side as I walked.

  It was full dark when I arrived on the hillside overlooking Forge. For some time I stood looking down on it, seeking for any signs of life, then I forced myself to walk on. The wind had come up and fitfully granted me moonlight. It was a treacherous boon, as much deceiver as revealer. It made shadows move at the corners of abandoned houses and cast sudden reflections that glinted like knives from puddles in the street. But no one walked in Forge. The harbor was empty of vessels, no smoke rose from any chimneys. The normal inhabitants had abandoned it not long after that fateful raid, and evidently the Forged ones had as well, once there were no more sources of food or comfort there. The town had never really rebuilt itself after the raid, and a long season of winter storms and tides had nearly completed what the Red-Ships had begun. Only the harbor looked almost normal, save for the empty slips. The seawalls still curved out into the bay like protective hands cupping the docks. But there was nothing left to protect.

  I threaded my way through the desolation that was Forge. My skin prickled as I crept past sagging doors on splintered frames in half burned buildings. It was a relief to get away from the moldy smell of the empty cottages and to stand on the wharves overlooking the water. The road went right down to the docks and curved along the cove. A shoulder of roughly worked stone had once protected the road from the greedy sea, but a winter of tides and storms without the intervention of man was breaking it down. Stones were working loose, and the sea's driftwood battering rams, abandoned now by the tide, cluttered the beach below. Once carts of iron ingots had been hauled down this road, to waiting vessels. I walked along the seawall and saw that what had appeared so permanent from the hill above would withstand perhaps one or two more winter seasons without maintenance before the sea reclaimed it.

  Overhead, stars shone intermittently through scudding clouds. The evasive moon cloaked and revealed herself as well, occasionally granting me glimpses of the harbor. The shushing of the waves was like the breathing of a drugged giant. It was a night from a dream, and when I looked out over the water, the ghost of a Red-Ship cut across the moonpath as it put into Forge harbor. Her hull was long and sleek, her masts bare of canvas as she came slipping into the harbor. The red of her hull and prow was shiny as fresh spilled blood, as if she cut through runnels of blood instead of salt water. In the dead town behind me, no one raised a shout of warning.

  I stood like a fool, limned on the seawall, shivering at the apparition, until the creak of oars and the silver dripping of water off an oar's edge made the Red-Ship real.

  I flung myself flat to the causeway, then slithered off the smooth road surface into the boulders and driftwood cluttered along the seawall. I could not breathe for terror. All my blood was in my head, pounding, and no air was in my lungs. I had to set my head down between my arms and close my eyes to regain control of myself. By then the small sounds even a stealthy vessel must make came faint but distinct across the water to me. A man cleared his throat, an oar rattled in its lock, something heavy thudded to the deck. I waited for a shout or command to betray that I had been seen. But there was nothing. I lifted my head cautiously, peering through the whitened roots of a driftwood log. All was still save the ship coming closer and closer as the rowers brought her into harbor. Her oars rose and fell in near-silent unison.

  Soon I could hear them talking in a language like ours, but so harshly spoken I could barely get the meaning of the words. A man sprang over the side with a line and floundered ashore. He made the ship fast no more than two ship lengths away from where I lay hidden among the boulders and logs. Two others sprang out, knives in hands, and scrambled up the seawall. They ran along the road in opposite directions, to take up positions as sentries. One was on the road almost directly above me. I made myself small and still. I held on to Smithy in my mind the way a child grips a beloved toy as protection against nightmares. I had to get home to him, therefore I must not be discovered. The knowledge that I must do the first somehow made the second seem more possible.

  Men scrabbled hastily from the ship. Everything about them bespoke familiarity. I could not fathom why they had put in here until I saw them unloading empty water casks. The casks were sent hollowly rolling down the causeway, and I remembered the well I had passed. The part of my mind that belonged to Chade noted how well they knew Forge, to put in almost exactly opposite that well. This was no
t the first time this ship had stopped here for water. "Poison the well before you leave," he suggested. But I had no supplies for anything like that, and no courage to do anything except remain hidden.

  Others had emerged from the ship and were stretching their legs. I overheard an argument between a woman and a man. He wished permission to light a fire with some of the driftwood, to roast some meat. She forbade it, saying they had not come far enough, and that a fire would be too visible. So they had raided recently, to have fresh meat, and not too far from here. She gave permission for something else that I did not quite understand, until I saw them unload two full kegs. Another man came ashore with a whole ham on his shoulder, which he dropped with a meaty slap onto one of the upright kegs. He drew a knife and began to carve off chunks of it while another man broached the other keg. They would not be leaving anytime soon. And if they did light a fire, or stay until dawn, my log's shadow would be no hiding place at all. I had to get out of there.

  Through nests of sandfleas and squiggling piles of seaweed, under and between logs and stones, I dragged my belly through sand and pebbled gravel. I swear that every root snag caught at me, and every shifted slab of stone blocked my way. The tide had changed. The waves broke noisily against the rocks, and the flying spray rode the wind. I was soon soaked. I tried to time my movement with the sound of the breaking waves, to hide my small sounds in theirs. The rocks were toothed with barnacles, and sand packed the gouges they made in my hands and knees. My staff became an incredible burden, but I would not abandon my only weapon. Long after I could no longer see or hear the raiders, I dared not stand, but crept and huddled still from stone to log. At last I ventured up onto the road and crawled across it. Once in the shadow of a sagging warehouse, I stood, hugging the wall, and peered about me.

  All was silent. I dared to step out two steps onto the road, but even there, I could see nothing of the ship or the sentries. Perhaps that meant they could not see me either. I took a calming breath. I quested after Smithy the way some men pat their pouches to be sure their coin is safe. I found him, but faint and quiet, his mind like a still pool. "I'm coming," I breathed, fearful of stirring him to any effort. And I set forth again.

  The wind was relentless, and my salt-wet clothing clung and chafed. I was hungry, cold, and tired. My wet shoes were a misery. But I had no thought of stopping. I trotted like a wolf, my eyes continually shifting, my ears keen for any sound behind me. One moment the road was empty and black before me. In the next the darkness had turned to men. Two before me, and when I spun about, another behind me. The slapping waves had covered the sound of their feet, and the dodging moon offered me but glimpses of them as they closed the distance around me. I set my back to the solid wall of a warehouse, readied my staff, and waited.

  I watched them come, silent and skulking. I wondered at that, for why did they not raise a shout, why did not the whole crew come to watch me taken? But these men watched one another as much as they watched me. They did not hunt as a pack, but each hoped the others would die killing me and leave the bounty for the picking. Forged ones, not raiders.

  A terrible coldness welled up in me. The least sound of a scuffle would bring the Raiders, I was sure. So if the Forged ones did not finish me, the Raiders would. But when all roads lead to death, there is no point to running down any of them. I would take things as they came. There were three of them. One had a knife. But I had a staff and was trained to use it. They were thin, ragged, and at least as hungry as I, and as cold. One, I think, was the woman from the night before. As they closed on me, so silently, I guessed they were aware of the Raiders and feared them as much as I did. It was not good to consider the desperation that would prompt them to still attack me. But in the next breath, I wondered if Forged ones felt desperation or anything else. Perhaps they were too dulled to realize the danger.

  All of the stealthy arcane knowledge Chade had given me, all of Hod's brutally elegant strategies for fighting two or more opponents went to the wind. For as the first two stepped into my range, I felt the tiny warmth that was Smithy ebbing in my grasp. "Smithy!" I whispered, a desperate plea that he somehow stay with me. I all but saw a tail tip stir in a last effort at a wag. Then the thread snapped and the spark blinked out. I was alone.

  A black flood of strength surged through me like a madness. I stepped out, thrust the end of my staff deep into a man's face, drew it quickly back, and continued a swing that went through the woman's lower jaw. Plain wood sheared the lower half of her face away, so forceful was my blow. I whacked her again as she fell, and it was like hitting a netted shark with a fish bat. The third drove into me solidly, thinking, I suppose, to be inside my staff's range. I didn't care. I dropped my stick and grappled with him. He was bony and he stank. I drove him onto his back, and his expelled breath in my face stank of carrion. Fingers and teeth I tore at him, as far from human as he was. They had kept me from Smithy as he was dying. I did not care what I did to him so long as it hurt him. He reciprocated. I dragged his face along the cobbles, I pushed my thumb into an eye. He sank his teeth into my wrist and clawed my cheek bloody. And when at last he ceased to fight against my strangling grip, I dragged him to the seawall and threw his body down onto the rocks.

  I stood panting, my fists still clenched. I glared toward the Raiders, daring them to come, but the night was still, save for the waves and wind and the soft gargling of the woman as she died. Either the Raiders had not heard, or they were too concerned with their own stealth to investigate sounds in the night. I waited in the wind for someone to care enough to come and kill me. Nothing stirred. An emptiness washed through me, supplanting my madness. So much death in one night, and so little significance, save to me.

  I left the other broken bodies atop the crumbling seawall for the waves and the gulls to dispose of. I walked away from them. I had felt nothing from them when I killed them. No fear, no anger, no pain, not even despair. They had been things. And as I began my long walk back to Buckkeep, I finally felt nothing from within myself. Perhaps, I thought, Forging is a contagion and I have caught it now. I could not bring myself to care.

  Little of that journey stands out in my mind now. I walked all the way, cold, tired, and hungry. I encountered no more Forged ones, and the few other travelers I saw on that stretch of road were no more anxious than I to speak to a stranger. I thought only of getting back to Buckkeep.

  And Burrich. I reached Buckkeep two days into the Springfest celebration. The guards at the gate tried to stop me at first. I looked at them.

  "It's the Fitz," one gasped. "It was said you were dead."

  "Shut up," barked the other. He was Gage, long known to me, and he said quickly, "Burrich's been hurt. He's up to the infirmary, boy."

  I nodded and walked past them.

  In all my years at Buckkeep, I had never been to the infirmary. Burrich and no one else had always treated my childhood illnesses and mishaps. But I knew where it was. I walked unseeing through the knots and gatherings of merrymakers, and suddenly felt as if I were six years old and come to Buckkeep for the very first time. I had hung on to Burrich's belt. All that long way from Moonseye, with his leg torn and bandaged. But not once had he put me on another's horse, or entrusted my care to another. I pushed myself through the people with their bells and flowers and sweet cakes to reach the inner keep. Behind the barracks was a separate building of whitewashed stone. There was no one there, and I walked unchallenged through the antechamber and into the room beyond.

  There were clean strewing herbs on the floor, and the wide windows let in a flood of spring air and light, but the room still gave me a sense of confinement and illness. This was not a good place for Burrich to be. All the beds were empty, save one. No soldier kept to bed on Springfest days, save that they had to. Burrich lay, eyes closed, in a splash of sunlight on a narrow cot. I had never seen him so still. He had pushed his blankets aside and his chest was swathed in bandages. I went forward quietly and sat down on the floor beside his bed. He was very still,
but I could feel him, and the bandages moved with his slow breathing. I took his hand.

  "Fitz," he said, without opening his eyes. He gripped my hand hard.

  "Yes."

  "You're back. You're alive."

  "I am. I came straight here, as fast as I could. Oh, Burrich, I feared you were dead."

  "I thought you were dead. The others all came back days ago." He took a ragged breath. "Of course, the bastard left horses with all the others."

  "No," I reminded him, not letting go of his hand. "I'm the bastard, remember?"

  "Sorry." He opened his eyes. The white of his left eye was mazed with blood. He tried to smile at me. I could see then that the swelling on the left side of his face was still subsiding. "So. We look a fine pair. You should poultice that cheek. It's festering. Looks like an animal scratch."

  "Forged ones," I began, and could not bear to explain more. I only said, softly, "He set me down north of Forge, Burrich."

  Anger spasmed his face. "He wouldn't tell me. Nor anyone else. I even sent a man to Verity, to ask my prince to make him say what he had done with you. I got no answer back. I should kill him."

  "Let it go," I said, and meant it. "I'm back and alive. I failed his test, but it didn't kill me. And as you told me, there are other things in my life."

  Burrich shifted slightly in his bed. I could tell it didn't ease him. "Well. He'll be disappointed over that." He let out a shuddering breath. "I got jumped. Someone with a knife. I don't know who."

  "How bad?"

  "Not good, at my age. A young buck like you would probably just give a shake and go on. Still, he only got the blade into me once. But I fell, and struck my head. I was fair senseless for two days. And, Fitz. Your dog. A stupid, senseless thing, but he killed your dog."

  "I know."

  "He died quickly," Burrich said, as if to be a comfort.