Fool's Errand ttm-1

by Robin Hobb

  This being so, the nobles turned their horses and set spurs to them, hastening back to the welcome cool of Galekeep's thick stone walls. The rest of us followed as best we might. Myblack easily kept their pace, though I had to ride in their dust.

  The nobility retired to their chambers to wash the dust away and don fresh clothing while others cared for their sweated horses and cranky cats. I followed Lord Golden as he strode ebulliently through the halls. I hastened to open the door for him, and then to shut it behind us after he had passed through. I fastened the latch quietly.

  I turned to find him already laving the dust from his face and hands. "What happened?" he asked me. I told him.

  "Will he be all right?" he asked anxiously.

  "The Prince? I hardly know."

  "Nighteyes," the Fool clarified impatiently.

  "As well as he may be. I'll take him more water and meat when I return. He was in pain but not like to die of his injuries." Though I had not liked the look of the inflamed scratches.

  The Fool almost seemed to answer my thoughts. "I've a salve that may soothe his hurts, if he will let you use it."

  I had to smile. "I doubt that he will, but I will be glad to take it all the same."

  "Well. There but remains for me to manufacture a reason for the three of us to depart Galekeep immediately after lunch. We dare not let his trail grow cold. Nor do I think it likely that we will be returning here." As he spoke, he was changing his jacket, brushing dust from his trousers, and wiping a cloth over his boots. He considered his reflection in the mirror, then hastily ran a brush through his fine hair. The pale strands floated after the brush and clung to it. The shorter pieces at his temples stood out like a cat's whiskers. He exclaimed in annoyance, and refastened the heavy silver clip that he used to secure his hair at the base of his neck. "There. That will have to do. Pack us up, Tom Badgerlock. Be prepared to leave by the time I return from my meal." And he was gone.

  There was fruit and cheese and bread on the table from the night before. The bread was a bit stale but I was hungry enough that it did not matter. I ate as I hastily packed my own things. Lord Golden's wardrobe presented me with more problems. I could not recall how he had fit so much clothing into such a small bag. At length, I managed to cram it all in, though I wondered what the fine shirts would look like when they emerged again.

  The midday meal was still in progress when I finished. I took advantage of that and slipped down to the kitchen for cold beer and spicy sausages. My old skills served me in good stead, for when I left several thick slices off a cold joint were concealed in the breast of my servant's tunic.

  I returned to our rooms and spent the early afternoon impatiently awaiting Lord Golden's return. I longed to reach for the wolf, and dared not. Every passing moment might be carrying the Prince farther away. The afternoon was flowing away from me. I flung myself down on my bed to wait. Despite my anxiety, I must have dozed off.

  I awoke to Lord Golden opening the door. I rolled from the bed to my feet, feeling sodden with sleep yet eager to leave. He shut the door behind him and in response to my look, replied grimly, "It is proving socially difficult to extricate us. There were guests at today's luncheon, and not just those we hunted with. The Bresingas seem determined to exhibit me to all their wealthy neighbors. They have planned dinners and teas and more hunts with half the countryside in attendance. I have been unable to invent a pressing enough reason for us to leave. This is damnably inconvenient. Would that I could go back to my motley and a more honest form of juggling and rope-walking."

  "We're not leaving yet," I observed stupidly.

  "No. There is a large dinner in my honor this evening. For us to abruptly leave before that would be insult. And when I hinted that I might have to cut my visit short and leave tomorrow morning, I was told that Lord Crias from across the river had planned a morning hunt for me, and an afternoon repast at his manor."

  "They delay you on purpose. The Bresingas are involved in the Prince's disappearance. I am sure they provided food for him and the cat last night. And Nighteyes is certain that the cat who attacked him is aware he is bonded to someone. They tried to flush me out."

  "Perhaps. But even if we were sure, I could scarcely fling accusations about. And we are not positive. Perhaps they but seek social advancement at Court, or to show me their various marriageable daughters. I gather that is why the girl was at dinner last night."

  "I thought she was Civil's companion."

  "She was at great pains during the hunt to tell me that they were childhood friends with absolutely no romantic interest in one another." He sighed and sat down at the small table. "She told me that she too collects feathers. Tonight after dinner she wishes to show me her collection. I am certain it is an invention to spend more time with me." Had my own needs not been so pressing, I would have smiled at his dismay.

  "Well, I shall have to deal with it as best I may. And perhaps it can even be turned to our advantage, now that I think of it. Oh, I've an errand for you. It seems that while we were hunting today, I lost a silver chain. At lunch I noticed it was missing. It is one of my favorites. You will have to retrace our steps and see if you can find it. Take your time."

  As he spoke, he drew a necklace from his pocket, wrapped it in his kerchief, and handed it to me. I pocketed it. He opened his clothing case, shot me an accusing look at the compressed jumble inside it, and then fished about until he discovered the pot of salve. He handed it to me. "Shall I lay out your clothing for dinner before I go?" He rolled his eyes mockingly at me as he drew a crumpled shirt from his clothing bag. "I think you've already done enough for me, Badgerlock. Just go." As I moved toward the door, his voice stopped me. "Does the horse suit you?"

  "The black is fine," I assured him. "A good healthy beast and fleet, as we proved. You chose a good horse."

  "But you would rather have chosen your own mount."

  I nearly said yes. But then, as I considered it, I realized that was not true. If I had been choosing the horse, I would have sought for a companion to bear me through the years. It would have taken me weeks, if not months, to select one. And now that I was reluctantly confronting the wolf's mortality, I felt a strange hesitance to offer that much of myself to an animal. "No," I replied honestly. "It was much better that you chose one for me. She's a good horse. You chose well."

  "Thank you," he said quietly. It seemed to matter to him a great deal. If the wolf had not been waiting, it would have given me pause.

  Chapter XVIII

  Fool's Kiss

  Marry are the tales told of Witted taking on their beasts' shapes to wreak havoc upon their neighbors. The bloodier legends are of Witted in wolves' skins, who in that guise rend their neighbors' families as well as their flocks. Less sanguine are the tales that depict Witted suitors taking on the shapes of birds, or cats, or even dancing bears to gain access to a bedchamber in the course of a seduction.

  All such tales are imaginative nonsense, perpetuated by those who seek to fuel hatred of the Witted. Although a Witted person can share the mind of his beast and, hence, its physical perceptions, he cannot metamorphose his human form into that of an animal. It is true that some Witted who have been long in a partnership with their animal sometimes take on some of their habits of posture, diet, and mannerisms. But a man who eats, dens, scavenges, and smells like a bear does not become a bear. If that myth of shapechanging could be vanquished, it would go far to reestablishing trust between the Witted and un-Witted.

  B.Badgerlock's "Old Blood Tales"

  The wolf was not where I had left him. It rattled me, and I took some few moments convincing myself that I had not mistaken the spot. But there were the spatters of his blood where he had sprawled on last year's leaves, and here were the spatters in the dust where he had lapped water from my hands. He had been here and now he was not.

  It is one thing to track two shod horses with riders. It is another to follow the spoor of a wolf over dry ground. He had left no trace of his passage, an
d I feared to reach out toward him. I followed the tracks of the horses, believing that he would have done the same. As I trailed them through the sun-drenched hills, their tracks went down into a draw and crossed a small stream. They had stopped here to let the horses water. And there in the muddy bank was a wolf's paw-print atop the horse's hoofmark. So. He was tracking them.

  Three hills later, I caught up with him. He knew I was coming. He did not pause to wait for me, but moved on. That gait caught my eyes. It was not his purposeful trot. He walked. Myblack was not especially pleased to approach the wolf, but she didn't fight me. As I drew closer, he stopped in the shelter of some trees and awaited me.

  "I brought meat," I told him as I dismounted.

  I felt his awareness of me, but he sent no thought toward me. It was eerie. I took the meat out of my shirt and gave it to him. He gulped it down and then came to sit down beside me. I took the salve out of my pouch. He sighed and lay down.

  The claw swipes down his belly were livid ridges of lacerated flesh, and hot to the touch. When I applied the salve, the pain became an edged thing between us. I was as gentle as I could be and still be thorough. He tolerated it, but not gladly. I sat for a time beside him, my hand resting on his ruff. He sniffed at the salve I had applied. Honey and bear grease, I told him. He licked the long scratch and I let him. His tongue would push the ointment deeper into the wound and do him no harm. Besides, there was no way I could have stopped him. He already knew that I would have to go back to Galekeep.

  It would be wisest for me to keep following them, even if I don't go swiftly. The longer you are delayed, the colder the trail will be. Easier for you to come to me than to try to follow fading tracks.

  There is no arguing with that. I gave no voice to my worries that he could neither hunt nor defend himself just now. He knew it, I knew it, and he had made his decision. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can. He knew that too, but I could not refrain from the promise.

  My brother. Be careful what you dream tonight. I won't seek to dream with them.

  I fear they may seek you.

  Apprehension smoked through my mind, but again there was nothing to say. I wished, vainly, that I had been brought up knowing more of the Wit. Perhaps if I had understood Old Blood better, I would know what I was dealing with now.

  No. I think not. What you do, how you link to him, that is not just Skill. It is the crossing of your magic. You open the door with one and travel with the other. As when attacked Justin after he had bridged into you with Skill. His Skill made the bridge, but used my bond with you to run across it.

  He had deliberately shared that thought with me, acknowledging a worry that had been growing in me for some time. Dog-magic, Justin had called my Wit, and told me that my use of the Skill stank of it. Verity had never complained of that. But Verity, I admitted unwillingly, shared my truncated education in the Skill. Perhaps he had not detected a staining of the Wit in my use of the Skill, or perhaps he had been too kind to ever rebuke me with it. Now I worried for my wolf. Do not follow them too closely. Try not to let them know that we track them.

  What did you fear? That I would attack a cat and a boy on horseback? No. That battle belongs to you. I will trail this game; it is up to you to bring it to bay and down it.

  His thought created unpleasant images in my mind all the way back to Galekeep. I had entered into this to track down a boy, runaway or perhaps kidnapped. Now I was facing not only a boy who did not wish to be returned to Buckkeep, but his confederates. How far would I go in my efforts to return him to the Queen, and what limits would he set in his determination to have his own way?

  Would those with him have any constraints as to what they would do to keep him?

  I knew Lord Golden was wise to continue our play. Much as I longed to drop all pretense and simply hunt down the Prince and drag him back to Buckkeep, I could see the consequences of that. If the Bresingas were convinced that we pursued him, they would certainly get a warning to him. He would flee faster and hide deeper. Worse, they might directly interfere with our pursuit of him. I had no wish to meet with an untimely 'accident' as we tracked Prince Dutiful. As matters stood, we could still hope to move secretly to regain the Prince and discreetly convey him back to Buckkeep. He had fled Galekeep at our arrival, yet not gone far at first. Now he was on the move again, but still had no reason to connect Lord Golden to any pursuit. If the Fool could pry us loose of Lady Bresinga's hospitality without arousing any suspicion, we could follow him unobtrusively and have a better chance of catching up with him.

  I returned to Galekeep hot and dusty and parched. It still seemed odd to surrender my horse to a stableman. I found Lord Golden napping in his chambers. The curtains were drawn against the heat and light, putting the room in twilight. I went quietly past him to my own room to wash most of the dust and sweat away. I hung my shirt on the bedpost to dry and air and slung my fresh one over my shoulder.

  Servants had replenished the bowl of fruit in Lord Golden's chamber. I helped myself to a plum and ate it by the window, peering around the curtain at the garden outside. I felt both tired and restless. I could think of nothing constructive to do, and no way to pass the time. Frustration and worry chafed me.

  "Did you find my chain, Badgerlock?" It was Lord Golden's aristocratic tone that interrupted my thought.

  "Yes, my lord. Just where you thought you'd lost it."

  I drew the delicate jewelry from my pocket and carried it over to where he lounged on his bed. He accepted it as gratefully as if he were truly a nobleman and it had truly been lost. I lowered my voice. "Nighteyes follows the trail for us. When we can leave, we can go straight to the wolf."

  "How is he?"

  "Stiff. Sore. But I think he will recover."

  "Excellent." He sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I've selected evening clothing for us, and laid it out in your room. Really, Badgerlock, you must learn to handle my garments more carefully."

  "I'll try, my lord," I muttered, but I could not get my heart back into the game. I was suddenly tired of the whole charade. "Have you thought of a discreet way for us to leave?"

  "No." He strolled to the table. Wine had been left there for him. He poured a glass and drank it, then poured another. "But I've thought of an indiscreet one, and already laid the groundwork for it this afternoon. Not without regrets I'll be compromising Lord Golden's reputation somewhat, but what is a nobleman without a bit of scandal to his name? It will probably just increase my popularity at court. Everyone will want to know my side of it, and will speculate on what truly happened." He sipped from his glass. "I think that if I succeed at this, it will convince Lady Bresinga that her fears that we are seeking the Prince are groundless. No proper emissary of the Queen would behave as I intend." He gave me a sickly smile.

  "What have you done?"

  "Nothing, just yet. But I fancy that by morning, our leaving will be facilitated as swiftly as we could wish." He drank again. "Sometimes I don't care for the things that I must do," he observed, and there was a plaintive note in his voice. He finished the glass of wine as if girding himself for a task.

  Not another word would he divulge to me. He arrayed himself carefully for dinner, and I had to suffer the indignity of the green jerkin and yellow leggings. "Perhaps it is a shade too bright," he conceded in response to my incensed gaze. His grin was too broad for me to believe any apology in his words. I did not know if it was the wine or one of his fey humors. "Stop glowering, Badgerlock," he rebuked me as he adjusted the cuffs of a muted green coat. "I expect my servants to maintain a pleasant demeanor. Besides, the color does set off the darkness of your eyes and skin and hair all of you. It rather reminds me of an exotic parrot. You may not appreciate such a show of yourself, but the ladies will."

  Obeying him taxed all my ability to dissemble. I walked behind him to where the nobility had gathered before dinner. This was a larger group than the night before, for Lady Bresinga had extended her hospitality to those who had hunt
ed with her earlier. They might have been invisible for all the notice Lord Golden gave them. Sydel was seated at a low table with young Civil. An assortment of feathers was spread out before her on a cloth, and they seemed to be discussing them. She had obviously been watching the door, for the moment Lord Golden entered, her face was transfigured. She gleamed like a lantern in the darkness. Young Civil also underwent a transformation, but it was not so pleasant. He could not very well sneer at a guest in his mother's home, but his features went very still and cold. Dismay clutched at my belly. No. I wanted no part of this.

  But Lord Golden, smiling and charming, made directly for the pair. His greetings to everyone else in the chamber were brief to the point of neglect. Without even a pretense of subtlety, he seated himself between them, obliging Civil to move over to make room for him. From that moment on, he virtually ignored everyone else in the room as he focused all of his allure on the girl. Their heads bent together over the feathers. His every movement was a seduction. His long fingers stroked the gaudy feathers on the cloth. He selected one, and touched its softness to his own cheek, and then leaned forward to draw it gently down the length of Sydel's arm. She giggled nervously and drew back from the touch. He smiled. She blushed. He set the feather back on the cloth and shook a reproachful finger at it as if it were at fault. Then he selected another one. Boldly he held it against the sleeve of her gown, murmuring some comparison of color. He gathered others from the cloth, arranged them in a sort of feather bouquet. With the tip of one forefinger, he turned her face to look at his, and then, by a trick I could not see, fastened the feathers into her hair so that they hung down and followed the line of her cheek.