by Robin Hobb
As I passed through the entry, I heard a woman's clear voice lifted in song from the common room. Of course, I thought to myself. Of course. Who else could better keep watch at an inn than a minstrel? Starling sang that ancient lay of the two lovers who defied their families and ran off to leap to their deaths for love of one another. I did not even glance into the room, though I saw Laurel had paused to listen by the door. The Prince followed me listlessly up the stairs to a large but rustic chamber.
Lord Golden had preceded us. An inn boy was making up the fire while two others set up a bathing tub and draft screens in the corner. There were two large beds in the room, and a pallet near the door. There was a window at one end of the room. The Prince walked to it and morosely stared out into the night. There was a rack near the fire, and I fulfilled my role by helping Lord Golden out of his soaked and dirty cloak. I shrugged out of mine, hung them both to dry on the rack, and then pulled his wet boots off as a stream of servants moved in and out of the room, bringing buckets of hot water and a repast of meat pies, stewed fruit, bread, and ale. They all moved with such precision that they reminded me of a troop of jugglers as they swept in as a wave and then likewise receded from the room. When they had vanished out of the door once more, I shut it firmly behind them. The hot water in the tub filled the room with the aroma of bathing herbs and I suddenly longed to lean back in it and seek oblivion.
Lord Golden's words recalled me to the reality. "My Prince, your bath is ready. Do you require assistance?"
The Prince stood. He let his wet cloak fall to the floor with a slap. He looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and brought it to the drying rack. He spread it there with the air of a boy used to attending to his own needs. "No assistance. Thank you," he said quietly. He glanced at the food steaming on the table. "Do not wait for me. I do not stand on formalities. I see no sense in your going hungry while I am bathing."
"In that, you are your father's, son," Lord Golden observed approvingly.
The Prince inclined his head gravely to the compliment but made no other response.
Lord Golden waited until Prince Dutiful had vanished behind the screens. From the landlord, he had secured paper, ink, and quill. He sat down at a little table with these supplies, and busied himself silently for some moments. I walked over to the hearth with a meat pie from the table. I ate it standing while the fire at my back steamed some of the wet from my clothes. Lord Golden spoke to me as his quill scratched out a final line. "Well, at least we're out of the weather for a time. I think we shall have a good sleep here, and go on tomorrow, but not too early in the morning. Does that suit you, Tom?"
"As you wish, Lord Golden," I replied as he blew on the missive, then rolled it. He tied it with a thread drawn from his once-grand cloak. He handed it to me, one eyebrow raised.
I did not mistake his meaning. "I'd rather not," I said very quietly.
He left the writing table and went to where the food was spread. He began to serve himself, deliberately clattering dishes and pots as he did so. His voice was soft as he muttered, "And I would rather you did not have to go. But I cannot. Unkempt as I am, there are still folk here that might recognize Lord Golden and mark his interest in the minstrel. I've earned enough scandal to my name on this journey. Have you forgotten my actions at Galekeep? I've all of that to explain away when I return to Buckkeep. Nor can Dutiful go, and as far as I know, Laurel is ignorant of the connection. Starling might recognize her, but would look askance at a note delivered by her. So you it must be, I fear."
I feared the same, and feared more the traitorous part of me that actually wished to go down the stairs and catch the minstrel's eye. There is a part of any man that will do anything to stave off loneliness. It is not necessarily the most cowardly part of a man's soul, but I've seen any number of men do shameful things to indulge it. Worse, I wondered if the Fool were not deliberately sending me down to her. Once before, when loneliness had threatened to devour my heart, he had told her where to find me. It had been a misguided comfort I took in her arms. I vowed I would not do so again.
But I took the tiny rolled message from his hand and slipped it up my bedraggled sleeve with the artless practice of long years of deceit. The feathers from the treasure beach still rode there, securely strapped to my forearm. That secret, at least, still remained my own, and would until I had time to share it with him privately.
Aloud, he said, "I see you're restless despite our long day. Go along, Tom. The Prince and I can fend for ourselves for an evening, and you deserve a bit of song and a quiet beer on your own. Go on now, I saw you cast a longing eye that way. We won't mind."
I wondered whom he thought to deceive. The Prince would know that my heart had no interest in anything but grief just now. In the Piebald camp, he had seen Lord Golden give way to my command and leave with the wolf. Nevertheless, I loudly thanked my master for his permission, and left the room. Perhaps it was a play we all acted for each other. I went slowly down the stairs. Laurel was coming up as I descended. She gave me a curious look. I tried to think of some words, but nothing came to me. I passed her silently, intending no slight but unable to care if she took offense. I heard her pause on the stair behind me as if she would speak to me, but I continued down.
The common room was crowded. Some had probably come for the music, for Starling's reputation was grand now, but many others looked to be folk trapped by the downpour and unable to afford a room. They would shelter here for the night, and when the music stopped, doze the storm away at the tables and benches. I managed to get both food and a mug of beer on my assurances that my master would pay for it on the morrow. Then I walked to the hearth end of the room, and crowded myself into a corner table just behind Starling's elbow. I knew it was no coincidence she was here. She had been watching for us to return, and likely she had access to a bird to pass word of us on to Buckkeep. So I was not surprised when she feigned not to notice me, and kept playing and singing.
After three more songs, she declared she needed to rest her voice and wet her pipes. The servingboy who brought her wine set it on the corner of my table. When she sat down beside me to drink, I passed her Lord Golden's note under the table. Then I tossed off the last mouthful of beer in my mug and went out to the backhouse.
She was waiting for me under the dripping eaves when I returned to the inn. "The message has been sent," she greeted me.
"I'll tell my master." I started to walk past her, but she caught my sleeve. I halted.
"Tell me," she said quietly.
Ancient caution guarded my tongue. I did not know how much information Chade had given her. "We completed our errand."
"So I guessed," she replied tartly. Then she sighed. "And I know better than to ask you what Lord Golden's errand was. But tell me of you. You look terrible: your hair chopped short, your clothes in rags. What happened?"
Of all I had been through, only one event was mine to share or not as I pleased. I told her. "Nighteyes is dead."
Rainfall filled her silence. Then she sighed deeply and put her arms around me. "Oh, Fitz," she said quietly. She leaned her head against my scratched chest. I could see the pale part in her dark hair, and I smelled her scent and the wine she had drunk. Her hands moved softly on my back, soothingly. "Alone again. It isn't fair. Truly it isn't. You've the saddest song of any man I've ever known." The wind gusted and rain rode it to spatter against us, but still she held me, and a small warmth gathered between us. She said nothing more for a long time. I lifted my arms and put them around her. Just as it once had, it seemed inevitable. She spoke against my chest. "I've a room to myself. It's at the river end of the inn. Come to me. Let me take your hurt away."
"I… thank you." That won't mend it, I wanted to tell her. If she had ever known me at all, she would know that now. But words would not make her understand it if she could not sense it on her own. I suddenly appreciated the Fool's silence and distance. He had known. No other closeness could make up for the lack of my wolf.
; The rain went on falling. She loosened her hold on me and looked up into my face. A frown divided her fine brows. "You aren't going to come to me tonight, are you?" She sounded incredulous.
Strange. I had been wavering in my resolve, but the very way she phrased the question helped me to answer it correctly. I shook my head slowly. "I appreciate the invitation. But it wouldn't help."
"Are you sure of that?" She tried to make her voice light and failed. She moved, her breasts brushing against me in a way that might have been accidental but was not. I stepped a little back from her, my arms falling to my sides.
"I'm sure. I don't love you, Starling. Not that way."
"It seems to me that you told me that once before, a long time ago. But for years, it did help. It did work." Her eyes searched my face. She smiled confidently.
It hadn't. It had only seemed to. I could have told her that, but it would have been an unnecessary honesty. So I only said, "Lord Golden expects me. I have to go up to him." She shook her head slowly. "What a grievous end to a sad tale. And I am the only one who knows the whole of it, and still I am not allowed to sing it. What a tragic lay it would make. You are the son of a king, who sacrificed all for his father's family, only to finish as the ill-used servant of an arrogant foreign noble. He doesn't even dress you well. The ignominy must cut you like a blade." She looked deep into my eyes, seeking… what? Resentment? Outrage?
"It doesn't really bother me," I replied in some confusion. Then, as if someone had drawn a curtain open and spilled out light, I understood. She did not know that Lord Golden was the Fool. She truly saw me as but his servant, passing a message to her on his behalf. For all of her minstrel cleverness, she looked at him and saw the wealthy Jamaillian lord. I fought the smile away from my face. "I am content with my position with him and grateful to Chade for arranging it. I am satisfied to be Tom Badgerlock."
For a moment she looked incredulous. The look faded into disappointment in me. Then she gave a small shake of her head. "I should have known you would be. It's what you always wanted, isn't it? Your own little life. To have no responsibility for your line or for what happens at court. To be one of the humble folk, counting for nothing in the long run."
All my earlier efforts to spare her feelings seemed vapid now. "I have to go," I repeated.
"Hurry along to your master." She released me. Her voice was a trained talent, and her scorn danced in it with a scorpion's sting.
By a vast effort of will, I said nothing in reply. I turned and walked away from her back into the inn. I climbed the servants' stairs to our quarters, tapped, and let myself in.
I Dutiful lifted his head from the pillow to regard me. His dark hair was sleeked back, his skin flushed from his bath. The effect made him look young. The Fool's bed was empty.
"My Prince," I greeted him. Then, "Lord Golden?" I queried the screened bath.
"He left." Dutiful let his head drop back to the pillow. "Laurel tapped on the door and wished to speak with him privately."
"Ah." It almost made me smile. Wouldn't that have intrigued Starling?
"He asked me to be sure you knew we had left you the bathwater. And leave your clothes outside the door. He's arranged for a servant to wash them and return them by morning."
"Thank you, my Prince. It is most kind of you to tell me."
"Please lock the door, he said. He said he would knock and awaken you when he returned."
"As you wish, my Prince." I stepped to the door and locked it. I doubted he would be back before dawn. "Is there anything else you require before I bathe, my Prince?"
"No. And don't talk to me like that." He turned his back on me, shouldering into the bed.
I undressed. As I peeled off my shirt, I made sure the feathers went with it. I sat down for a moment on my low pallet before removing my boots. The feathers from the beach slipped from the shirt's sleeve and under the thin blanket. I removed Jinna's charm and set it on the pillow. I arose, set my clothes outside the door, locked it again, and walked to the screened tub. As I climbed into the water, Dutiful's voice followed me. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"
The water in the tub had cooled to lukewarm, but it was still far hotter than the rain outside had been. I peeled the healer's bandaging from my neck. The scratches on my belly and chest stung as I lowered myself into the water. Then they eased. I sank farther down to soak my neck, as well.
"I said, aren't you going to ask me why?"
"I suppose it's because you don't want me to call you 'my Prince', Prince Dutiful." The salve on my injuries was melting in the water, perfuming the air with its aromatic scent. Goldenseal. Myrrh. I closed my eyes and ducked under the water. When I came up, I helped myself to the little bowl of soap that had been left for the Prince. I worked it through what was left of my hair and watched the brown suds drip into the water. I ducked again to rinse it.
"You shouldn't have to thank me and wait on me and defer to me. I know who you are. Your blood's as good as mine."
I was grateful for the screen. I splashed a bit while I tried to think, hoping he would believe I hadn't heard him.
"Chade used to tell me stories. When he first started teaching me things. Stories about another boy he had taught, how stubborn he was, and also how clever. 'When my first boy was your age, he'd say, and then tell a story about how you'd played tricks on the washer folk, or hidden the seamstress's shears to perplex her. You had a pet weasel, didn't you?"
Slink had been Chade's weasel. I'd stolen Mistress Hasty's shears on his orders, as part of my assassin's training in theft and stealth. Surely Chade hadn't told him that, as well. My mouth was dry. I splashed loudly and waited.
"You're his son, aren't you? Chade's son and hence my would it be a second cousin? On the wrong side of the sheets, but a cousin all the same. And I think I know who your mother was, too. She is a lady still spoken of, though none seems to know a great deal about her. Lady Thyme."
I laughed aloud, then changed it into a cough. Chade's son by Lady Thyme. Now there was an apt pedigree for me. Lady Thyme, that noxious old harpy, had been an invention of Chade's, a clever disguise for when he wished to travel unknown. I cleared my throat and nearly recovered my aplomb. "No, my Prince. I fear you are in vast error there."
He was silent as I finished washing myself. I emerged from the tub, dried myself, and stepped out from behind the screen. There was a nightshirt on the pallet. As usual, the Fool had thought of everything. As I pulled it over my wet and bristly head, the Prince observed, "You've got a lot of scars. How'd you get them?"
"Asking questions of bad-tempered folk. My Prince."
"You even sound like Chade."
An unkinder, more untrue thing had never been said of me, I was sure. I countered it with, "And when did you become so talkative?"
"Since there was no one around to spy on us. You do know Lord Golden and Laurel are spies, don't you? One for Chade and the other for my mother?"
He thought he was so clever. He'd have to learn more caution if he expected to survive at court. I turned and gave him a direct stare. "What makes you believe that I'm not a spy, as well?"
He gave a skeptical laugh. "You're too rude. You don't care if I like you; you don't try to win my confidence or my favor. You're disrespectful. You never flatter me." He laced the fingers of his hands and put them behind his head. He gave me an odd half-smile. "And you don't seem concerned that I'll have you hanged for manhandling me back on that island. Only a relative could treat someone so badly and not expect ill consequences from it." He cocked his head at me, and I saw what I most feared in his eyes. Behind his speculation was stark need. His eyes bled unbearable loneliness. Years ago, when Burrich had forcibly parted me from the first animal I had ever bonded to, I had attached myself to him. I had feared the Stablemaster and hated him, but I had needed him even more. I had needed to be connected to someone who would be constant and available to me. I've heard it said that all youngsters have such requirements. I think that mine went deeper than a chil
d's simple need for stability. Having known the complete connection of the Wit, I could no longer abide the isolation of my own mind. I counseled myself that Dutiful's turning to me probably had more to do with Jinna's charm than with any sincere regard for me. Then I realized it still lay on my pillow. "I report to Chade." I said the words quickly, without embellishment. I would not traffic in deceit and betrayal. I would not let him attach himself to me, believing me to be someone I was not.
"Of course you do. He sent for you. For me. You have to be the one he said he'd try to get for me. The one who could teach me the Skill better than he can."
Truly, Chade's tongue had grown loose in his old age. He sat up in his bed and began to tick his reasoning off on his fingers. I looked at him critically as he spoke. Deprivation and grief still shadowed his eyes and hollowed his cheeks, but sometime in the last day or so, he had realized he would live. He held up his first finger. "You've a Farseer cast to your features. Your eyes, the set of your jaw, not your nose, I don't know where you got that from, but that's not family." He held up a second finger. "The Skill is a Farseer magic. I've felt you use it at least twice now." A third finger. "You call Chade 'Chade', not 'Lord Chade' or 'Councillor Chade'. And once I heard you speak of my lady mother as Kettricken. Not even Queen Kettricken, but Kettricken. As if you'd been children together."
Perhaps we had. As for my nose, well, that had come from a Farseer, too. It was Regal's permanent memento to me of the days I'd spent in his dungeon.
I walked to the branch of candles on the table, and blew them all out save one. I felt Dutiful's eyes follow me as I walked back to my pallet and sat down on it. It was low and hard, placed near the door, where I could guard my good masters. I lay down on it. "Well?" he demanded.
"I'm going to sleep now." I made it the end of the conversation.
He snorted contemptuously. "A real servant would have begged my leave to extinguish the candles. And to go to sleep. Good night, Tom Badgerlock Farseer."
