Fool's Errand ttm-1

by Robin Hobb

  I snorted. "I'll try." I rose from the table slowly. My body had rediscovered its aches. The Fool ensconced himself in one of the two chairs that faced the hearth. He leaned back in it with a sigh and stretched out his long legs toward the warmth. His voice reached me as I moved toward my chamber.

  "Fitz. You know I love you, don't you?"

  I halted where I stood.

  "I'd hate to have to kill you," he continued. I recognized his adept imitation of my own voice and inflection. I stared at him, baffled. He sat up taller and glanced over the back of his chair at me with a pained smile. "Never again attempt to put my clothing away," he warned me. "Verulean silk should be draped for storage. Not wadded."

  "I'll try to remember that," I promised him humbly.

  He settled back in his chair and picked up his glass of wine. "Good night, Fitz," he told me quietly.

  In my chamber, I found one of my old tunics and some leggings. I put them on, and then frowned at the fit. The leggings sagged on me about the waist; the privations and steady exertions of our expedition had trimmed my body. I brushed at the shirt, and then frowned at the stains. It had not changed since I came to Buckkeep, but my eye for it had. It had been fine for my farmstead, but if I were going to stay at Buck and teach the Prince, I would need to dress as a townsman again. The conclusion was inevitable and yet it felt oddly vain. I washed my face with the stale water in the ewer. In my small looking glass, I tried vainly to smooth my hair, then gave it up as a bad cause, and put on my cloak. I put out my candle.

  Lord Golden's chamber, as I ghosted through it, was now lit only by flickering firelight. As I passed the chair by the hearth, I offered, "Good night, Fool." He did not speak, but lifted his graceful hand in farewell, his flicking forefinger gesturing me toward the door. I slipped out, feeling oddly as if I had forgotten something.

  The keep had a festive atmosphere as all prepared for another night of feasting, music, and dancing. Garlands dressed the door arches, and far more folk than usual moved through the halls. A minstrel's voice drifted from the lesser hall, and three young men in Farrow colors chatted near the door. My worn clothing and badly cropped hair drew a few bemused glances, but I was generally unnoticed among the newcomers and their servants, and unchallenged as I left Buckkeep and headed down toward the town. The steep road was still busy with folk coming and going from the keep, and despite the steady rain, Buckkeep Town was livelier than usual. Any occasion up at the keep stimulated trade in the town, and Dutiful's betrothal was a major occasion. I wended my way through merchants and tradesmen and servants on errands. Nobles on horseback and ladies on litters passed me, on their way up to the keep for the evening's festivities. When I reached Buckkeep Town itself, the press of folk in the street only became thicker. Taverns were full to overflowing, music swelled out to lure in passersby, and children raced past, enjoying the excitement of so many strangers in town. The holiday aura was infectious, and I caught myself smiling and wishing many a stranger good evening as I made my way down to Jinna's shop.

  But as I passed one doorway, I saw a young man chivying a maid to stay and talk with him a moment longer. Her eyes were bright and her smile merry as she shook her dark curls at him in sweet rebuke. Raindrops jeweled their cloaks. He looked so earnest and so young in his entreaties that I averted my eyes and hurried past. In the next moment, my heart ached as I realized that Prince Dutiful would never know a moment like that, would never taste the sweetness of a stolen kiss, or the elation and suspense of wondering if the lady would grant him another moment of her company. No. His wife had been chosen for him, and the freshest years of his manhood would be spent in waiting for her to grow to womanhood. I dared not hope they would be happy. The best I could manage was that they would not make one another miserable.

  These were my thoughts as I found my way down the winding little street that led to Jinna's door. I halted outside it, and sudden awkwardness flooded me. The door was closed, the windows shuttered. A little glow of candlelight leaked out through one ill-fitting shutter, but it did not look welcoming. Rather it spoke of the intimacy of home within those walls. It was later than I had thought it was; I would be intruding. I smoothed my hacked hair nervously and promised myself that would not go within, only stand at the door and ask for Hap. I could take him out to a tavern for a beer and some talk. That would be good, I told myself, a good way to show him I considered him a man grown now. I took a breath and tapped lightly at the door.

  Within, I heard the scrape of a chair, and the thud of a cat landing on the floor. Then Jinna's voice came through the shuttered window. "Who's there?"

  "Fit… Tom Badgerlock." I cursed my awkward tongue. "Look, I'm sorry to call so late, I've been away, and thought I should check on—"

  "Tom!" The door was flung wide to my hasty excuses, nearly hitting me as it opened. "Tom Badgerlock, come in, come in!" Jinna had a candle in one hand, but with the other she caught the sleeve of my shirt and drew me inside. The room was dim, lit mostly by the hearth fire. There were two chairs pulled up there with a low table between them. A steaming teapot sat brewing beside an empty cup. A heap of knitting, the needles thrust through it, occupied one chair. She pulled the door firmly shut behind me, and then gestured me toward the hearth. "I've just put on elderberry tea. Would you like a cup?"

  "That would be I didn't mean to intrude, I only meant to check on Hap and see how—"

  "Here, let me take your wet cloak. Ah, it's drenched! I'll hang it here. Well, sit down, you'll have to wait, for the young scamp isn't here. Truth to tell, I've been thinking to myself that the sooner you came back and had a word with the lad, the better for him. Not that I wish to be telling tales on him, but he wants someone taking a hand with him."

  "Hap?" I asked incredulously. I took a step toward the fire, but her cat chose that moment to wrap himself suddenly against my ankle. I lurched to a halt, barely avoiding stepping on him.

  Make a lap. Near the fire.

  The assertive little voice rang in my mind. I looked down at him and he looked up at me. For an instant, our gazes brushed, then we both looked aside in instinctive courtesy. But he had already seen the ruins of my soul.

  He rubbed his cheek against my leg. Hold the cat. You'll feel better.

  I don't think so.

  He rubbed against my leg insistently. Hold the cat.

  I don't want to hold the cat.

  He reared up suddenly on his hind legs, and hooked his vicious little front claws into both flesh and leggings. Don't talk back! Pick up the cat.

  "Fennel, stop that! Where are your manners?" Jinna exclaimed in dismay. She bent toward the ginger pest, but I stooped swiftly, to unhook his claws from my flesh. I freed myself but before I could straighten up, he leapt to my shoulder. For all his size, Fennel had amazing agility. He landed, not heavily, but as if someone had put a large, friendly hand on my shoulder. Hold the cat. You'll feel better.

  Steadying him as I stood up was easier than plucking him loose. Jinna clucked and exclaimed, but I assured her it was all right. She drew out one of the chairs that faced the small hearth and smoothed the pillow on it. I sat down, and it tipped back under me. It was a rocker. The moment I was settled, Fennel moved down to my lap and settled himself in a warm mound. I folded my hands atop him in a show of ignoring him. He gave me a slit-eyed cat grin. Be nice to me. She loves me best.

  It took me a moment to find my thoughts. "Hap?" I said again.

  "Hap," she confirmed. "Who should be abed right now, for his master expects him earlier than the dawn tomorrow.

  "And where is he? Out dangling after Mistress Hartshorn's daughter, who is far too knowing for her tender years. She's a distraction to him, that Svanja, and even her own mother says that she would be better at home, tending to work and learning her own trade."

  She nattered on in a voice of mixed annoyance and amusement. The level of her concern astonished me. I felt a twinge of jealousy: was not Hap my boy, for me to worry about? As she spoke, she set a cup at
my elbow, poured tea for both of us, and resumed her chair and knitting. When she was settled, she glanced over at me and our eyes met for the first time since I had knocked. She started, and then leaned closer, peering at me.

  "Oh, Tom!" she exclaimed in a voice of deep sympathy. She leaned toward me, studying my face. "Poor man, what's happened to you?"

  Empty as a hollow log when the mice are eaten.

  "My wolf died."

  It shocked me that I spoke the truth so bluntly. Jinna was silent, staring at me. I knew she could not understand. I did not expect her to understand. But then, as her helpless silence lengthened, I felt very much as if she might understand, for she offered no useless words. Abruptly, she dropped her knitting in her lap and leaned across to put her hand on my forearm.

  "Will you be all right?" she asked me. It was not an empty question; she genuinely listened for my reply.

  "In time," I told her, and for the first time, I admitted that was true. As disloyal as the thought felt, I knew that as time passed, I would be myself again. And in that moment, I felt for the first time the sensation that Black Rolf had tried to describe to me. The wolfish part of my soul stirred, and, Yes, you will be yourself again, and that is as it should be, I heard near as clearly as if Nighteyes had truly shared the thought with me. Like remembering, but more so, Rolf had told me. I sat very still, savoring the sensation. Then it passed, and a shiver ran over me.

  "Drink your tea, you're taking a chill," Jinna advised me, and leaned down to toss another piece of wood on the fire.

  I did as she suggested. As I set the cup down, I glanced up at the charm over the mantel. The changeable light from the flames gilded and then hid the beads. Hospitality. The tea was warm and sweet and soothing, the cat purred on my lap, and a woman looked at me fondly. Was it just the wall charm's effect on me? If it was, I didn't care. Something in me eased another notch. Petting the cat makes you feel better, Fennel asserted smugly.

  "The boy's heart will be broken when he hears. He knew the wolf would go after you, you know. When the wolf disappeared I was worried, but when he didn't come back, Hap told me, never fear, he's gone off to follow Tom. Oh, I dread your telling him." Abruptly, she reined her flow of words. Then she stoutly declared, "But in time, like you, he will recover. Oh, he should be home by now," she worried, and then, "What will you do about him?"

  I thought of myself, so many years ago, and of Verity, and even of young Dutiful. I thought of all the ways that duty had shaped us and bound us and held back our hearts. Truly, the boy should be home by now, getting sleep the better to serve his master on the morrow. He was an apprentice yet, and his prospects were not yet settled. He had no business showing an interest in a girl. I could take a firm hand with him and remind him of his duty. He would listen to me. But Hap was not the son of a king, nor even a royal bastard. Hap could be free. I leaned back in my chair. It rocked and I absently stroked the cat. "Nothing," I said after a moment. "I think I'll do nothing. I think I'll let him be a boy. I think I'll let him fall in love with a girl, and stay out later than he should, and have a pounding headache tomorrow when his master chides him for being late." I turned to look at her. The firelight danced over her kindly face. "I think I'll let the boy be a boy for a time."

  "Do you think that's wise?" she asked, but she smiled as she said it.

  "No." I shook my head slowly. "I think it's foolish and wonderful."

  "Ah. Well. Will you stay and have another cup of tea, then? Or must you hurry back to the keep and your own duties?"

  "I have no duties tonight. I won't be missed."

  "Well, then." She poured another cup of tea for me with an alacrity that was flattering. "You'll stay a while here. Where you have been missed." She sipped from her cup, smiling at me over the rim of it.

  Fennel drew breath and began a deep, rumbling purr.

  Epilogue

  There was a time when thought that my life's significant work would be to write a history of the Six Duchies. I made a start on it any number of times, but always seemed to slide sideways from that grand tale into a recounting of the days and details of my own small life. The more I studied the accounts of others, both written and told, the more it seemed to me that we attempt such histories not to preserve knowledge, but to fix the past in a settled way. Like a flower pressed flat and dried, we try to hold it still and say, this is exactly how it was the day I first saw it. But like the flower, the past cannot be trapped that way. It loses its fragrance and its vitality, its fragility becomes brittleness and its colors fade. And when next you look on the flower, you know that it is not at all what you sought to capture, that that moment has fled forever. I wrote my histories and observations. I captured my thoughts and ideas and memories in words on vellum and paper. So much I stored, and thought it was mine. I believed that by fixing it down in words, I could force sense from all that had happened, that effect would follow cause, and the reason for each event come clear to me. Perhaps I sought to justify myself, not just all I had done, but who had become. For years, I wrote faithfully nearly every evening, carefully explaining my world and my life to myself. I put my scrolls on a shelf, trusting that I had captured the meaning of my days.

  But then returned one day, to find all my careful scribing gone to fragments of vellum lying in a trampled yard with wet set, snow blowing over them. I sat my horse, looking down on them, and knew that, as it always would, the past had broken free of my effort to define and understand it. History is no more fixed and dead than the future. The past is no further away than the last breath you took.

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 2b42b7d0-7e36-49c3-902a-131a949bc51b

  Document version: 1.1

  Document creation date: 25 January 2010

  Created using: FB Editor v2.0, AlReader2, FictionBook Editor Beta 2.4 software

  Document authors :

  Bakoro

  Джим

  Document history:

  This book was scanned by JASC

  If you correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the file name) to a slightly higher one e.g. from.9 to.95 or if major revisions, to v. 1.0/2.0 etc..

  Current e-book version is.9 (some formatting errors have been corrected— but errors (such as paragraph splits still occur)

  Comments: daytonascan4911@hotmail.com

  1.1 Proofreading, formatting a bit. Джим 07.06.10

  About

  This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.

  (This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)

  Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.

  (Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)

  http://www.fb2epub.net

  https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/