Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  When Chade spoke, it was mat­ter-of-factly. His long-fingered hands res­ted on his thighs, quietly, al­most re­laxed. But his green eyes had gone the col­our of cop­per ore, and his an­ger lived in them. ‘Ever since you came back from the Moun­tain King­dom, it’s been as if you were spoil­ing for a fight. With any­one. When you were a boy and you were sul­len or sulky, I could put it down to your be­ing a boy, with a boy’s judg­ment and frus­tra­tions. But you came back with an … an­ger. Like a chal­lenge to the world at large, to kill you if it could. It wasn’t just that you threw your­self in Regal’s path: whatever was most dan­ger­ous to you, you plunged your­self into. Burrich wasn’t the only one to see it. Look back over the last year: every time I turned about, here was Fitz, rail­ing at the world, in the middle of a fist­fight, in the midst of a battle, wrapped up in bandaging, drunk as a fish­er­man, or limp as a string and mewl­ing for elf­bark. When were you calm and thought­ful, when were you merry with your friends, when were you ever simply at peace? If you weren’t chal­len­ging your en­emies, you were driv­ing away your friends. What happened between you and the Fool? Where is Molly now? You’ve just sent Burrich pack­ing. Who’s next?’

  ‘You, I sup­pose.’ The words came out of me any way, in­ev­it­ably. I did not want to speak them but I could not hold them back. It was time.

  ‘You’ve moved a fair way to­ward that already, with the way you spoke to Burrich.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said bluntly. I met his eyes. ‘For a long time now, noth­ing I’ve done has pleased you. Or Burrich. Or any­one. I can’t seem to make a good de­cision lately.’

  ‘I’d con­cur with that,’ Chade agreed re­lent­lessly.

  And it was back, the em­ber of my an­ger bil­low­ing into flame. ‘Per­haps be­cause I’ve never been given the chance to make my own de­cisions. Per­haps be­cause I’ve been every­one’s “boy” too long. Burrich’s stable-boy, your ap­pren­tice as­sas­sin, Ver­ity’s pet, Pa­tience’s page. When did I get to be mine, for me?’ I asked the ques­tion fiercely.

  ‘When did you not?’ Chade de­man­ded just as heatedly. ‘That’s all you’ve done since you came back from the Moun­tains. You went to Ver­ity to say you’d had enough of be­ing an as­sas­sin just when quiet work was needed. Pa­tience tried to warn you clear of Molly, but you had your way there as well. It made her a tar­get. You pulled Pa­tience into plots that ex­posed her to danger. You bon­ded to the wolf, des­pite all Burrich said to you. You ques­tioned my every de­cision about King Shrewd’s health. And your next to last stu­pid act at Buck­keep was to vo­lun­teer to be part of an up­ris­ing against the crown. You brought us as close to a civil war as we’ve been in a hun­dred years.’

  ‘And my last stu­pid act?’ I asked with bit­ter curi­os­ity.

  ‘Killing Justin and Se­rene.’ He spoke a flat ac­cus­a­tion.

  ‘They’d just drained my king, Chade,’ I poin­ted out icily. ‘Killed him in my arms as it were. What was I to do?’

  He stood up and some­how man­aged to tower over me as he had used to. ‘With all your years of train­ing from me, all my school­ing in quiet work, you went ra­cing about in the keep with a drawn knife, cut­ting the throat of one, and stabbing the other to death in the Great Hall be­fore all the as­sembled nobles … My fine ap­pren­tice as­sas­sin! That was the only way you could think of to ac­com­plish it?’

  ‘I was angry!’ I roared at him.

  ‘Ex­actly!’ he roared back. ‘You were angry. So you des­troyed our power base at Buck­keep! You had the con­fid­ence of the Coastal Dukes, and you chose to show your­self to them as a mad­man! Shattered their last bit of faith in the Farseer line.’

  ‘A few mo­ments ago, you re­buked me for hav­ing the con­fid­ence of those dukes.’

  ‘No. I re­buked you for put­ting your­self be­fore them. You should never have let them of­fer you the rule of Buck­keep. Had you been do­ing your tasks prop­erly, such a thought would never have oc­curred to them. Over and over and over again, you for­get your place. You are not a prince, you are an as­sas­sin. You are not the player, you are the game-piece. And when you make your own moves, you set every other strategy awry and en­danger every piece on the board!’

  Not be­ing able to think of a reply is not the same thing as ac­cept­ing an­other’s words. I glowered at him. He did not back down but simply con­tin­ued to stand, look­ing down at me. Un­der the scru­tiny of Chade’s green stare the strength of my an­ger deser­ted me ab­ruptly, leav­ing only bit­ter­ness. My secret un­der­cur­rent of fear welled once more to the sur­face. My re­solve bled from me. I couldn’t do this. I did not have the strength to defy them both. After a time, I heard my­self say­ing sul­lenly, ‘All right. Very well. You and Burrich are right, as al­ways. I prom­ise I shall no longer think, I shall simply obey. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘No.’ Suc­cinct.

  ‘No what?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘What has come most clear to me to­night is that I must not base any­thing on you. You’ll get no as­sign­ment from me, nor will you be privy to my plans any longer. Those days are over.’ I could not grasp the fi­nal­ity in his voice. He turned aside from me, his eyes go­ing afar. When he spoke again, it was not as my mas­ter, but as Chade. He looked at the wall as he spoke. ‘I love you, boy. I don’t with­draw that from you. But you’re dan­ger­ous. And what we must at­tempt is dan­ger­ous enough without you go­ing ber­serk in the middle of it.’

  ‘What do you at­tempt?’ I asked, des­pite my­self.

  His eyes met mine as he slowly shook his head. In the keep­ing of that secret, he sundered our ties. I felt sud­denly adrift. I watched in a daze as he took up his pack and cloak.

  ‘It’s dark out,’ I poin­ted out. ‘And Buck­keep is a far, rough walk, even in day­light. At least stay the night, Chade.’

  ‘I can’t. You’d but pick at this quar­rel like a scab un­til you got it bleed­ing afresh. Enough hard words have already been said. Best I leave now.’

  And he did.

  I sat and watched the fire burn low alone. I had gone too far with both of them, much farther than I had ever in­ten­ded. I had wanted to part ways with them; in­stead I’d poisoned every memory of me they’d ever had. It was done. There’d be no mend­ing this. I got up and began to gather my things. It took a very short time. I knot­ted them into a bundle made with my winter cloak. I wondered if I ac­ted out of child­ish pique or sud­den de­cis­ive­ness. I wondered if there was a dif­fer­ence. I sat for a time be­fore the hearth, clutch­ing my bundle. I wanted Burrich to come back, so he would see I was sorry, would know I was sorry as I left. I forced my­self to look care­fully at that. Then I un­did my bundle and put my blanket be­fore the hearth and stretched out on it. Ever since Burrich had dragged me back from death, he had slept between me and the door. Per­haps it had been to keep me in. Some nights it had felt as if he were all that stood between me and the dark. Now he was not there. Des­pite the walls of the hut, I felt I curled alone on the bare, wild face of the world.

  You al­ways have me.

  I know. And you have me. I tried, but could not put any real feel­ing in the words. I had poured out every emo­tion in me, and now I was empty. And so tired. With so much still to do.

  The Grey One has words with Heart of the Pack. Shall I listen?

  No. Their words be­long to them. I felt jeal­ous that they were to­gether while I was alone. Yet I also took com­fort in it. Per­haps Burrich could talk Chade into com­ing back un­til morn­ing. Per­haps Chade could leech some of the poison I’d sprayed at Burrich. I stared into the fire. I did not think highly of my­self.

  There is a dead spot in the night, that cold­est, black­est time when the world has for­got­ten even­ing and dawn is not yet a prom­ise. A time when it is far too early to arise, but so late that go­ing to bed makes small sense. That was when Burrich came in. I was not asleep, but I
did not stir. He was not fooled.

  ‘Chade’s gone,’ he said quietly. I heard him right the fallen chair. He sat on it and began tak­ing his boots off. I felt no hos­til­ity from him, no an­im­os­ity. It was as if my angry words had never been spoken. Or as if he’d been pushed past an­ger and hurt into numb­ness.

  ‘It’s too dark for him to be walk­ing,’ I said to the flames. I spoke care­fully, fear­ing to break the spell of calm.

  ‘I know. But he had a small lan­tern with him. He said he feared more to stay, feared he could not keep his re­solve with you. To let you go.’

  What I had been snarling for earlier now seemed like an aban­don­ment. The fear surged up in me, un­der­cut­ting my re­solve. I sat up ab­ruptly, pan­icky. I took a long shud­der­ing breath. ‘Burrich. What I said to you earlier, I was angry, I was …’

  ‘Right on tar­get.’ The sound he made might have been a laugh, if not so freighted with bit­ter­ness.

  ‘Only in the way that people who know one an­other best know how to hurt one an­other best,’ I pleaded.

  ‘No. It is so. Per­haps this dog does need a mas­ter.’ The mock­ery in his voice as he spoke of him­self was more pois­on­ous than any venom I had spewed. I could not speak. He sat up, let his boots drop to the floor. He glanced at me. ‘I did not set out to make you just like me, Fitz. That is not a thing I would wish on any man. I wished you to be like your father. But some­times it seemed to me that no mat­ter what I did, you per­sis­ted in pat­tern­ing your life after mine.’ He stared into the em­bers for a time. At last he began to speak again, softly, to the fire. He soun­ded as if he were telling an old tale to a sleepy child.

  ‘I was born in the Chalced States. A little coast town, a fish­ing and ship­ping port. Lees. My mother did wash­ing to sup­port my grand­mother and me. My father was dead be­fore I was born, taken by the sea. My grand­mother looked after me, but she was very old, and of­ten ill.’ I heard more than saw his bit­ter smile. ‘A life­time of be­ing a slave does not leave a wo­man with sound health. She loved me, and did her best with me. But I was not a boy who would play in the cot­tage at quiet games. And there was no one at home strong enough to op­pose my will.

  ‘So I bon­ded, very young, to the only strong male in my world who was in­ter­es­ted in me. A street cur. Mangy. Scarred. His only value was sur­vival, his only loy­alty to me. As my loy­alty was to him. His world, his way was all I knew. Tak­ing what you wanted, when you wanted it, and not wor­ry­ing past get­ting it. I am sure you know what I mean. The neigh­bours thought I was a mute. My mother thought I was a half-wit. My grand­mother, I am sure, had her sus­pi­cions. She tried to drive the dog away, but like you, I had a will of my own in those mat­ters. I sup­pose I was about eight when he ran between a horse and its cart and was kicked to death. He was steal­ing a slab of ba­con at the time.’ He got up from his chair, and went to his blankets.

  Burrich had taken Nosy away from me when I was less than that age. I had be­lieved him dead. But Burrich had ex­per­i­en­ced the ac­tual, vi­ol­ent death of his bond com­pan­ion. It was little dif­fer­ent from dy­ing one­self. ‘What did you do?’ I asked quietly.

  I heard him mak­ing up his bed and ly­ing down on it. ‘I learned to talk,’ he said after a bit. ‘My grand­mother forced me to sur­vive Slash’s death. In a sense, I trans­ferred my bond to her. Not that I for­got Slash’s les­sons. I be­came a thief, a fairly good one. I made my mother and grand­mother’s life a bit bet­ter with my new trade, though they never sus­pec­ted what I did. About a hand of years later, the blood plague went through Chalced. It was the first time I’d ever seen it. They both died, and I was alone. So I went for a sol­dier.’

  I listened in amazement. All the years I had known him as a ta­cit­urn man. Drink had never loosened his tongue, but only made him more si­lent. Now the words were spill­ing out of him, wash­ing away my years of won­der­ing and sus­pect­ing. Why he sud­denly spoke so openly, I did not know. His voice was the only sound in the fire­lit room.

  ‘I first fought for some petty land chief in Chalced. Jecto. Not know­ing or caring why we fought, if there was any right or wrong to it.’ He snorted softly. ‘As I told you, a liv­ing is not a life. But I did well enough at it. I earned a repu­ta­tion for vi­cious­ness. No one ex­pects a boy to fight with a beast’s fe­ro­city and guile. It was my only key to sur­vival amongst the kind of men I sol­diered with then. But one day we lost a cam­paign. I spent sev­eral months, no, al­most a year, learn­ing my grand­mother’s hatred of slavers. When I es­caped, I did what she had al­ways dreamed of do­ing. I went to the Six Duch­ies, where there are no slaves, nor slavers. Grizzle was Duke of Shoaks then. I sol­diered for him for a bit. Some­how I ended up tak­ing care of my troop’s horses. I liked it well enough. Grizzle’s troops were gen­tle­men com­pared with the dregs that sol­diered for Jecto, but I still pre­ferred the com­pany of horses to them.

  ‘When the Sandsedge war was done, Duke Grizzle took me home to his own stables. I bon­ded with a young stal­lion there. Neko. I had the care of him, but he was not mine. Grizzle rode him to hunt. Some­times, they used him for stud. But Grizzle was not a gentle man. Some­times he put Neko to fight other stal­lions, as some men fight dogs or cocks for amuse­ment. A mare in sea­son, and the bet­ter stal­lion to have her. And I … I was bon­ded to him. His life was mine as much as my own was. And so I grew to be a man. Or at least, to have the shape of one.’ Burrich was si­lent a mo­ment. He did not need to ex­plain fur­ther to me. After a time, he sighed and went on.

  ‘Duke Grizzle sold Neko and six mares, and I went with them. Up the coast, to Rip­pon.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Some kind of horse plague went through that man’s stables. Neko died, just a day after he star­ted to sicken. I was able to save two of his mares. Keep­ing them alive kept me from killing my­self. But af­ter­wards, I lost all spirit. I was good for noth­ing, save drink­ing. Be­sides, there were scarcely enough an­im­als left in that stable to war­rant call­ing it such. So I was let go. Even­tu­ally, to be­come a sol­dier again, this time for a young prince named Chiv­alry. He’d come to Rip­pon to settle a bound­ary dis­pute between the Shoaks and Rip­pon Duch­ies. I don’t know why his ser­geant took me on. These were crack troops, his per­sonal guard. I had run out of money and been pain­fully sober for three days. I didn’t meet their stand­ards as a man, let alone as a sol­dier. In the first month I was with Chiv­alry, I was up be­fore him for dis­cip­line twice. For fight­ing. Like a dog, or a stal­lion, I thought it was the only way to es­tab­lish po­s­i­tion with the oth­ers.

  ‘The first time I was hauled be­fore the Prince, bloody and strug­gling still, I was shocked to see we were of an age. Al­most all his troops were older than I; I had ex­pec­ted to con­front a middle-aged man. I stood there be­fore him and I met his eyes. And some­thing like re­cog­ni­tion passed between us. As if we each saw … what we might have been in dif­fer­ent cir­cum­stances. It did not make him go easy on me. I lost my pay and earned ex­tra du­ties. Every­one ex­pec­ted Chiv­alry to dis­charge me the second time. I stood be­fore him, ready to hate him, and he just looked at me. He cocked his head as a dog will when it hears some­thing far off. He docked my pay and gave me more du­ties. But he kept me. Every­one had told me I’d be dis­charged. Now they all ex­pec­ted me to desert. I can’t say why I didn’t. Why sol­dier for no pay and ex­tra du­ties?’

  Burrich cleared his throat again. I heard him shoulder deeper into his bed. For a time he was si­lent. He went on again at last, al­most un­will­ingly. ‘The third time they dragged me in, it was for brawl­ing in a tav­ern. The City Guard hauled me be­fore him, still bloody, still drunk, still want­ing to fight. By then my fel­low guards wanted noth­ing more to do with me. My ser­geant was dis­gus­ted, I’d made no friends among the com­mon sol­diers. So the City Guard had me in cus­tody. And they told Chiv­alry I’d knocked two men out and h
eld off five oth­ers with a stave un­til the Guard came to tip the odds their way.

  ‘Chiv­alry dis­missed the Guards, with a purse to pay for dam­ages to the tav­ern-keeper. He sat be­hind his table, some half-fin­ished writ­ing be­fore him, and looked me up and down. Then he stood up without a word and pushed his table back to a corner of the room. He took off his shirt and picked up a pike from the corner. I thought he in­ten­ded to beat me to death. In­stead, he threw me an­other pike. And he said, “All right, show me how you held off five men.” And lit into me.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I was tired, and half drunk. But I wouldn’t quit. Fi­nally, he got in a lucky one. Laid me out cold.

  ‘When I woke up, the dog had a mas­ter again. Of a dif­fer­ent sort. I know you’ve heard people say Chiv­alry was cold and stiff and cor­rect to a fault. He wasn’t. He was what he be­lieved a man should be. More than that. It was what he be­lieved a man should want to be. He took a thiev­ing, un­kempt scoun­drel and …’ He faltered, sighed sud­denly. ‘He had me up be­fore dawn the next day. Weapons prac­tice till neither of us could stand. I’d never had any formal train­ing at it be­fore. They’d just handed me a pike and sent me out to fight. He drilled me, and taught me sword. He’d never liked the axe, but I did. So he taught me what he knew of it, and ar­ranged for me to learn it from a man who knew its strategies. Then the rest of the day, he’d have me at his heels. Like a dog, as you say. I don’t know why. Maybe he was lonely for someone his own age. Maybe he missed Ver­ity. Maybe … I don’t know.

  ‘He taught me num­bers first, then read­ing. He put me in charge of his horse. Then his hounds and hawk. Then in gen­eral charge of the pack beasts and wagon an­im­als. But it wasn’t just work he taught me. Clean­li­ness. Hon­esty. He put a value on what my mother and grand­mother had tried to in­stil in me so long ago. He showed them to me as a man’s val­ues, not just man­ners for in­side a wo­man’s house. He taught me to be a man, not a beast in a man’s shape. He made me see it was more than rules, it was a way of be­ing. A life, rather than a liv­ing.’