Assassin's Quest (UK)

Assassin's Quest (UK) Page 25

by Robin Hobb

  He was mak­ing a very large puddle of blood on the floor. I had si­lenced him quickly but this was just the sort of mess I hadn’t wished to make. He was a large man, and he’d had a lot of blood in him. My mind raced as I de­bated whether to take time to con­ceal the body, or to ac­cept that he would be quickly missed by his fel­low guards and use that dis­cov­ery as a di­ver­sion.

  In the end I took off my shirt and sopped up as much of the blood as I could with it. Then I dumped it on his chest and wiped my bloody hands on his shirt. I seized him by the shoulders and dragged him out of the por­trait hall, all the time al­most shud­der­ing with the ef­fort of strain­ing my senses to be aware of any­one com­ing. My boots kept slip­ping on the pol­ished floors and the sound of my pant­ing breath was a roar to my ears. Des­pite my ef­forts at mop­ping up the blood, we left a sheen of red on the floors be­hind us. At the door to the room of birds and fish, I forced my­self to listen well be­fore en­ter­ing. I held my breath and tried to ig­nore the pound­ing of my heart in my ears. The room was clear of hu­mans, how­ever. I shouldered the door open and dragged Verde in. Then I caught him up and tumbled him into one of the stone fish pools. The fish dar­ted frantic­ally as his blood trailed and swirled out into the clear wa­ter. I hast­ily rinsed my hands and chest clean of blood in an­other pond, and then left by a dif­fer­ent door. They’d fol­low the blood trail here. I hoped they’d take some time puzz­ling as to why the killer had dragged him here and dumped him in a pond.

  I found my­self in an un­fa­mil­iar room. I glanced quickly about at the vaul­ted ceil­ing and pan­elled walls. There was a gran­di­ose chair on a dais at the far end. Some kind of an audi­ence cham­ber then. I glanced about to get my bear­ings, then froze where I was. The carved doors to my far right swung sud­denly open. I heard laughter, a muttered ques­tion and a gig­gling re­sponse. There was no time to hide and noth­ing to shel­ter be­hind. I flattened my­self against a wall hanging and was still. The group entered on a wave of laughter. There was a note of help­less­ness in the laughter that told me they were either drunk or giddy with Smoke. They walked right past me, two men vy­ing for the at­ten­tion of a wo­man who simpered and tittered be­hind a tas­selled fan. All three of them were dressed en­tirely in shades of red, and one of the men had tink­ling sil­ver charms not just at the lace of his cuffs, but all along his loose sleeves to his el­bows. The other man car­ried a small censer of Smoke on an or­na­men­ted rod, al­most like a sceptre. He swung it back and forth be­fore them as they walked so that they were al­ways wreathed in the sweet­ish fumes. I doubted that they would have no­ticed me even if I had leaped out be­fore them turn­ing cartwheels. Regal seemed to have in­her­ited his mother’s fond­ness for in­tox­ic­ants, and to be turn­ing it into a court fash­ion. I stood mo­tion­less un­til they had passed. They went into the fish-and-bird room. I wondered if they would no­tice Verde in the pond. I doubted it.

  I flit­ted to the door­way from which the courtiers had entered, and slipped through it. I found my­self sud­denly in a great entry hall. It was floored with marble and my mind boggled at the ex­pense of haul­ing such an ex­panse of stone to Trade­ford. The ceil­ing was high and plastered white, with designs of im­mense flowers and leaves pressed into the plaster. There were arched win­dows of stained glass, dark now against the night, but between them hung tapestries glow­ing with such rich col­ours as to seem win­dows on some other world and time. All was il­lu­min­ated with or­nate can­de­labra hung with spark­ling crys­tals and sus­pen­ded from gil­ded chains. Hun­dreds of candles burned in them. Statues were dis­played on ped­es­tals at in­ter­vals about the room and from the look of them, most were of Regal’s Moun­t­well an­cest­ors from his mother’s side. Des­pite the danger I was in, the grand­ness of the room cap­tured me for a mo­ment. Then I lif­ted my eyes and saw the wide stair­case as­cend­ing. This was the main stair­case, not the back ser­vants’ stairs I had sought. Ten men abreast could have gone up it eas­ily. The wood­work of the bal­us­trades was dark and full of twirl­ing knots, but shone with a deep lustre. A thick rug spilled down the centre of the steps like a blue cas­cade.

  The hall was empty, as was the stair­case. I did not give my­self time to hes­it­ate, but slipped si­lently across the room and up the stairs. I was halfway up when I heard the scream. Evid­ently they had no­ticed Verde. At the top of the first land­ing, I heard voices and run­ning foot­steps com­ing from the right. I fled to the left. I came to a door, pressed my ear against it, heard noth­ing, and slipped in­side, all in less time than it takes to tell it. I stood in dark­ness, heart thun­der­ing, thank­ing Eda and El and any other gods that might ex­ist that the door had not been fastened.

  I stood in the dark­ness, my ear pressed to the thick door, try­ing to hear more than my own pound­ing heart. I heard shouts from be­low, and boots run­ning down the stair­case. A mo­ment or so passed, then I heard an au­thor­it­at­ive voice shout­ing or­ders. I slipped to where the open­ing door would at least tem­por­ar­ily con­ceal me, and waited, breath stilled, hands trem­bling. Fear welled up in me like a sud­den black­ness, threat­en­ing to over­whelm me. I felt the floor rock un­der me and I crouched down quickly to keep from fall­ing in a faint. The world spun about me. I made my­self small, hug­ging my­self tight and squeez­ing my eyes shut, as if some­how that would bet­ter con­ceal me. A second wave of fear washed over me. I sank the rest of the way to the floor and fell over on my side, all but whim­per­ing. I curled in a ball, en­dur­ing a ter­rible squeez­ing pain in my chest. I was go­ing to die. I was go­ing to die and I’d never see them again, not Molly, not Burrich, not my king. I should have gone to Ver­ity. I knew that now. I should have gone to Ver­ity. I wanted to scream and weep, for I was sud­denly cer­tain I could never es­cape, that I would be found and tor­tured. They would find me and kill me very, very slowly. I ex­per­i­en­ced an al­most over­whelm­ing drive simply to leap up and run out of the room, to draw sword against the guards and force them to end me quickly.

  Steady now. They try to trick you into be­tray­ing your­self. Ver­ity’s Skilling was finer than a cob­web. I caught my breath, but had the wis­dom to keep still.

  After what seemed a long time, my blind ter­ror lif­ted. I took a long shud­der­ing breath and seemed to come to my­self again. When I heard the foot­steps and voices out­side the door, my fear surged up again, but I forced my­self to lie still and listen.

  ‘I was sure of it,’ said a man.

  ‘No. He’s long gone. If they find him at all, they’ll find him out on the grounds. No one could have stood up to both of us. If he were still in the house, we would have flushed him out.’

  ‘I tell you, there was some­thing.’

  ‘Noth­ing,’ in­sis­ted the other voice with some an­noy­ance. ‘I sensed noth­ing.’

  ‘Check again,’ in­sis­ted the other.

  ‘No. It’s a waste of time. I think you were mis­taken.’ The first man’s an­ger was be­com­ing ob­vi­ous des­pite their sub­dued voices.

  ‘I hope I was, but I fear I am not. If I am cor­rect, we’ve given Will the ex­cuse he’s been look­ing for.’ There was an­ger in the second man’s voice too, but also a whin­ing self-pity.

  ‘Look­ing for an ex­cuse? Not that one. He speaks ill of us to the King at every turn. To hear him talk, you would think he was the only one who had made any sac­ri­fices in King Regal’s ser­vice. A maid­ser­vant told me yes­ter­day that he makes no niceties at all about it any more. You, he says, are fat, and me he ac­cuses of every weak­ness of the flesh a man can have.’

  ‘If I am not as lean as a sol­dier, it is be­cause I am not a sol­dier. It is not my body that serves the King, but my mind. As well look to him­self be­fore he faults us, him with his one good eye.’ The whine was un­mis­tak­able now. Burl, I sud­denly real­ized. Burl speak­ing to Car­rod.

  ‘Well. I am sat­is­
fied that to­night at least he can­not fault us. There is noth­ing amiss here that I can find. He has you jump­ing at shad­ows and see­ing danger in every corner. Calm your­self. This is a mat­ter for the guards now, not us. They’ll prob­ably find it was done by a jeal­ous hus­band or an­other guards­man. I’ve heard it said that Verde won a little too of­ten at dice. Per­haps that is why he was left in the gam­ing room. So if you will ex­cuse me, I will re­turn to the fairer com­pany from which you dis­trac­ted me.’

  ‘Go, then, if that is all you can think of,’ the whiner said sulkily. ‘But when you’ve a mo­ment to spare, I think we might be wise to take coun­sel to­gether.’ After a mo­ment, Burl ad­ded, ‘I’ve more than half a mind to go to him right now. Make it his prob­lem.’

  ‘You’d only end up look­ing like a fool. When you worry so much, you are but giv­ing in to his in­flu­ence. Let him mouth his warn­ings and dire pre­dic­tions and spend every mo­ment of his life on guard. To hear him tell it, his watch­ful­ness is all the King needs. He seeks to in­stil that fear in us. Your quak­ing prob­ably gives him much sat­is­fac­tion. Guard such thoughts care­fully.’

  I heard one set of foot­steps walk­ing briskly away. The roar­ing in my ears softened a little. After a time, I heard the other man leave, walk­ing more pon­der­ously and mut­ter­ing to him­self. When I could no longer hear his foot­falls, I felt as if a great weight had been lif­ted off me. I swal­lowed drily and de­bated my next move.

  Dim light filtered in through tall win­dows. I could make out a bed­stead, with the blankets turned back to ex­pose the white lin­ens. It was un­oc­cu­pied. There was the dark shape of a ward­robe in the corner, and by the bed a stand held a bowl and ewer.

  I forced my­self to calmness. I took long steady­ing breaths, then rose si­lently to my feet. I needed to find Regal’s bed­cham­ber, I re­minded my­self. I sus­pec­ted it would be on this floor, with ser­vants’ quar­ters in the higher levels of the house. Stealth had got me this far, but per­haps now it was time to be bolder. I crossed to the ward­robe in the corner and opened it quietly. Luck had fa­voured me again; this was a man’s cham­ber. I went through the gar­ments by touch, feel­ing for a fab­ric that felt ser­vice­able. I had to work hast­ily, for I as­sumed the right­ful owner was at the fest­iv­it­ies be­low and might re­turn at any time. I found a light-col­oured shirt, much more fussy about the sleeves and col­lar than I could wish, but al­most long enough in the arms. I man­aged to get into it, and a darker col­oured pair of leg­gings that felt too loose on me. I belted them up and hoped they did not hang too strangely. There was a pot of scen­ted po­made. I fin­ger-brushed my hair back from my face with it and se­cured it afresh in a tail, dis­card­ing the trades­man’s ker­chief. Most of the courtiers I had seen earlier wore theirs in oiled curls much as Regal did, but a few of the younger ones kept their hair tied back. I felt about in sev­eral draw­ers. I found some sort of medal­lion on a chain and put it on. There was a ring, too large for my fin­ger, but that scarcely mattered. I would pass a cas­ual glance and hoped to at­tract no more than that. They would be look­ing for a shirt­less man in coarse trousers to match the blood­ied shirt I had left. I dared to hope they would be seek­ing him out­side. At the threshold I paused, took a deep breath, and then slowly opened the door. The hall was empty and I stepped out.

  Once out in the light, I was not pleased to find the leg­gings were a dark green and the shirt a but­tery yel­low. Well it was no more gar­ish than what I had seen folk wear­ing earlier, though I could scarcely blend with the guests at his Scar­let Ball. I res­ol­utely set the worry aside and struck off down the hall, walk­ing cas­u­ally yet pur­pose­fully to seek a door that was lar­ger and more or­nate than the oth­ers.

  I boldly tried the first one I came to, and found it un­locked. I entered, only to find my­self in a room with an im­mense harp and sev­eral other mu­sical in­stru­ments set out as if await­ing min­strels. A vari­ety of cush­ioned chairs and couches filled the rest of the room. The paint­ings were all of song­birds. I shook my head, baffled at the end­less riches of this one house. I con­tin­ued my search.

  Nervous­ness made the hall stretch out end­lessly be­fore me. I forced my­self to walk in an un­hur­ried and con­fid­ent man­ner. I passed door after door, cau­tiously sampling a few. Those on my left seemed to be bed­cham­bers, while those on my right were lar­ger rooms, lib­rar­ies and din­ing rooms and the like. In­stead of wall sconces, the hall was lit with shiel­ded candles. The wall hangings were richly-col­oured, and at in­ter­vals niches held vases of flowers or small statu­ary. I could not help but con­trast it to the stark stone walls of Buck­keep. I wondered how many war­ships could have been built and manned with the coin that in­stead went to or­na­ment this finely-feathered nest. My an­ger fed my com­pet­ence. I would find Regal’s cham­ber.

  I passed three more doors, then came to one that looked prom­ising. It was a double door, of golden oak, and the oak tree that was the sym­bol of Far­row was in­laid upon it. I set my ear briefly to the door and heard noth­ing. Cau­tiously I tried the burn­ished handle; the door was latched. My sheath knife was a crude tool for this type of work. Sweat soaked the yel­low shirt to my back be­fore the catch yiel­ded to my ef­forts. I eased the door open and slipped in­side, quickly lock­ing it be­hind me.

  This was cer­tainly Regal’s cham­ber. Not his bed­cham­ber, no, but his non­ethe­less. I went through it swiftly. There were no less than four tall ward­robes, two on each side wall with a tall look­ing-glass between each set. The or­nately-carved door of one ward­robe was ajar; or pos­sibly the press of the cloth­ing from within would not al­low it to be fully closed. Other gar­ments hung on hooks and racks about the room or were draped on chairs. A set of locked draw­ers in a small chest prob­ably held jew­ellery. The look­ing-glass between the ward­robes was framed by two branches of candles, now burned low in their hold­ers. Two small censers for Smoke were set to either side of one chair that faced yet an­other mir­ror. Be­hind and to one side of the chair, a table held brushes, combs, pots of po­made and vi­als of per­fume. A nar­row twin­ing of grey fumes still rose from one of the censers. I wrinkled my nose against the sweet odour of it, and went to work.

  Fitz. What do you do? The faintest query from Ver­ity.

  Justice. I put no more than a breath of Skill onto the thought. I was not sure if it were my own or Ver­ity’s ap­pre­hen­sion that I sud­denly felt. I brushed it aside and turned to my task.

  It was frus­trat­ing. There was little here that was a sure vehicle for my pois­ons. I could treat the po­made, but I was more likely to kill who­ever dressed his hair for him than Regal. The censers held mostly ash. Any­thing I placed there would prob­ably be dumped with the ash. The corner hearth was swept clean for the sum­mer and there was no sup­ply of wood. Pa­tience, I told my­self. His bed­cham­ber could not be far, and op­por­tun­it­ies would be bet­ter there. For now, I treated the bristles of his hair­brush with one of my more po­tent con­coc­tions and used what was left to dip as many of his ear­rings as I could. The last drops I ad­ded to his vi­als of scent but with small hope that he would ap­ply enough to kill him­self. For the scen­ted handker­chiefs fol­ded in his drawer, I had the white spore of the death an­gel mush­room to be­guile his hours un­til death with hal­lu­cin­a­tions. I took greater pleas­ure in dust­ing the in­sides of four sets of gloves with dead­root powder. This was the poison Regal had used on me in the Moun­tains, and the most likely source of the seizures that had plagued me in­ter­mit­tently since then. I hoped he would find his own fall­ing fits as amus­ing as he had mine. I se­lec­ted three of his shirts that I thought he would fa­vour, and treated their col­lars and cuffs as well. There was no wood in the hearth, but I had a poison that blen­ded well with the traces of ash and soot left on the brick. I sprinkled it gen­er­ously and hoped that when they set a fire upon it, the
burn­ing fumes might reach Regal’s nose. I had just re­turned my poison to my pouch when I heard a key turn the door latch.

  I stepped si­lently around the corner of a ward­robe and stood there. My knife was already in my hand, wait­ing. A deadly calm had settled on me. I breathed si­lently, wait­ing, hop­ing for­tune had brought Regal to me. In­stead, it was an­other guards­man in Regal’s col­ours. The man pushed into the room and cast a quick glance about. His ir­rit­a­tion showed in his face as he im­pa­tiently said, ‘It was locked. There’s no one in here.’ I waited for his part­ner to reply, but he was alone. He stood still a mo­ment, then sighed and walked over to the open ward­robe. ‘Fool­ish­ness. I’m wast­ing time up here while he’s go­ing to get away,’ he muttered to him­self, but he drew his sword and care­fully prod­ded about the in­terior be­hind the clothes.

  As he leaned to reach deeper into the ward­robe’s in­terior, I caught a glimpse of his face in the mir­ror op­pos­ite me. My guts turned to wa­ter, and then hatred blazed up in me. I had no name for this one, but his mock­ing face had been forever etched into my memory. He had been part of Regal’s per­sonal guard, and had stood by to wit­ness my death.

  I think he saw my re­flec­tion at the same time I saw his. I did not give him time to re­act, but sprang on him from be­hind. The blade of his sword was still tangled in­side Regal’s ward­robe when my knife punched low into his belly. I clamped my fore­arm across his throat to give me lever­age as I dragged up on the knife, gut­ting him like a fish. His mouth gaped open to scream, and I let go of my knife to slap my hand over his mouth. I held him a mo­ment as his en­trails bulged out of the gash I’d made. When I let him go, he went down, his un­voiced bel­low turned to a groan. He’d not let go of his sword, so I stamped on his hand, break­ing his fin­gers around its hilt. He rolled slightly to one side, to stare up at me in agony and shock. I went down on one knee be­side him, put my face close to his.

 

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