Assassin's Quest (UK)

Assassin's Quest (UK) Page 51

by Robin Hobb

  The rav­ine ended. Be­fore me was a glisten­ing cas­cade of ice, a me­morial to the moun­tain stream that cut this canyon dur­ing the sum­mer months. The ice hung in long, rippled icicles down the face of a rocky crack in the moun­tain, gleam­ing with a faint sheen of mov­ing wa­ter still. The snow at its base was crys­tal­line. I hal­ted, sus­pect­ing a deep pool, one I might un­wit­tingly find un­der a layer of too-thin ice. I lif­ted my eyes. The walls here were mostly un­der­cut and over­grown. In other places, bare slabs of rock showed through the drapery of snow. Runty sap­lings and twiggy brush grew in a scat­ter­ing, lean­ing out to catch the sun­light from above. None of it looked prom­ising for a climb. I turned to double back on my trail and heard a single howl rise and fall. Neither hound nor wolf, it could only be the mon­grel dog. Some­thing in the cer­tainty of his cry con­vinced me he was on my trail. I heard a man shout en­cour­age­ment and the dog yelped again, closer. I turned to the wall of the rav­ine and star­ted to climb. I heard the man hal­loo to the oth­ers, call­ing and whist­ling for them to fol­low him, he had a man’s tracks here, never mind the wolf, it was just a Wit-trick. In the dis­tance the hounds sud­denly took up a dif­fer­ent yelp­ing. In that mo­ment, I knew that Regal had fi­nally found what he had sought. A Wit­ted one to hunt me. Old Blood had been bought.

  I jumped and caught at a sap­ling lean­ing out from the wall of the rav­ine. I hauled my­self up, got my feet on it, bal­anced and reached for an­other above me. When I put my weight on it, its roots tore loose from the rocky soil. I fell, but man­aged to catch my­self on the first tree again. Up again, I told my­self fiercely. I stood on it, and heard it crack un­der my weight. I reached up to grab hand­fuls of twiggy brush lean­ing down from the un­der­cut bank. I tried to go up quickly, to not let my weight hang from any sap­ling or bush for more than a few mo­ments. Hand­fuls of twigs broke off in my grip, tufts of old grasses pulled free, and I found my­self scrab­bling along the lip of the rav­ine but not get­ting any higher. I heard a shout be­low me and against my will I glanced back and down. A man and dog were in the clear­ing be­low. As the mon­grel bayed up at me, the man was nock­ing an ar­row to his bow. I hung help­less above them, as easy a shot as a man could wish.

  ‘Please,’ I heard my­self gasp, and then heard the tiny un­mis­tak­able sound of a bow­string be­ing re­leased. I felt it hit me, a fist in the back, one of Regal’s old tricks from my child­hood, and then a deeper, hot­ter pain in­side me. One of my hands had let go. I had not com­man­ded it to, it had simply come un­hooked from its grip. I swung from my right hand. I could hear, so clearly, the yelp­ing of the dog as it smelled my blood. I could hear the rustle of the man’s gar­ment as he drew an­other ar­row from his quiver.

  Pain bit again, deep into my right wrist. I cried out as my fin­gers let go. In a re­flex of ter­ror, my legs scrabbled fiercely against the yield­ing brush that dangled over the un­der­cut bank. And some­how I was rising, my face brush­ing crusty snow. I found my left arm and made vague swim­ming mo­tions with it. Get your legs up! Nighteyes snapped at me. He made not a sound, for his teeth were set firmly in the sleeve and flesh of my right arm as he dragged me up. The chance at liv­ing re­ju­ven­ated me. I kicked wildly and then felt solid ground un­der my belly. I clawed my way for­ward, try­ing to ig­nore the pain that centred in my back, but spread out from there in red waves. If I had not seen the man loose an ar­row, I would have be­lieved I had a pole as thick as a wagon axle stick­ing out of my back.

  Get up, get up! We have to run.

  I don’t re­call how I got to my feet. I heard dogs scrab­bling up the cliff be­hind me. Nighteyes stood back from the edge and met them as they came up. His jaws tore them open and he flung their bod­ies back down on the rest of the pack. When the curly-backed mon­grel fell, there was a sud­den lessen­ing in the yelp­ing be­low. We both knew his agony, and heard the screams of the man be­low as his bond-an­imal bled to death in the snow. The other hunts­man was call­ing his dogs off, an­grily telling the oth­ers it would do no good to send them up to be slaughtered. I could hear the men yelling and curs­ing as they turned their weary horses and star­ted back down the rav­ine, to try and find a place where they could get up and after us, to try and pick up our trail again.

  Run! Nighteyes told me. We would not speak of what we had just done. There was a sen­sa­tion of ter­rible warmth run­ning down my back that was also a spread­ing cold­ness. I put my hand to my chest, al­most ex­pect­ing to feel the ar­row­head and shaft stick­ing out there. But no, it was bur­ied deep. I staggered after Nighteyes, my con­scious­ness awash in too much sen­sa­tion, too many kinds of pain. My shirt and cloak tugged against the ar­row-shaft as I moved, a tiny wig­gling of the wood that was echoed by the ar­row­head deep in­side me. I wondered how much fur­ther dam­age it was do­ing. I thought of the times I had butchered ar­row-slain deer, of the black pud­dingy flesh full of blood that one found around such a wound. I wondered if he’d got my lung. A lung-shot deer didn’t go far. Did I taste blood in the back of my throat … ?

  Don’t think about it! Nighteyes com­man­ded me sav­agely. You weaken us both. Just walk. Walk and keep walk­ing.

  So he knew as well as I did that I could not run. I walked and he walked at my side. For a time. Then I was walk­ing blindly for­ward in the dark, not even caring in which dir­ec­tion I went, and he was not there. I groped for him, but could not find him. Some­where afar I heard the yelp­ing of dogs again. I walked on. I blundered into trees. Branches scratched my face but it was all right be­cause my face was numb. The shirt on my back was a slushy sheet of frozen blood that moved chaf­ingly against my skin. I tried to pull my cloak more closely around me, but the sud­den pain nearly drove me to my knees. Silly me. I had for­got­ten it would drag against the ar­row-shaft. Silly me. Keep walk­ing, boy. I walked on.

  I bumped into an­other tree. It re­leased a shower of snow on me. I staggered clear and kept on walk­ing. For a long time. Then I was sit­ting in the snow, get­ting colder and colder. I had to get up. I had to keep mov­ing.

  I walked again. Not for very long, I don’t think. Un­der the shel­ter of some great ever­greens where the snow was shal­low, I sank to my knees. ‘Please,’ I said. I had not the strength to weep for mercy. ‘Please.’ I could not think whom I was ask­ing.

  I saw a hol­low between two thick roots. Pine needles were thick on the ground there. I huddled into the small space. I could not lie down for the ar­row stick­ing out of my back. But I could lean my fore­head against the friendly tree and cross my arms on my chest. I made my­self small, fold­ing my legs un­der me and sink­ing into the space between the roots. I would have been cold save I was too tired. I sank into sleep. When I woke up, I’d build a fire and get warm. I could ima­gine how warm I’d be, could al­most feel it.

  My brother!

  I’m here, I told him calmly. Right here. I ques­ted out to touch him re­as­sur­ingly. He was com­ing. The ruff around his throat was spiky with frozen saliva, but not a tooth had got through. He had one slash down the side of his muzzle but it was not bad. He’d led them in circles and then har­ried their horses from be­hind be­fore leav­ing them plunging through a snow-covered swale of deep grass in the dark. Only two of their dogs were left alive and one of the horses was limp­ing so badly the rider had doubled up with an­other.

  Now he came to find me, sur­ging up the snowy slopes eas­ily. He was tired, yes, but the en­ergy of tri­umph surged through him. The night was crisp and clean around him. He caught the scent and then the tiny eye-flicker of the hare that crouched be­neath a bush, hop­ing he’d pass by. We did not. A single, sud­den side­ways pounce and the hare was in his jaws. We clutched it by its bony head and snapped its spine with one shake. We trot­ted on, the meat a wel­come dangling weight from his jaws. We would eat well. The night forest was sil­ver and black around us.

  Stop. My brother, do not do th
is.

  Do what?

  I love you. But I do not wish to be you.

  I hovered where I was. His lungs work­ing so strongly, draw­ing in the cold night air past the hare’s head in his mouth. The slight sting of the slash down his muzzle, his power­ful legs car­ry­ing his lean body so well.

  You do not wish to be me, either, Changer. Not really.

  I was not sure he was cor­rect. With his eyes I saw and smelled my­self. I had wedged my­self into the space between the roots of the great tree, and was curled up as small as an aban­doned pup. My blood smell was strong on the air. Then I blinked, and I was look­ing down into the dark­ness of my crooked el­bow over my face. I lif­ted my head slowly, pain­fully. Everything hurt and all the pain traced back to that ar­row centred in my back.

  I smelled rab­bit guts and blood. Nighteyes stood be­side me, feet braced on the car­cass as he tore it open. Eat, while it’s hot.

  I don’t know if I can.

  Do you want me to chew it for you?

  He was not jest­ing. But the only thing more re­volt­ing than eat­ing was the thought of eat­ing dis­gorged meat. I man­aged a tiny shake of my head. My fin­gers were al­most numb, but I watched my hand pinch up the small liver and carry it up to my mouth. It was warm and rich with blood. Sud­denly I knew Nighteyes was right. I had to eat. Be­cause I had to live. He had torn the hare apart. I picked up a por­tion and bit into the warm meat. It was tough but I was de­term­ined. Without think­ing, I had nearly aban­doned my body for his, nearly climbed in be­side him into that per­fect healthy wolf’s body. I had done it once be­fore, with his con­sent. But now we both knew bet­ter. We would share, but we could not be­come one an­other. Not without both of us los­ing.

  Slowly I sat up. I felt the muscles of my back move against the ar­row, protest­ing at the way it snagged them. I could feel the weight of the shaft. When I ima­gined it stick­ing out of me, I nearly lost the food I’d eaten. I forced my­self to a calm I did not feel. Sud­denly, oddly, an im­age of Burrich came to me. That deadly still­ness in his face when he had flexed his knee and watched the old wound pulling open. Slowly I reached my hand back. I walked my fin­gers up my spine. It made the muscles pull against the ar­row. Fi­nally my fin­gers touched the sticky wood of the ar­row-shaft. Even that light touch was a new sort of pain. Awk­wardly I closed my fin­gers around the shaft, closed my eyes and tried to pull on it. Even if there had been no pain in­volved, it would have been dif­fi­cult. But the agony rocked the world around me, and when it stead­ied, I found my­self on my hands and knees with my head hanging down.

  Shall I try?

  I shook my head, re­main­ing as I was. I was still afraid I’d faint. I tried to think. If he pulled it out, I knew I’d pass out. If the bleed­ing was bad, I’d have no way to stop it. No. Best to leave it in there. I gathered all my cour­age. Can you break it off?

  He came close to me. I felt his head against my back. He turned his head, man­oeuvred his jaws so that his back teeth would close on the shaft. Then he closed his jaws. There was a snick, like a gardener prun­ing a sap­ling, and a shiver of new pain. A wave of gid­di­ness washed over me. But some­how I reached back and tugged my blood-sod­den cloak free of the stub of ar­row. I pulled it closer around me, shud­der­ing. I closed my eyes.

  No. Build a fire first.

  I peeled my eyes open again. It was all too hard. I scraped to­gether all the twigs and sticks within easy reach. Nighteyes tried to help, fetch­ing branches to me, but it still took an etern­ity be­fore I had a tiny flame dan­cing. Slowly I ad­ded sticks. About the time I had the fire burn­ing, I real­ized the day was dawn­ing. Time to move on again. We stayed only to fin­ish eat­ing the rab­bit and to let me get my hands and feet thor­oughly warm. Then we star­ted off again, Nighteyes lead­ing me un­pity­ingly on­wards.

  TWENTY

  Jhaampe

  Jhaampe, the cap­ital city of the Moun­tain King­dom, is older than Buck­keep, just as the rul­ing line of the Moun­tain King­dom is older than the house of Farseer. As a city, Jhaampe is as far re­moved in style from the fort­ress city of Buck­keep as the Farseer mon­archs are dif­fer­ent from the philo­sopher guides of the Sac­ri­fice lin­eage that rule the Moun­tains.

  There is no per­man­ent city such as we know. There are few per­man­ent build­ings. In­stead, along the care­fully-planned and garden-bordered roads are spaces where the no­madic folk of the Moun­tains may come and go. There is a des­ig­nated space for the mar­ket, but the mer­chants mi­grate in a pro­ces­sion that par­al­lels that of the sea­sons. A score of tents may spring up overnight and their in­hab­it­ants swell the pop­u­la­tion of Jhaampe for a week or a month, only to dis­ap­pear without a trace when their vis­it­ing and trad­ing is over. Jhaampe is an ever-chan­ging city of tents pop­u­lated by the vig­or­ous out­door-dwell­ing folk of the moun­tains.

  The homes of the rul­ing fam­ily and the com­pan­ions that choose to stay year round with them are not at all like our castles and halls. In­stead, their dwell­ings centre around great trees, liv­ing still, their trunks and branches pa­tiently trained over scores of years to provide a frame­work for the build­ing. This liv­ing struc­ture is then draped with a fab­ric woven of tree-bark fibres and re­in­forced with a lat­tice­work. Thus the walls can take on the gently curving shapes of a tulip bud or the dome of an egg. A clay coat­ing is spread over the fab­ric layer and this in turn is painted with a shiny res­in­ous paint in the bright hues the moun­tain folk en­joy. Some are dec­or­ated with fanci­ful creatures or pat­terns but most are left simple. Purples and yel­lows pre­dom­in­ate, so that to come upon the city grow­ing in the shade of the great moun­tain trees is like com­ing upon a patch of cro­cus in spring­time.

  About these homes and at the in­ter­sec­tions of the roads in this no­madic ‘city’ are the gar­dens. Each is unique. One may centre around an un­usu­ally-shaped stump or an ar­range­ment of stones or a grace­ful bit of wood. They may con­tain fra­grant herbs or bright flowers or any com­bin­a­tion of plants. One not­able one has at its heart a bub­bling spring of steam­ing wa­ter. Here grow plants with fleshy leaves and exot­ic­ally-scen­ted flowers, den­iz­ens of some warmer clime brought here to de­light the moun­tain-dwell­ers with their mys­tery. Of­ten vis­it­ors leave gifts in the gar­dens when they de­part, a wooden carving or a grace­ful pot or per­haps merely an ar­range­ment of bright pebbles. The gar­dens be­long to no one, and all tend them.

  At Jhaampe can also be found hot springs, some of wa­ter that can scald a man, oth­ers merely a gently bub­bling warmth. These have been con­fined, both as pub­lic baths and as a source of heat in some of the smal­ler dwell­ings. In every build­ing, in every garden, at every turn the vis­itor finds the aus­tere beauty and sim­pli­city of col­our and form that are the Moun­tain ideal. The over­all im­pres­sion that one car­ries away is of tran­quil­ity and joy in the nat­ural world. The chosen sim­pli­city of life there may lead the vis­itor to ques­tion his own choice in life.

  It was night. I re­call little more than that it fol­lowed long days of pain. I moved my staff and took an­other step. I moved my staff again. We were not go­ing quickly. A scur­ry­ing of snow­flakes in the air was more blind­ing than the dark­ness. I could not get away from the circ­ling wind that car­ried them. Nighteyes wove a pa­cing path around me, guid­ing my hes­it­ant steps as if it could hurry me. From time to time he keened anxiously. His body was tight with fear and wear­i­ness. He smelled wood smoke and goats.… not to be­tray you, my brother. But to help you. Re­mem­ber that. You need someone with hands. But if they try to mis­treat you, you have but to call and I shall come. I shall not be far …

  I could not make my mind fo­cus on his thoughts. I felt his bit­ter­ness that he could not help me and his fear that he was lead­ing me into a trap. I thought we had been ar­guing but I could not re­mem­ber what I had been in­sis
t­ing on. Whatever it was, Nighteyes had won, simply by vir­tue of know­ing what he wanted. My feet slipped on the packed snow of the road and I went to my knees. Nighteyes sat down be­side me and waited. I tried to lie down and he seized my wrist in his jaws. He tugged gently, but the thing in my back burst into sud­den flames. I made a noise.

  Please, my brother. There are huts ahead, and lights within them. Fires and warmth. And someone with hands, who can cleanse the foul wound in your back. Please. Get up. Just once more.

  I lif­ted my hanging head and tried to see. There was some­thing in the road ahead of us, some­thing the road forked and went around on either side. The sil­ver moon­light gleamed on it but I could not make out what it was. I blinked hard, and it be­came a carved stone, taller than a man. It had not been shaped to be an ob­ject, but was simply smoothed into a grace­ful shape. At its base, bare twiggy limbs re­called sum­mer shrub­bery. An ir­reg­u­lar wall of smal­ler stones bordered it. Snow gar­nished all. It re­minded me of Kettricken some­how. I tried to rise but could not. Be­side me, Nighteyes whined in agony. I could not frame a thought to re­as­sure him. It took all my strength to re­main on my knees.

  I did not hear foot­steps but I felt a sud­den in­crease in the ten­sion thrum­ming through Nighteyes. I lif­ted my head again. Far ahead of me, past the garden, someone came walk­ing through the night. Tall and slender, draped in heavy fab­ric, hood pulled for­ward so far it was al­most a cowl. I watched the per­son come. Death, I thought. Only death could come so si­lently, glid­ing so smoothly through this icy night. ‘Run away,’ I whispered to Nighteyes. ‘No sense in let­ting him take both of us. Run away now.’

  For a won­der, he obeyed me, slip­ping away si­lently from my side. When I turned my head, I could not see him, but I sensed he was not far. I felt his strength leave me as if I had taken off a warm coat. Part of me tried to go with him, to cling to the wolf and be the wolf. I longed to leave this battered body be­hind.

 

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