Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘I don’t want to talk about my father,’ Molly de­clares sud­denly, but there is un­cer­tainty in her voice. She reaches for the baby like a child clutch­ing at a fa­vour­ite toy and Burrich lets her take the in­fant. Molly sits on the hearth­stones and opens her blouse. The baby seeks her breast greed­ily and is in­stantly si­lent. For a time the only sounds are the wind mut­ter­ing out­side, the bub­bling of the por­ridge pot and the small stick noises of Burrich feed­ing the fire. ‘You did not al­ways keep your pa­tience with Fitz when he was little,’ Molly mut­ters chid­ingly.

  Burrich gives a brief snort of laughter. ‘I don’t think any­one would have been etern­ally pa­tient with that one. When I got him, he was five or six, and I knew noth­ing of him. And I was a young man, with many other in­terests. You can put a colt in a cor­ral, or tie a dog up for a time. Not so with a child. You can never for­get you have a child for even an in­stant.’ He shrugs his shoulders help­lessly. ‘Be­fore I knew it, he’d be­come the centre of my life.’ An odd little pause. ‘Then they took him from me, and I let them … And now he’s dead.’

  A si­lence. I wanted des­per­ately to reach to them both, then, to tell them that I lived. But I could not. I could hear them, I could see them, but I could not reach them. Like the wind out­side the house, I roared and poun­ded at the walls, to no avail.

  ‘What am I go­ing to do? What will be­come of us?’ Molly asks ab­ruptly of no one. The des­pair in her voice is rend­ing. ‘Here I am. No hus­band, and a child, and no way to make my own way in the world. Everything I saved is gone.’ She looks at Burrich. ‘I was so stu­pid. I al­ways be­lieved he would come to find me, that he would marry me. But he never did. And now he never will.’ She be­gins to rock as she clutches the baby to her. Tears spill un­heeded down her cheeks. ‘Don’t think I didn’t hear that old man today, the one that said he’d seen me in Buck­keep Town and I was the Wit-Bas­tard’s whore. How long be­fore that tale races through Cape­lin Beach? I daren’t go to town any more, I can’t hold up my head.’

  Some­thing goes out of Burrich at her words. He slumps, el­bow on knee, head in his hand. He mut­ters, ‘I thought you had not heard him. Had he not been half as old as god, I’d have made him an­swer for his words.’

  ‘You can’t chal­lenge a man for speak­ing the truth,’ Molly says dis­pir­itedly.

  That brings Burrich’s head up. ‘You’re not a whore!’ he de­clares hotly. ‘You were Fitz’s wife. It’s not your fault if not all were privy to it.’

  ‘His wife,’ Molly says mock­ingly to her­self. ‘I was not, Burrich. He never mar­ried me.’

  ‘Such was how he spoke of you to me. I prom­ise you, I know this. Had he not died, he would have come to you. He would. He al­ways in­ten­ded to make you his wife.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he had many in­ten­tions. And he spoke many lies. In­ten­tions are not deeds, Burrich. If every wo­man who had heard a man prom­ise mar­riage were a wife, well, there’d be a spate less of bas­tards in the world.’ She straight­ens up and wipes the tears from her face with a weary fi­nal­ity. Burrich makes no an­swer to her words. She looks down into the little face that is fi­nally at peace. The babe has gone to sleep. She slips her little fin­ger into the child’s mouth to free her nipple from the babe’s sleepy grip on it. As Molly does up her blouse, she smiles weakly. ‘I think I feel a tooth com­ing through. Maybe she’s just col­icky from teeth­ing.’

  ‘A tooth? Let me see!’ Burrich ex­claims and comes to bend over the baby as Molly care­fully pushes down her pink lower lip to re­veal a tiny half-moon of white show­ing in her gum. My daugh­ter pulls away from the touch, frown­ing in her sleep. Burrich takes her gently from Molly and car­ries her over to the bed. He settles her into it, still wrapped in his shirt. By the fire, Molly takes the lid off the kettle and gives the por­ridge a stir.

  ‘I’ll take care of you both,’ Burrich of­fers awk­wardly. He is look­ing down at the child as he speaks. ‘I’m not so old I can’t get work, you know. As long as I can swing an axe, we can trade or sell fire­wood in town. We’ll get by.’

  ‘You’re not old at all,’ Molly says ab­sen­tly as she sprinkles a bit of salt into the por­ridge. She goes to her chair and drops into it. From a bas­ket by her chair, she takes up a piece of mend­ing and turns it about in her hands, de­cid­ing where to be­gin. ‘You seem to wake up new each day. Look at this shirt. Torn out at the shoulder seam as if a grow­ing boy did it. I think you get younger each day. But I feel as if I get older with every passing hour. And I can’t live on your kind­ness forever, Burrich. I’ve got to get on with my life. Some­how I just can’t think how to be­gin, just now.’

  ‘Then don’t worry about it, just now,’ he says com­fort­ingly. He comes to stand be­hind her chair. His hands lift as if he will put them on her shoulders. In­stead he crosses his arms on his chest. ‘Soon it will be spring. We’ll put in a garden and the fish runs will be­gin again. There may be some hir­ing work down in Cape­lin Beach. You’ll see, we’ll get by.’

  His op­tim­ism reaches some­thing in her. ‘I should start now and make some straw hives. With great good luck, I might chance on a swarm­ing of bees.’

  ‘I know a flower­ing field up in the hills where the bees work thick in sum­mer. If we set out hives there, would the bees move in to them?’

  Molly smiles to her­self. ‘They are not like birds, silly. They only swarm when the old hive has too many bees. We might get a swarm that way, but not un­til high sum­mer or au­tumn. No. Come spring, when the bees first stir, we’ll try to find a bee tree. I used to help my father hunt bees when I was smal­ler, be­fore I grew wise enough to winter a hive over. You put out a dish of warmed honey to draw them. First one, and then an­other will come. If you are good at it, and I am, you can find the bee line and fol­low it back to the bee tree. That is only the start, of course. Then you have to force the swarm out of the tree and into the hive you’ve made ready. Some­times, if the bee tree is small, you can simply cut it down and take the bee gum home with you.’

  ‘Bee gum?’

  ‘The part of the tree they nest in.’

  ‘Don’t they sting you?’ Burrich asks in­cred­u­lously.

  ‘Not if you do it right,’ she tells him calmly.

  ‘You’ll have to teach me how,’ he says humbly.

  Molly twists in her seat to look up at him. She smiles, but it is not like her old smile. It is a smile that ac­know­ledges that they are pre­tend­ing it will all go as they plan. She knows too well now that no hope can be com­pletely trus­ted. ‘If you’ll teach me to write my let­ters. Lacey and Pa­tience star­ted, and I can read a bit, but the writ­ing comes harder to me.’

  ‘I’ll teach you and then you can teach Nettle,’ he prom­ises her.

  Nettle. She has named my daugh­ter Nettle, after the herb she loves, though it leaves great rashes on her hands and arms if she is care­less when she gath­ers it. Is that how she feels about our daugh­ter, that she brings pain even as she brings en­joy­ment? It pains me to think it is so. Some­thing tugs at my at­ten­tion, but I cling fiercely where I am. If this is as close as I can come to Molly right now, then I will take what I can and cling to it.

  No. Ver­ity speaks firmly. Come away now. You put them in danger. Do you think they would scruple to des­troy them, if they thought by do­ing so they could hurt and weaken you?

  Ab­ruptly I am with Ver­ity. He is some­where cold and windy and dark. I try to see more of what is around us, but he blocks my eyes. So ef­fort­lessly he has brought me here against my will, so ef­fort­lessly he closes off my vis­ion. The strength of Skill on him is fright­en­ing. Yet I can sense he is tired, weary al­most to death des­pite this vast power. The Skill is like a strong stal­lion and Ver­ity is the fray­ing rope that teth­ers it. It pulls at him every minute and every minute he res­ists it.

  We are com­ing to you, I tell him need­lessly.

  I know. Hurry. A
nd do this no more, think of them no more, and give no thought at all to the names of those who would do us harm. Every whis­per here is a shout. They have powers you do not ima­gine, in strengths you can­not defy. Where you go, your en­emies may fol­low. So leave no trail.

  But where are you? I de­mand as he thrusts me away from him.

  Find me! he com­mands me, and slams me back into my own body and life.

  I sat up in my blankets, con­vuls­ively gasp­ing for air. It re­minded me of wrest­ling and be­ing slammed down on the flat of my back. For a mo­ment I made tiny sounds as I sought to fill my lungs. Fi­nally I drew a full breath. I looked about me in the dark­ness. Out­side the tent, the wind­storm howled. The bra­zier was a small red glow in the centre that il­lu­min­ated little more than Kettle’s huddled form sleep­ing close to it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the Fool asked me quietly.

  ‘No,’ I said softly. I lay back down be­side him. I was sud­denly too tired to think, too tired to say an­other word. The sweat on my body chilled and I began to shiver. The Fool sur­prised me by put­ting an arm around me. I moved closer to him grate­fully, shar­ing warmth. The sym­pathy of my wolf wrapped me. I waited for the Fool to say some­thing com­fort­ing. He was too wise to try. I fell asleep long­ing for words that did not ex­ist.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Strategy

  Six Wise­men came to Jhaampe-town

  Climbed a hill, and never came down

  Found their flesh and lost their skins

  Flew away on stony wings.

  Five Wise­men came to Jhaampe-town

  Walked a road not up nor down

  Were torn to many and turned to one

  In the end, left a task half-done.

  Four Wise­men came to Jhaampe-town

  They spoke in words without a sound

  They begged their Queen to let them go

  And what be­came of them, no one can know.

  Three Wise­men came to Jhaampe-town

  They’d helped a king to keep his crown.

  But when they tried to climb the hill

  Down they came in a ter­rible spill.

  Two Wise­men came to Jhaampe-town

  Gentle wo­men there they found.

  For­got their quest and lived in love

  Per­haps were wiser than ones above.

  One Wise­man came to Jhaampe-town.

  He set aside both queen and crown

  Did his task and fell asleep

  Gave his bones to the stones to keep.

  No wise men go to Jhaampe-town

  To climb the hill and never come down.

  ’Tis wiser far and much more brave

  To stay at home and face the grave.

  ‘Fitz? Are you awake?’ The Fool was bend­ing over me, his face very close to mine. He seemed anxious.

  ‘I think so.’ I shut my eyes. Im­ages and thoughts flickered through my mind. I could not de­cide which of them were mine. I tried to re­mem­ber if it was im­port­ant to know that.

  ‘Fitz!’ This was Kettricken, shak­ing me.

  ‘Make him sit up,’ Starling sug­ges­ted. Kettricken promptly gripped me by my shirt front and hauled me into a sit­ting po­s­i­tion. The sud­den change diz­zied me. I could not un­der­stand why they wanted me to be awake in the middle of the night. I said so.

  ‘It’s mid­day,’ Kettricken said tersely. ‘The storm hasn’t let up since last night.’ She peered at me closely. ‘Are you hungry? Would you like a cup of tea?’

  While I was try­ing to de­cide, I for­got what she had asked me. There were so many people talk­ing softly, I could not sort my thoughts from theirs. ‘I beg your par­don,’ I told the wo­man po­litely. ‘What did you ask me?’

  ‘Fitz!’ The pale man hissed in ex­as­per­a­tion. He reached be­hind me and dragged a pack over to him. ‘He has elf­bark in here, for tea. Chade left it with him. It should bring him back to him­self.’

  ‘He doesn’t need that,’ an old wo­man said sharply. She crawled closer to me, reached up and gripped my ear. She pinched it tightly.

  ‘Ouch! Kettle!’ I re­buked her, and tried to pull away. She kept her pain­ful hold.

  ‘Wake up!’ she told me sternly. ‘Right now!’

  ‘I’m awake!’ I prom­ised her and after a scowl at me, she let go of my ear. While I looked about me in some con­fu­sion, she muttered an­grily, ‘We’re too close to that dam­nable road.’

  ‘It’s still stormy out­side?’ I asked be­wilderedly.

  ‘You’ve only been told that six times,’ Starling re­tor­ted, but I could hear the worry that un­der­lay her words.

  ‘I had … night­mares last night. I didn’t sleep well.’ I looked around at the circle of folk clustered around the small bra­zier. Someone had braved the wind for a fresh sup­ply of wood. A kettle hung on a tri­pod over the bra­zier, heaped full of melt­ing snow. ‘Where’s Nighteyes?’ I asked as soon as I missed him.

  ‘Hunt­ing,’ Kettricken said and, With very little luck, came the echo from the hill­side above us. I could feel the wind past his eyes. He had fol­ded his ears back from it. Noth­ing is mov­ing in this storm. I don’t know why I bother.

  Come back and stay warm, I sug­ges­ted. At that mo­ment, Kettle leaned over and pinched my arm sav­agely. I jerked back from it with a cry.

  ‘Pay at­ten­tion to us!’ she snapped at me.

  ‘What are we do­ing?’ I de­man­ded as I sat rub­bing my arm. No one’s be­ha­viour made any sense to me today.

  ‘Wait­ing for the storm to pass,’ Starling told me. She leaned closer to me, peer­ing into my face. ‘Fitz, what is the mat­ter with you? I feel as if you’re not really here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I ad­mit­ted. ‘I feel caught in a dream. And if I don’t con­cen­trate on stay­ing awake, I start to fall right back to sleep.’

  ‘Then con­cen­trate,’ Kettle ad­vised me roughly. I could not un­der­stand why she seemed so angry with me.

  ‘Maybe he should just sleep,’ the Fool sug­ges­ted. ‘He seems tired, and from all the leap­ing and yelp­ing he did in his sleep last night, his dreams were scarcely rest­ful.’

  ‘So he will get more rest stay­ing awake now than from go­ing back to dreams like that,’ Kettle in­sis­ted mer­ci­lessly. She poked me sud­denly in the ribs. ‘Talk to us, Fitz.’

  ‘About what?’ I hedged.

  Kettricken moved quickly to the at­tack. ‘Did you dream of Ver­ity last night?’ she de­man­ded. ‘Is Skilling last night what has left you so dazed today?’

  I sighed. One does not an­swer a dir­ect ques­tion from one’s queen with a lie. ‘Yes,’ I told her, but as her eyes lit I had to add, ‘But it was a dream that will bring you small com­fort. He is alive, in a cold, windy place. He would let me see no more than that, and when I asked where he was, he simply told me to find him.’

  ‘Why would he be­have so?’ Kettricken asked. The hurt on her face was as if Ver­ity him­self had shoved her away.

  ‘He warned me severely against all Skilling. I had been … watch­ing Molly and Burrich.’ It was so hard to ad­mit this, for I wanted to speak noth­ing of what I had seen there. ‘Ver­ity came and took me away from there, and warned me that our en­emies might find them through me and hurt them. I be­lieve that is why he con­cealed his sur­round­ings from me. Be­cause he feared that if I knew them, some­how Regal or his co­terie might come to know them.’

  ‘Does he fear that they seek for him also?’ Kettricken asked won­der­ingly.

  ‘So it seems to me. Though I have felt no tremor of their pres­ence, he seems to be­lieve they will seek him out, either by the Skill or in the flesh.’

  ‘Why should Regal bother to do so, when all be­lieve Ver­ity dead?’ Kettricken asked me.

  I shrugged. ‘Per­haps to make cer­tain that he never re­turns to prove them all wrong. I do not truly know, my queen. I sense that my king con­ceals much from me. He warne
d me that the powers of the co­terie are many and strong.’

  ‘But surely Ver­ity is as strong?’ Kettricken asked with a child’s faith.

  ‘He mas­ters a storm of power such as I have never wit­nessed, my lady. But it takes all his will to con­trol it.’

  ‘All such con­trol is an il­lu­sion,’ Kettle mumbled to her­self. ‘A trap to de­ceive the un­wary.’

  ‘King Ver­ity is scarcely un­wary, Dame Kettle!’ Kettricken re­tor­ted an­grily.

  ‘No, he is not,’ I agreed in a con­cili­at­ory tone. ‘And the words were mine, not Ver … King Ver­ity’s, my lady. I only seek to make you un­der­stand that what he now does is bey­ond my com­pre­hen­sion. All I can do is trust that he knows what he is about. And do as he has ordered me.’

  ‘To find him,’ Kettricken agreed. She sighed. ‘Would that we could leave now, this very minute. But only a fool de­fies a storm such as this one.’

  ‘While we bide here, FitzChiv­alry is in con­stant danger,’ Kettle in­formed us. All eyes turned to her.

  ‘What makes you say so, Kettle?’ Kettricken asked.

  She hes­it­ated. ‘Any­one can see it is so. Un­less he is kept talk­ing, his thoughts drift, his eyes be­come empty. He can­not sleep at night without the Skill com­ing upon him. It is ob­vi­ous that the road is at fault.’