Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  Chade smoothed his short beard over his jaw. ‘When first I asked your aid, you told me you’d work for coin, not pat­ri­ot­ism. You told me that to a horse thief, one side of the bor­der was as good as an­other.’

  She stretched, rolling her shoulders. She stepped to face him, pla­cing her hands on his hips in calm as­sump­tion. They were nearly of a height. ‘Per­haps you have won me to your side.’

  His green eyes gleamed like a hunt­ing cat’s. ‘Have I?’ he mused as he drew her closer.

  I came to my­self with a small start and shif­ted un­com­fort­ably. I felt ashamed to have spied on Chade, and en­vi­ous of him as well. I poked a bit at my fire and lay down again, re­mind­ing my­self that Molly also slept alone, save for the small warmth of our daugh­ter. It was little com­fort and my sleep was rest­less for the re­mainder of the night.

  When I opened my eyes again, a square of wa­tery sun­light over­lay me from the un­shuttered win­dow. My fire had burned to a few coals, but I was not that cold. In the light of day, the cham­ber I was in was dis­mal. I went and peered into a second room, seek­ing a stair­way to the up­per storeys that might of­fer me a bet­ter view of the city. In­stead I saw the sag­ging rem­nants of wooden steps I dared not trust even for a brief as­cent. The damp was heav­ier as well. The dank cold stone walls and floor re­minded me of the dun­geons of Buck­keep. I left the shop, step­ping out into a day that seemed al­most warm. Last night’s snow was re­treat­ing into puddles. I took off my hat and let the gentler wind move against my hair. Spring, some part of me whispered. The edge of spring was in the air.

  I had ex­pec­ted that day­light would van­quish the phantom den­iz­ens of the city. In­stead, the light seemed to make them stronger. Black stone with quartz-like veins had been used widely in con­struct­ing the city and I had but to touch any piece of it to see the city’s life awaken around me. But even when I touched noth­ing I still seemed to catch glimpses of folk, to hear the mur­mur of their chat­ter and sense the tu­mult of their pas­sage. I walked for some time, seek­ing a tall, mostly in­tact build­ing that would of­fer me the view I sought. By day­light, the city was far more ruined than I had sus­pec­ted. Whole domes of roofs had fallen in, and some build­ings had great cracks green with moss run­ning up their walls. In oth­ers, outer walls had fallen away en­tirely, ex­pos­ing the in­ner cham­bers and filling the street be­low with rubble I must clam­ber over. Few of the taller build­ings were totally in­tact and some leaned drunk­enly against one an­other. I fi­nally saw a likely build­ing with a tall spire peep­ing up above its neigh­bours, and made my way to­ward it.

  When I reached it, I wasted some little time in stand­ing and star­ing up at it. I wondered if it had been a palace. Great lions of stone guarded the en­trance steps. The ex­ter­ior walls were of the same shin­ing black stone I had come to re­gard as the com­mon build­ing ma­ter­ial for the city, but af­fixed to them were sil­hou­ettes of folk and beasts all cut from some gleam­ing white stone. The stark con­trast of white on black and the grand scale of these im­ages made them al­most over­whelm­ing. A gi­ant of a wo­man gripped an im­mense plough be­hind a team of mon­strous oxen. A winged creature, per­haps a dragon, took an en­tire wall to him­self. I slowly climbed the wide stone steps to the entry­way. It seemed to me that as I did so, the mur­mur­ing of the city grew louder and more in­sist­ently real. A grin­ning young man came hasten­ing down the steps, a scroll gripped in one hand. I sidestepped to avoid col­lid­ing with him, but as he hastened past I felt not the slight­est sense of his be­ing. I turned to stare after him. His eyes had been yel­low as am­ber.

  The great wooden doors were closed and had been latched, but so rot­ted were they that one cau­tious push tore the lock free. One door swung open while the other sagged grate­fully down to col­lapse on the floor. I peered in be­fore I entered. Streaked and dusty win­dows of thick glass ad­mit­ted the winter sun­light. Dust motes from the set­tling door danced in the air. I half ex­pec­ted bats or pi­geons or a scur­ry­ing rat or two. There was noth­ing, not even a scent of an­imal hab­it­a­tion. Like the road, the city was avoided by wild beasts. I stepped in­side, my boots scuff­ing lightly on the dusty floors.

  There were the tat­ters of an­cient hangings, a col­lapsed wooden bench. I lif­ted my eyes to a ceil­ing far above my head. This cham­ber alone could have held the en­tire ex­er­cise grounds at Buck­keep. I felt tiny. But across the cham­ber from me were stone steps march­ing up into the gloom. As I crossed to them, I heard the busi­ness­like mut­ter of talk, and sud­denly the stairs were peopled with tall robed folk com­ing and go­ing. Most gripped scrolls or clutched pa­pers, and the tone of their con­ver­sa­tion was that of people dis­cuss­ing weighty mat­ters. They were subtly dif­fer­ent from any folk I had ever been among. The col­ours of their eyes were too bright; the bones of their bod­ies were elong­ated. But for all that, much else about them was or­din­ary. This must have been some cham­ber of laws or rul­ing, I de­cided. Only such mat­ters put lines upon so many brows and scowls on so many faces. There were a num­ber of folk in yel­low robes and black leg­gings, bear­ing a sort of in­signia plates upon their shoulders, and these I judged to be of­fi­cials. As I climbed first one stair­case, and then an­other from the second floor, these yel­low-robes in­creased in num­ber.

  The stairs were some­what lit by the wide win­dows at each land­ing. The first showed me only the up­per storey of the next build­ing. On the second land­ing, I gained a view of some roofs. The third floor I had to cross to reach an­other stair­way. Judging by the gen­er­ous tat­ters on the walls, this floor had been even more op­u­lent. I began to per­ceive ghostly fur­niture as well as people, as if the ma­gic were stronger here. I kept to the edges of the walk­ways, loath to feel the un-touch of folk walk­ing through me. There were many cush­ioned benches for wait­ing, an­other sure sign of of­fi­cial­dom, and many lesser scribes sit­ting at tables re­cord­ing in­form­a­tion from the scrolls presen­ted to them.

  I went up yet an­other flight of stairs, but was frus­trated in my quest for a clear view of the city by an im­mense win­dow of stained glass. The im­age presen­ted was one of a wo­man and a dragon. They did not ap­pear to be at odds, but in­stead stood as if speak­ing to one an­other. The wo­man in this win­dow had black hair and black eyes and wore a band of bright red on her brow. She car­ried some­thing in her left hand, but whether it was weapon or wand of of­fice I could not tell. The im­mense dragon wore a jew­elled col­lar, but noth­ing else in its stance or de­mean­our sug­ges­ted do­mest­ic­a­tion. I stared at the win­dow, light gleam­ing through its dusty col­ours, for sev­eral long minutes be­fore I could go on. I felt it had some sig­ni­fic­ance I could not quite grasp. At last I turned away from it to sur­vey this up­per cham­ber.

  This floor was bet­ter lit than the other ones had been. It was all one huge open cham­ber, but sub­stan­tially smal­ler than the main floor had been. Tall nar­row win­dows of clear glass al­tern­ated with stretches of wall or­nately dec­or­ated with friezes of battles and agrarian scenes. I was drawn to the art­work, but res­ol­utely dir­ec­ted my steps to an­other stair­case. This was not broad, but was a spiralling stair that I hoped led up to the tower I had glimpsed from out­side the build­ing. The city spir­its seemed less nu­mer­ous here.

  The climb was steeper and longer than I had ex­pec­ted it to be. I opened both my coat and my shirt be­fore I reached the top. The wind­ing steps were lit at in­ter­vals by win­dows scarce wider than ar­row-slits. At one a young wo­man stood star­ing out over the city, an air of hope­less­ness in her lav­en­der eyes. She seemed so real I found my­self beg­ging her par­don as I stepped around her. She paid no heed, of course. Again I had the eerie feel­ing that I was the ghost here. There were a few land­ings on this stair and doors lead­ing to cham­bers, but these were locked and time seemed to have been more mer
­ci­ful here. The dry air of the up­per levels had pre­served the wood and metal. I wondered what lay be­hind their un­dis­turbed fast­ness. Gleam­ing treas­ure? The know­ledge of the ages? Moul­der­ing bones? None gave to my shov­ings, and as I con­tin­ued up, I hoped I would not find a locked door as my re­ward at the top of the tower.

  The whole city was a mys­tery to me. The ghost life that teemed through it was such a con­trast to its ut­ter deser­tion now. I had seen no sign of battle; the only up­heavals I had seen in the city seemed to be the res­ult of the earth’s deep un­ease. Here I passed more locked doors; I won­der if Eda her­self knew what was be­hind them. No one locks a door un­less he ex­pects to re­turn. I wondered where they had gone, the folk of this town who still moved here as ghosts. Why was this river city aban­doned, and when? Had this been the home of the Eld­er­lings? Were they the dragons I had seen on the build­ings and in the stained-glass win­dow? Some folk en­joy a puzzle; it gave me a pound­ing head­ache to com­ple­ment the nag­ging hun­ger that had been grow­ing in me since day­break.

  I reached at last the up­per tower cham­ber. It opened all around me, a round cham­ber with a domed ceil­ing. Six­teen pan­els made up the walls of the room and eight were of thick glass, streaked and filthy. They sub­dued the winter sun­light flood­ing into the room through them, mak­ing it at once lit and gloomy. One of the win­dows was shattered and lay in shards both within and without the cham­ber, for a nar­row para­pet ran around the out­side of the tower. A great round table was par­tially col­lapsed in the centre of the room. Two men and three wo­men, all armed with point­ers, were ges­tur­ing at where the table had once dom­in­ated the cham­ber, dis­cuss­ing some­thing. One of the men seemed quite angry. I stepped around the phantom table and bur­eau­crats. A nar­row door opened eas­ily out onto the bal­cony.

  There was a wooden rail­ing run­ning about the edge of the para­pet but I did not trust it. In­stead I walked a slow cir­cuit of that tower, caught between won­der and fear of fall­ing. On the south side, a wide river val­ley spread out be­fore me. In the far dis­tance was an edging of dark blue hills that held up the pale winter sky. The river wound, a fat lazy snake, through the near part of the val­ley. In the dis­tance I could see other towns on the river. Bey­ond the river was a wide green val­ley, thickly treed or pop­u­lated with tidy farm­steads which blinked in and out of ex­ist­ence when I shook my head to clear my eyes of ghosts. I saw a wide black bridge across the river and the road con­tinu­ing on bey­ond it. I wondered where it led. Briefly I saw bright towers glint­ing in the dis­tance. I pushed the ghosts away from my mind and saw a dis­tant lake with steam rising off it in the wa­tery sun­light. Was Ver­ity out there some­where?

  My eyes wandered to the south­east and widened at what I saw there. Per­haps there was the an­swer to some of my ques­tions. A whole sec­tion of the city was gone. Simply gone. No crumble of ru­ins was there, no fire-blackened rubble. Only a great and sud­den rift gaped in the earth, as if some vast gi­ant had driven in a gi­ant wedge and split it wide. The river had filled it in, a shin­ing tongue of wa­ter in­trud­ing into the city. The re­mains of build­ings teetered on its edge still, streets ended ab­ruptly at the wa­ter. My eyes traced this huge wound in the earth. Even at this dis­tance, I could tell that the great crack ex­ten­ded bey­ond the far shore of the river. The de­struc­tion had plunged like a spear deep into the heart of the city. The pla­cid wa­ter shone sil­ver un­der the winter sky. I wondered if some sud­den earth­quake had been the death blow to this city. I shook my head. Too much of it re­mained stand­ing still. No doubt it had been a great dis­as­ter, but it did not ex­plain the city’s death to me.

  I walked slowly around to the north side of the tower. The city spread out at my feet, and bey­ond it I saw vine­yards and grain­fields. And bey­ond them, a for­es­ted stretch with the road run­ning through it. Sev­eral days’ ride away were the moun­tains. I shook my head to my­self. By all my bear­ings, I must have come from there. Yet I did not re­call the in­ter­ven­ing jour­ney at all. I leaned back against the wall and wondered what to do. If Ver­ity were some­where in this city, I felt no tingle of his pres­ence. I wished I could re­call why I had left my com­pan­ions and when. Come to me, come to me, whispered through my bones. An over­whelm­ing drear­i­ness rose up in me and I longed simply to lie down where I was and die. I tried to tell my­self it was the elf­bark. It felt more like the after-ef­fects of near-con­stant fail­ure. I went back into the cent­ral cham­ber to get out of the chill winter wind.

  As I stepped back in through the shattered win­dow, a stick rolled un­der my foot and I nearly fell. When I re­covered, I glanced down and wondered that I had not no­ticed be­fore. At the base of the broken win­dow were the re­mains of a small fire. Soot had smudged some of the hanging glass re­main­ing in the side part of the win­dow frame. I stooped to touch it cau­tiously; my fin­ger came away black. It was not very fresh, but neither was it older than a few months; oth­er­wise the winter storms would have weathered more of it away. I stepped away and tried to make my weary mind work. The fire was made from wood, but it had in­cluded sticks as from trees or bushes. Someone had de­lib­er­ately car­ried small twigs up here to kindle this fire. Why? Why not use the re­mains of the table? And why climb this high to make a fire? For the view?

  I sat down be­side the re­mains of the fire and tried to think. When I leaned my back against the stone wall, it gave more sub­stance to the ar­guing phantoms around the table. One shouted some­thing at an­other, and then drew an ima­gin­ary line with his pointer over the col­lapsed table. One of the wo­men crossed her arms across her chest and looked stub­born, while an­other smiled coldly and tapped with her own stick on the table. Curs­ing my­self for an idiot, I leaped to my feet to look down at the an­cient ru­ins of the table.

  The second that I per­ceived it was a map, I was sure Ver­ity had made the fire. A fool­ish grin spread wide across my face. Of course. A tall-win­dowed tower look­ing out over the city and sur­round­ing coun­tryside, and in the centre of the room, a great table hold­ing the most pe­cu­liar map I had ever seen. It was not drawn on pa­per, but made of clay to mimic the rolling coun­tryside. It had cracked in the col­lapsing of the table, but I could see how the river had been wrought of shin­ing chips of black glass. There were tiny mod­els of the build­ings of the city be­side the ar­row-straight roads, tiny foun­tains filled with blue chips of glass, even twigs leafed with green wool to rep­res­ent the greater trees in the city. At in­ter­vals through­out the city, small crys­tals of stone were fixed in the map. I sus­pec­ted they rep­res­en­ted com­pass points. All was there, even tiny squares to rep­res­ent stalls in the mar­ket. Des­pite its ruin, it de­lighted the eye with its de­tail. I smiled, very cer­tain that within months of Ver­ity re­turn­ing to Buck­keep, there would be a sim­ilar table and map in his Skill-tower.

  I bent over it, ig­nor­ing the phantoms, to re­trace my steps. I loc­ated the map tower eas­ily. As luck would have it that sec­tion of the map was much cracked, but I still was fairly cer­tain of my path as my fin­gers walked where my feet had the night be­fore. Once more I mar­velled at the straight­ness of the roads and the pre­cise in­ter­sec­tions where they met. I was not cer­tain ex­actly where I had first ‘awakened’ the night be­fore, but I was able to se­lect a sec­tion of the city that was not too large and say with cer­tainty it was within that square. My eye re­turned to the tower and I care­fully noted the num­ber of in­ter­sec­tions and the turns I must make to re­turn to my start­ing-point. Per­haps once there, if I cast about, I might find some­thing that would awaken my memor­ies of the miss­ing days. I wished sud­denly for a bit of pa­per and a quill to sketch out the sur­round­ing area. When I did so, the mean­ing of the fire was in­stantly clear.

  Ver­ity had used a burnt stick to make his map. But upon what? I glanced around the room, but
there were no hangings on these walls. In­stead the walls between the win­dows were slabs of white stone, in­cised with … I stood up to get a closer look. Won­der over­took me. I put my hand on the cold white stone, and then peered out of the dirty win­dow be­side it. My fin­gers traced the river I could see in the dis­tance, then found the smooth track of the road that crossed it. The view out of each win­dow was rep­res­en­ted by the panel be­side it. Tiny glyphs and sym­bols might have been the names of towns or hold­ings. I scrubbed at the win­dow, but most of the dirt was on the out­side.

  The sig­ni­fic­ance of the broken win­dow was sud­denly clear. Ver­ity had broken out that pane, for a clearer view of what lay bey­ond it. And then he had kindled that fire and used a burnt stick to copy some­thing, prob­ably to the map he had been car­ry­ing since Buck­keep. But what? I went to the broken win­dow and stud­ied the pan­els to either side of it. A hand had smeared the left one, wip­ing dust away from it. I set my own hand upon the print of Ver­ity’s palm in the dust. He had cleared this panel and stared out the win­dow, and then copied some­thing down. I could not doubt that it was his des­tin­a­tion. I wondered if what was marked on the panel some­how co-or­din­ated with the mark­ings on the map he had car­ried. I wished in vain that I had Kettricken’s copy with me to com­pare the two.

  Out of the win­dow, I could see the moun­tains to the north of me. I had come from there. I stud­ied the view and then tried to re­late it to the etched panel be­side me. The flick­er­ing ghosts of the past were no help. One mo­ment I looked out over a for­es­ted coun­tryside; the next I was look­ing at vine­yards and grain­fields. The only fea­ture that was in com­mon to both views was the black rib­bon of road that went straight as an ar­row to the moun­tains. My fin­gers tracked the road up the panel. There in the dis­tance it reached the moun­tains. Some glyphs were marked there, where the road di­verged. And a tiny sparkle of crys­tal had been em­bed­ded in the panel there.