Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  I was the Fool and the Fool was me. He was the Cata­lyst and so was I. We were two halves of a whole, sundered and come to­gether again. For an in­stant I knew him in his en­tirety, com­plete and ma­gical, and then he was pulling apart from me, laugh­ing, a bubble in­side me, sep­ar­ate and un­know­able, yet joined of me. You do love me! I was in­cred­u­lous. He had never truly be­lieved it be­fore. Be­fore, it was words. I al­ways feared it was born of pity. But you are truly my friend. This is know­ing. This is feel­ing what you feel for me. So this is the Skill. For a mo­ment he rev­elled in simple re­cog­ni­tion.

  Ab­ruptly, an­other joined us. Ah, little brother, you find your ears at last! My kill is ever your kill, and we shall be pack forever!

  The Fool re­coiled at the wolf’s friendly on­slaught. I thought he would break the circle. Then sud­denly he leaned into it. This? This is Nighteyes? This mighty war­rior, this great heart?

  How to de­scribe that mo­ment? I had known Nighteyes so com­pletely for so long, it shocked me to see how little the Fool had known of him.

  Hairy? That was how you saw me? Hairy and drool­ing?

  Your par­don. This from the Fool, quite sin­cerely. I am hon­oured to know you as you are. I had never sus­pec­ted such no­bil­ity within you. Their mu­tual ap­proval was al­most over­whelm­ing.

  Then the world settled around us. We have a task, I re­minded them. The Fool lif­ted his touch from my wrist, leav­ing be­hind three sil­ver prints on my skin. Even the air pressed too heav­ily against that mark. For a time, I had been some­where else. Now I was once more within my own body. It all had taken but mo­ments.

  I turned back to Kettle. It was an ef­fort to look only through my eyes. I still gripped her hand. ‘Kestrel?’ I said quietly. She lif­ted her gaze to mine. I looked at her and tried to see her as she had once been. I do not think she even knew then of that tiny hair of Skill between us. In the mo­ment of her shock at the Fool touch­ing me, I had pressed past her guard. It was too fine a line to be called a thread. But I now knew what choked it. ‘All this guilt and shame and re­morse you carry, Kestrel. Don’t you see? That is what they burned you with. And you have ad­ded to it, all these years. The wall is of your own mak­ing. Take it down. For­give your­self. Come out.’

  I caught at the Fool’s wrist and held him be­side me. Some­where I felt Nighteyes as well. They were back within their own minds, but I could reach them eas­ily. I drew strength from them, care­fully, slowly. I drew their strength and love and turned it against Kettle, try­ing to force it into her through that tiny chink in her ar­mour.

  Tears began to trickle down her seamed cheeks. ‘I can’t. That is the hard­est part. I can’t. They burned me to pun­ish me. But it was not enough. It would never be enough. I can never for­give my­self.’

  Skill was start­ing to seep from her as she reached to me, try­ing to make me un­der­stand. She reached, to clasp my hand between both of hers. Her pain flowed through that clasp to me. ‘Who could for­give you then?’ I found my­self ask­ing.

  ‘Gull. My sis­ter Gull!’ The name was torn from her, and I sensed she had re­fused to think of it, let alone ut­ter it, for years. Her sis­ter, not just her co­terie-mate, but her sis­ter. And she had killed her in a fury when she had found her with Stan­chion. The leader of the co­terie?

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, though no words were needed between us now. I was past the burn wall. Strong, hand­some Stan­chion. Mak­ing love to him, body and Skill, an ex­per­i­ence of one­ness like no other. But then she had come upon them, him and Gull, to­gether, and she had …

  ‘He should have known bet­ter,’ I cried out in­dig­nantly. ‘You were sis­ters and mem­bers of his own co­terie. How could he have done that to you? How could he?’

  ‘Gull!’ she cried out loud, and for an in­stant I saw her. She was be­hind a second wall. Both of them were. Kestrel and Gull. Two little girls, run­ning bare­foot down a sandy shore, just out of reach of the icy waves lick­ing up the sand. Two little girls, as like as apple pips, their father’s joy, twins, ra­cing to meet the little boat com­ing in to shore, hur­ry­ing to see what Papa had caught in his nets today. I smelled the salt wind, the iod­ine of the tangled, squidgy kelp as they dashed through it squeal­ing. Two little girls, Gull and Kestrel, locked and hid­den be­hind a wall in­side her. But I could see them even if she could not.

  I see her, I know her. And she knew you, through and through. Light­ning and thun­der, your mother called you, for while your tem­per flashed and was gone, Gull could carry a grudge for week. But not against you, Kestrel. Never against you, and not for years. She loved you, more than either of you loved Stan­chion. As you loved her. And she would have for­given you. She would never have wished this on you.

  I … don’t know.

  Yes, you do. Look at her. Look at you. For­give your­self. And let the part of her within you live again. Let your­self live again.

  She is within me?

  Most cer­tainly. I see her, I feel her. It must be so.

  What do you feel? Cau­tiously.

  Only love. See for your­self. I took her deep in­side her mind, to the places and memor­ies she had denied to her­self. It was not the burn-walls her co­terie had im­posed on her that had hurt her most. It was the ones she had put up between her­self and the memory of what she had lost in a mo­ment of fury. Two girls, older now, wad­ing out to seize the line their father threw to them, and help­ing to pull his laden boat up onto the beach. Two Buck girls, still as alike as apple pips, want­ing to be the first ones to tell their Papa they had been chosen for Skill-train­ing.

  Papa said we were one soul in two bod­ies.

  Open, then, and let her out. Let both of you out to live.

  I fell si­lent, wait­ing. Kestrel was in a part of her memor­ies she had denied for longer than other folk lived. A place of fresh wind and girl­ish laughter, and a sis­ter so like your­self you scarcely needed to speak to one an­other. The Skill had been between them from the mo­ment they were born.

  I see what I must do now. I felt her over­whelm­ing surge of joy and de­term­in­a­tion. I must let her out, I must put her into the dragon. She will live forever in the dragon, just as we planned it. The two of us, to­gether again.

  Kettle stood up, let­ting go of my hands so sud­denly that I cried out at the shock. I found my­self back in my body. I felt I had fallen there from a very great dis­tance. The Fool and Nighteyes were still near me, but no longer a part of a circle. I could scarcely feel them for all else I felt. Skill. Ra­cing through me like a riptide. Skill. Em­an­at­ing from Kettle like heat from a smith’s fur­nace. She glowed with it. She wrung her hands, smiled at the straightened fin­gers.

  ‘You should go and rest now, Fitz,’ she told me gently. ‘Go on. Go to sleep.’

  A gentle sug­ges­tion. She did not know her own Skill-strength. I lay back and knew no more.

  When I awoke, it was full dark. The weight and warmth of the wolf’s body were com­fort­able against me. The Fool had tucked a blanket around me and was sit­ting by me, star­ing raptly into the fire. When I stirred, he clutched at my shoulder with a sharp in­take of breath.

  ‘What?’ I de­man­ded. I could make no sense of any­thing I heard or saw. Fires had been kindled up on the stone dais be­side the dragon. I heard the clash of metal against stone, and voices lif­ted in con­ver­sa­tion. In the tent be­hind me, I heard Starling try­ing notes on her harp.

  ‘The last time I saw you sleep like that, we had just taken an ar­row out of your back and I thought you were dy­ing of in­fec­tion.’

  ‘I must have been very tired,’ I smiled at him, able to trust he un­der­stood. ‘Are not you wear­ied? I took strength from you and Nighteyes.’

  ‘Tired? No. I feel healed.’ He did not hes­it­ate, but ad­ded, ‘I think it is as much that the false co­terie has fled my body, as know­ing that you do not hate me. And the wolf. Now, he is a w
on­der. Al­most, I can still sense him.’ A very strange smile touched his face. I felt him grop­ing out for Nighteyes. He had not the strength to truly use the Skill or the Wit on his own. But it was un­nerv­ing to feel him try. Nighteyes let his tail rise and fall in one slow wag.

  I’m sleepy.

  Rest then, my brother. I set my hand to the thick fur of his shoulder. He was life and strength and friend­ship I could trust. He gave one more slow wag of his tail and lowered his head again; I looked back to the Fool and gave a nod to­ward Ver­ity’s dragon.

  ‘What goes on, up there?’

  ‘Mad­ness. And joy. I think. Save for Kettricken. I think her heart eats it­self hol­low with jeal­ousy, but she will not leave.’

  ‘What goes on up there?’ I re­peated pa­tiently.

  ‘You know more of it than I do,’ he re­tor­ted. ‘You did some­thing to Kettle. I could un­der­stand part of it, but not all. Then you fell asleep. And Kettle went up there and did some­thing to Ver­ity. I know not what, but Kettricken said it left them both weep­ing and shak­ing. Then Ver­ity did some­thing to Kettle. And they both began to laugh and to shout and to cry out it would work. I stayed long enough to watch both of them start at­tack­ing the stone around the dragon with chisels and mal­lets and swords and any­thing else that was to hand. While Kettricken sits si­lent as a shadow and watches them mourn­fully. They will not let her help. Then I came down here and found you un­con­scious. Or asleep. Whichever you prefer. And I have sat here a long time, watch­ing over you and mak­ing tea or tak­ing meat to any­one who yells at me for some. And now you are awake.’

  I re­cog­nized his par­ody of me re­port­ing to Ver­ity, and had to smile. I de­cided that Kettle had helped Ver­ity un­lock his Skill and that work was pro­ceed­ing on the dragon. But Kettricken. ‘What makes Kettricken sad?’ I asked.

  ‘She wishes she were Kettle,’ the Fool ex­plained, in a tone that said any moron would have known that. He handed me a plate of meat and a mug of tea. ‘How would you feel, to have come this long and weary way, only to have your spouse choose an­other to help him in his work? He and Kettle chat­ter back and forth like mag­pies. All sorts of in­con­se­quen­tial talk. They work and chip, or some­times, Ver­ity just stands still, his hands pressed to the dragon. And he tells her of his mother’s cat, His­spit, and of thyme that grew in the garden on the tower. And all the while, Kettle speaks to him, with no break, of Gull who did this, and Gull who did that, and all she and Gull did to­gether. I thought they would cease when the sun went down, but that was the only time that Ver­ity seemed to re­call Kettricken was alive. He asked her to bring fire­wood and make fires for light. Oh, and I think he has al­lowed her to sharpen a chisel or two for him.’

  ‘And Starling,’ I said stu­pidly. I did not like to think of what Kettricken must be feel­ing. I reined my thoughts away from it.

  ‘She works on a song about Ver­ity’s dragon. I think she has given up on you and me ever do­ing any­thing of note.’

  I smiled to my­self. ‘She is never about when I do any­thing of sig­ni­fic­ance. What we wrought today, Fool, was bet­ter than any battle I have ever fought. But she will never un­der­stand all of that.’ I cocked my head to­ward the yurt. ‘Her harp sounds mel­lower than I re­call it,’ I said to my­self.

  In an­swer, he lif­ted his eye­brows and waggled his fin­gers at me.

  My eyes widened. ‘What have you been do­ing?’ I de­man­ded.

  ‘Ex­per­i­ment­ing. I think that if I sur­vive all this, my pup­pets shall be the stuff of le­gend. I have al­ways been able to look at wood and see what I wished to call forth. These,’ and again he waggled his fin­gers at me, ‘make it so much easier.’

  ‘Be cau­tious,’ I pleaded with him.

  ‘Me? I have no cau­tion within me. I can­not be what I am not. Where are you go­ing?’

  ‘Up to see the dragon,’ I replied. ‘If Kettle can work on it, so can I. I may not be as strongly Skilled, but I’ve been linked with Ver­ity for far longer.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Wit and the Sword

  The Outis­landers have al­ways raided the coast­line of the Six Duch­ies. The founder of the Farseer mon­archy was, in fact, no more than a Raider grown weary of the sea life. Taker’s crew over­whelmed the ori­ginal build­ers of the wooden fort at the mouth of the Buck River and made it their own. Over a num­ber of gen­er­a­tions, the black stone walls of Buck­keep Castle re­placed it, and the Outis­lander raid­ers be­came res­id­ents and mon­arch.

  Trade and raid­ing and pir­acy have all ex­is­ted sim­ul­tan­eously between the Six Duch­ies and the Out Is­lands. But the com­mence­ment of the Red Ship raids marked a change in this ab­ras­ive and prof­it­able in­ter­change. Both the sav­agery and de­struc­tion of the raids were un­pre­ced­en­ted. Some at­trib­uted it to the rise to power in the Out Is­lands of a fe­ro­cious chief­tain who es­poused a bloody re­li­gion of ven­geance. The most sav­age of his fol­low­ers be­came Raid­ers and crew for his Red Ships. Other Outis­landers, never be­fore united un­der one leader, were co­erced into swear­ing fealty to him, un­der threat of For­ging for those and their fam­il­ies who re­fused him. He and his raid­ers brought their vi­cious hatred to the shores of the Six Duch­ies. If he ever had any in­tent bey­ond killing, rap­ing, and des­troy­ing, he never made it known. His name was Ke­bal Raw­bread.

  ‘I don’t un­der­stand why you deny me,’ I said stiffly.

  Ver­ity stopped his end­less chop­ping at the dragon. I had ex­pec­ted him to turn and face me, but in­stead he only crouched lower, to brush away rock chips and dust. I could scarcely be­lieve the pro­gress he had made. The en­tire clawed right foot of the dragon now res­ted upon the stone. True, it lacked the fine de­tail of the rest of the dragon, but the leg it­self was now com­plete. Ver­ity wrapped a care­ful hand over the top of one of its toes. He sat mo­tion­less be­side his cre­ation, pa­tient and still. I could not see any move­ment of his hand, but I could sense Skill at work. If I reached to­ward it at all, I could feel the tiny fis­sur­ing of stone as it flaked away. It truly seemed as if the dragon had been hid­den in the stone, and that Ver­ity’s task was to re­veal it, one gleam­ing scale at a time.

  ‘Fitz. Stop it.’ I could hear an­noy­ance in his voice. An­noy­ance that I was Skill-shar­ing with him, and an­noy­ance that I was dis­tract­ing him from his work.

  ‘Let me help you,’ I begged again. Some­thing about the work drew me. Be­fore, when Ver­ity had been scrap­ing at the stone with his sword, the dragon had seemed an ad­mir­able work of stone-carving. But now there was a shim­mer­ing of Skill to him as both Ver­ity and Kettle em­ployed their powers. It was im­mensely at­tract­ive, in the way that a spark­ling creek glimpsed through trees draws the eye, or the smell of fresh-baked bread wakes hun­ger. I longed to put hands on, and help shape this power­ful creature. The sight of their work­ing awakened a Skill-hun­ger in me such as I had never known. ‘I have been Skill-linked with you more than any­one has. In the days when I pulled an oar on the Rurisk, you told me I was your co­terie. Why do you turn me away now, when I could help, and you need help so badly?’

  Ver­ity sighed and rocked back on his heels. The toe was not done, but I could see the faint out­line of scales upon it now, and the be­gin­ning of the sheath for the wickedly curved talon. I could feel how the claw would be, stri­ated like a hawk’s talon. I longed to reach down and draw forth those lines from the stone.

  ‘Stop think­ing about it,’ Ver­ity bade me firmly. ‘Fitz. Fitz, look at me. Listen to me. Do you re­mem­ber the first time I took strength from you?’

  I did. I had fain­ted. ‘I know my own strength bet­ter now,’ I replied.

  He ig­nored that. ‘You didn’t know what you were of­fer­ing me, when you told me you were a King’s Man. I took you at your word that you knew what you were do­ing. You didn’t. I tell you plainly ri
ght now that you don’t know what you are ask­ing me for. I do know what I am re­fus­ing you. And that is all.’

  ‘But Ver­ity …’

  ‘In this, King Ver­ity will hear no “buts”, FitzChiv­alry.’ He drew that line with me as he had so sel­dom be­fore.

  I took a breath and re­fused to let my frus­tra­tion be­come an­ger. He placed his hand care­fully on the dragon’s toe again. I listened a mo­ment to the clack, clack, clack of Kettle’s chisel work­ing the dragon’s tail free of the stone. She was singing as she worked, some old love bal­lad.

  ‘My lord, King Ver­ity, if you would tell me what it is I don’t know about help­ing you, then I could de­cide for my­self, per­haps, if …’

  ‘It is not your de­cision, boy. If you truly wish to help, go get some boughs and make a broom. Sweep the rock chips and dust away. It is dam­nable stuff to kneel in.’

  ‘I would rather be of real help to you,’ I muttered dis­con­sol­ately as I turned away.

  ‘FitzChiv­alry!’ There was a sharp note to Ver­ity’s voice, one I had not heard since I was a boy. I turned back to it with dread.

  ‘You over­step your­self,’ he told me bluntly. ‘My queen keeps these fires go­ing and sharpens my chisels for me. Do you put your­self above such work?’

  At such times, a brief an­swer suf­fices best. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then you shall make me a broom. To­mor­row. For now, much as I hate to say it, we all should rest, at least for a time.’ He stood slowly, swayed, then righted him­self. He placed a sil­ver hand af­fec­tion­ately on the dragon’s im­mense shoulder. ‘With the dawn,’ he prom­ised it.