Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  I had ex­pec­ted him to call to Kettle, but she was already stand­ing and stretch­ing. Skill-linked, I thought to my­self. Words were no longer ne­ces­sary. But they were for his queen. He walked around his dragon to where Kettricken sat near one of the fires. She was grind­ing at a chisel’s edge. The rough rasp­ing of her work hid our soft foot­steps from her. For a time, Ver­ity looked down at his queen as she crouched at this chore. ‘My lady, shall we sleep awhile?’ he asked her quietly.

  She turned. With a grey-dus­ted hand she wiped the strag­gling hair from her eyes. ‘As you wish, my lord,’ she replied. She was able to keep al­most all her pain from her voice.

  ‘I am not that tired, my lord king. I would con­tinue work­ing, if you will it.’ Kettle’s cheer­ful voice was al­most jar­ring. I marked that Kettricken did not turn to look at her at all. Ver­ity only said, ‘Some­times it is bet­ter to rest be­fore you are tired. If we sleep while it is dark, we will work bet­ter by the day’s light.’

  Kettricken winced as if cri­ti­cized. ‘I could build the fires lar­ger, my lord, if that is what you wish,’ she said care­fully.

  ‘No. I wish to rest, with you be­side me. If you would, my queen.’

  It was no more than the bones of his af­fec­tion, but she seized on it. ‘I would, my lord.’ It hurt me to see her con­tent with so little.

  She is not con­tent, Fitz, nor am I un­aware of her pain. I give her what I can. What it is safe for me to give her.

  My king still read me so eas­ily. Chastened, I bid them good night and went off to the tent. As we drew near, Nighteyes rose up, stretch­ing and yawn­ing.

  Did you hunt?

  With all this meat left, why would I hunt? I no­ticed then the tumble of pig bones all round him. He lay down amongst them again, nose to tail, rich as any wolf could ever be. I knew a mo­ment’s envy of his sat­is­fac­tion.

  Starling sat watch out­side the tent by the fire, her harp nestled in her lap. I star­ted to go past her with a nod, then hal­ted to peer at her harp. With a de­lighted smile, she held it up for my in­spec­tion.

  The Fool had out­done him­self. There was no gilt or cur­licues, no in­lays of ivory or ebony such as some would say set a harp apart. In­stead there was only the silken gleam of curving wood, and that subtle carving that high­lighted the best of the wood’s grain. I could not look at it without want­ing to touch it and hold it. The wood drew the hand to it. The fire­light danced upon it.

  Kettle stopped to stare also. She fol­ded her lips tightly. ‘No cau­tion. It will be the death of him someday,’ she said omin­ously. She then pre­ceded me into the tent.

  Des­pite my long nap earlier, I sank into sleep al­most as soon as I lay down. I do not think I had slept long be­fore I be­came aware of a stealthy noise out­side. I Wit-ques­ted to­ward it. Men. Four. No, five of them, mov­ing softly up the hill­side to­ward the hut. I could know little more about them than that they came in stealth, like hunters. Some­where in a dim room, Burrich sat up sound­lessly. He rose bare­foot and crossed the hut to Molly’s bed. He knelt by the side of it, then touched her arm softly.

  ‘Burrich?’ She caught her breath on his name, then waited in won­der.

  ‘Make no sound,’ he breathed. ‘Get up. Put on your shoes and wrap Nettle well, but try not to wake her. Someone is out­side, and I do not think they mean us well.’

  I was proud of her. She asked no ques­tions, but sat up im­me­di­ately. She pulled her dress on over her night­gown and thrust her feet into her shoes. She fol­ded up the bed­ding around Nettle un­til she looked like little more than a bundle of blankets. The baby did not wake.

  Mean­while Burrich had drawn on his own boots and taken up a short sword. He mo­tioned Molly to­ward the shuttered win­dow. ‘If I tell you to, go out that win­dow with Nettle. But not un­less I say to. I think there are five of them.’

  Molly nod­ded in the fire­light. She drew her belt knife and stood between her child and danger.

  Burrich stood to one side of the door. The en­tire night seemed to pass as they waited si­lently for their at­tack­ers to come.

  The bar was in place, but it had little mean­ing on such an old door frame. Burrich let them slam into it twice, then, as it star­ted to give, he kicked it out of its brack­ets, so that on their next on­slaught the door was flung wide. Two men came stag­ger­ing in, sur­prised at the sud­den lack of res­ist­ance. One fell, the other fell over the first, and Burrich had put his sword in and out of both of them be­fore the third man was in the door.

  The third man was a big man, red-headed and red-bearded. He came in the door with a roar, tramp­ling right over the two in­jured men who squirmed un­der his boots. He car­ried a long sword, a lovely weapon. His size and blade gave him al­most twice Burrich’s reach. Be­hind him, a stout man bel­lowed, ‘In the name of the King, we’ve come for the Wit-Bas­tard’s whore! Put down your weapon and stand aside.’

  He’d have been wiser not to rouse Burrich’s an­ger any brighter than it was. Al­most cas­u­ally, Burrich dropped his blade to fin­ish one of the men on the floor, and then brought the blade back up in­side Red-beard’s guard. Red-beard re­treated, try­ing to get space for the ad­vant­age of his blade. Burrich had no choice but to fol­low him, for if the man reached a place where he could swing freely, Burrich would have small chance. The stout man and a wo­man im­me­di­ately surged into the door. Burrich spared a glance for them. ‘Molly! As I told you!’

  Molly was already by the win­dow, clutch­ing Nettle who had be­gun to wail in fear. She leaped to a chair, snatched the shut­ters open, and got one leg out the win­dow. Burrich was busy­ing Red-beard when the wo­man dashed be­hind him and sank her knife into his lower back. Burrich cried out hoarsely, and frantic­ally par­ried the longer blade. As Molly got her other leg over the win­dow sill and began to drop out­side, the stout man leaped across the room and snatched Nettle from her arms. I heard Molly’s shriek of ter­ror and fury.

  Then she ran away into the dark­ness.

  Dis­be­lief. I could feel Burrich’s dis­be­lief as plainly as my own. The wo­man pulled her knife from his back and lif­ted it to strike again. He ban­ished his pain with an­ger, spun to cut her a slash across her chest and then turned back to Red-beard. But Red-beard had stepped back. His sword was still at the ready but he stood mo­tion­less as the stout man said, ‘We’ve got the child. Drop your sword or the baby dies here and now.’ He dar­ted his eyes at the wo­man clutch­ing at her chest. ‘Get after the wo­man. Now!’

  She glared at him, but went without a mur­mur. Burrich did not even watch her go. He had eyes only for the wail­ing babe in the stout man’s arms. Red-beard grinned as the tip of Burrich’s weapon slowly dropped to­ward the floor. ‘Why?’ Burrich asked in con­sterna­tion. ‘What have we ever done, that you at­tack us and threaten to kill my daugh­ter?’

  The stout man looked down at the red-faced baby scream­ing in his arms. ‘She’s not yours,’ he sneered. ‘She’s the Wit-Bas­tard’s bas­tard. We have it on the best au­thor­ity.’ He lif­ted Nettle high as if he would dash her against the floor. He stared at Burrich. Burrich made an in­co­her­ent sound, half-fury, half-plea. He dropped his sword. By the door, the in­jured man groaned and tried to sit up.

  ‘She’s only a tiny baby,’ Burrich said hoarsely. As if it were my own, I knew the warmth of the blood run­ning down Burrich’s back and hip. ‘Let us go. You are mis­taken. She’s my own blood, I tell you, and no threat to your king. Please. I have gold. I’ll take you to it. But let us go.’

  Burrich, who would have stood and spat and fought to the death, dropped his sword and pleaded for the sake of my child. Red-beard roared out his laughter, but Burrich did not even turn to it. Still laugh­ing, the man stepped to the table and cas­u­ally lit the branch of candles there. He lif­ted the light to sur­vey the dishevelled room. Burrich could not take his eyes off Nettle. ‘She’s mine,’ he said quietly, al­
most des­per­ately.

  ‘Stop your lies,’ the stout man said dis­dain­fully. ‘She’s the Wit-Bas­tard’s get. As tain­ted as he was.’

  ‘That’s right. She is.’

  All eyes turned to the door. Molly stood there, very pale, breath­ing hard. Her right hand was reddened with blood. She clutched to her chest a large wooden box. An omin­ous hum­ming came from it. ‘The bitch you sent after me is dead,’ Molly said harshly. ‘As you will soon be, if you don’t put down your weapons and free my child and man.’ The stout man grinned in­cred­u­lously. Red-beard lif­ted his sword.

  Her voice shook only slightly as she ad­ded, ‘The child is Wit­ted, of course. As am I. My bees will not harm us. But in­jure one of us, and they will rise up and fol­low you and give you no quarter. You shall die of a mil­lion burn­ing stings. Think your swords will be of much use against my Wit-bees?’ She looked from face to face, her eyes flash­ing with an­ger and her threat as she clutched the heavy wooden hive box to her. One bee es­caped it, to buzz an­grily about the room. Red-beard’s eyes fol­lowed it, even as he ex­claimed, ‘I don’t be­lieve it!’

  Burrich’s eyes were meas­ur­ing the dis­tance to his sword as Molly asked softly, al­most coyly, ‘Don’t you?’ She smiled oddly as she lowered the hive to the floor. Her eyes met Red-beard’s as she lif­ted the lid of the box. She reached in and even as the stout man gasped aloud, she drew out her hand, gloved with mov­ing bees. She closed the lid of the hive and then stood. She looked down at the bees coat­ing her hand and said quietly, ‘The one with the red beard, little ones.’ Then she held her hand out as if of­fer­ing them as a gift.

  It took a mo­ment, but as each bee took flight, it un­err­ingly sought out Red-beard. He flinched as first one and then an­other buzzed past him, and then came back, circ­ling. ‘Call them back or we kill the child!’ he cried out sud­denly. He bat­ted at them in­ef­fec­tu­ally with the branch of candles he held.

  Molly in­stead stooped sud­denly and heaved up the whole hive as high as she could. ‘You’ll kill her any­way!’ she cried out, her voice break­ing on the words. She gave the hive a shake, and the agit­ated hum­ming of the bees be­came a roar. ‘Little ones, they would kill my child! When I set you free, avenge us!’ She raised the hive higher yet in her arms, pre­par­at­ory to smash­ing it to the floor. The in­jured man at her feet groaned loudly.

  ‘Hold!’ cried the stout man. ‘I’ll give you your child!’

  Molly froze. All could see that she could not hold the weight of the hive box much longer. There was strain in her voice but she calmly dir­ec­ted, ‘Give my baby to my man. Let them both come to me. Or you shall all die, most cer­tainly and most hor­ribly.’ The stout man looked un­cer­tainly at Red-beard. Candles in one hand and sword in the other, Red-beard had re­treated from the table, but the bees still buzzed con­fusedly about him. His ef­forts to slap them away only seemed to make them more de­term­ined. ‘King Regal will kill us do we fail!’

  ‘Then die from my bees in­stead,’ Molly sug­ges­ted. ‘There are hun­dreds of bees in here,’ she ad­ded in a low voice. Her tone was al­most se­duct­ive as she offered, ‘They will get in­side your shirts and the legs of your trousers. They will cling to your hair as they sting. They will crawl into your ears to sting, and up your noses. And when you scream, they will crowd into your mouth, dozens of hum­ming, fuzzy bod­ies, to sting your tongue un­til it will not fit in­side your mouth. You will die chok­ing on them!’

  Her de­scrip­tion seemed to de­cide them. The stout man crossed the room to Burrich, thrust the still-scream­ing babe into his arms. Red-beard glared but said noth­ing. Burrich took Nettle, but did not neg­lect to stoop and seize up his sword as well. Molly glared at Red-beard. ‘You. Get over there be­side him. Burrich. Take Nettle out­side. Take her to where we picked mint yes­ter­day. If they force me to act, I do not wish her to see it. It might make her fear the very bees who are her ser­vants.’

  Burrich obeyed. Of all the things I had wit­nessed that night, that seemed to me the most amaz­ing. Once he was out­side, Molly backed slowly to­ward the door. ‘Do not fol­low,’ she warned them. ‘My Wit-bees will be keep­ing watch for me, right out­side the door.’ She gave the hive a fi­nal shake. The roar­ing hum in­creased and sev­eral more bees es­caped into the room, buzz­ing an­grily. The stout man stood frozen, but Red-beard lif­ted his sword as if it would de­fend him. The man on the floor gave an in­co­her­ent cry and scrabbled away from her as Molly backed out­side. She dragged the door shut be­hind her, then leaned the hive against it. She took the lid off the hive and then kicked it be­fore she turned and ran off into the night. ‘Burrich!’ she called quietly. ‘I’m com­ing.’ She did not go to­ward the road, but off to­ward the woods. She did not look back.

  ‘Come away, Fitz.’ It was no Skilling, but Ver­ity’s soft voice close by me. ‘You have seen them safe. Watch no more, lest oth­ers see with your eyes and know where they go. It is bet­ter if you do not know your­self. Come away.’

  I opened my eyes to the dim­ness in­side the tent. Not only Ver­ity, but Kettle sat be­side me. Kettle’s mouth was set in a flat line of dis­ap­proval. Ver­ity’s face was stern, but un­der­stand­ing was also there. He spoke be­fore I could. ‘Did I be­lieve you had sought that, I would be most angry with you. Now I say to you plainly. It is bet­ter if you know noth­ing of them. Noth­ing at all. Had you heeded me when I first ad­vised you of that, none of them would have been threatened as they were to­night.’

  ‘You both were watch­ing?’ I asked quietly. For an in­stant, I was touched. They both cared that much for my child.

  ‘She is my heir, too,’ Ver­ity poin­ted out re­lent­lessly. ‘Do you think I could stand by and do noth­ing if they had in­jured her?’ He shook his head at me. ‘Stay away from them, Fitz. For all our sakes. Do you un­der­stand?’

  I nod­ded my head. His words could not dis­tress me. I had already de­cided I would choose not to know where Molly and Burrich took Nettle. But not be­cause she was Ver­ity’s heir. Kettle and Ver­ity stood and left the tent. I flung my­self back into my blankets. The Fool, who had been propped on one el­bow, lay down also. ‘I will tell you to­mor­row,’ I told him. He nod­ded mutely, his eyes huge in his pale face. Then he lay back down. I think he went to sleep. I stared up into dark­ness. Nighteyes came to lie be­side me.

  He would pro­tect your cub as his own, he poin­ted out quietly. That is pack.

  He meant the words for com­fort. I did not need them. In­stead I reached to rest a hand on his ruff. Did you see how she stood and faced them down? I de­man­ded with pride.

  A most ex­cel­lent bitch, Nighteyes agreed.

  I felt I had not slept at all when Starling woke the Fool and me for our watch. I came out of the tent stretch­ing and yawn­ing, and sus­pect­ing that keep­ing watch was not really a ne­ces­sity. But the last shard of night was pleas­antly mild and Starling had left meat broth sim­mer­ing at the fire’s edge. I was halfway through a mug when the Fool fi­nally fol­lowed me out.

  ‘Starling showed me her harp last night,’ I said by way of greet­ing.

  He smirked with sat­is­fac­tion. ‘“A crude bit of work. Ah, this was but one of his early ef­forts,” they shall say of it some day,’ he ad­ded with strained mod­esty.

  ‘Kettle said you have no cau­tion.’

  ‘No, I have not. Fitz. What do we do here?’

  ‘Me? What I’m told. When my watch is over, I’m off to the hills, to gather broom twigs. So that I can sweep the rock chips out of Ver­ity’s way.’

  ‘Ah. Now there’s lofty work for a Cata­lyst. And what shall a Prophet do, do you sup­pose?’

  ‘You might proph­esy when that dragon will be fin­ished. I fear we shall think of noth­ing else un­til it is done.’

  The Fool was shak­ing his head minutely.

  ‘What?’ I de­man­ded.

  ‘I do not feel we were called
here to make brooms and harps. This feels like a lull to me, my friend. The lull be­fore the storm.’

  ‘Now there’s a cheery thought,’ I told him glumly. But privately I wondered if he might not be right.

  ‘Are you go­ing to tell me what went on last night?’

  When my ac­count was fin­ished, the Fool sat grin­ning. ‘A re­source­ful lass, that one,’ he ob­served proudly. Then he cocked his head at me. ‘Think you the baby will be Wit­ted? Or be able to Skill?’

  I had never stopped to con­sider it. ‘I hope not,’ I said im­me­di­ately. And then wondered at my own words.

  Dawn had scarcely broken be­fore both Ver­ity and Kettle arose. They each drank a mug of broth stand­ing, and car­ried off dried meat as they headed back up to the dragon. Kettricken had also come out of Ver­ity’s tent. Her eyes were hol­low and de­feat was in the set of her mouth. She had but half a mug of broth be­fore set­ting it aside. She went back into the tent and re­turned with a blanket fash­ioned into a carry-sack.

  ‘Fire­wood,’ she replied flatly to my raised eye­brow.

  ‘Then Nighteyes and I may as well go with you. I need to gather broom twigs and a stick. And he needs to do some­thing be­sides sleep and grow fat.’

  And you fear to go off in the woods without me.

  If sows like that abound in these woods, you are ab­so­lutely cor­rect.

  Per­haps Kettricken would bring her bow?

  But even as I turned to make the sug­ges­tion, she was duck­ing back into the tent to fetch it. ‘In case we meet an­other pig,’ she told me as she came out.

  But it was an un­event­ful ex­ped­i­tion. Out­side the quarry, the coun­tryside was hilly and pleas­ant. We stopped at the stream to drink and wash. I saw the flash of a tiny fin­ger­ling in the wa­ter, and the wolf im­me­di­ately wanted to fish. I told him I would after I had fin­ished gath­er­ing my broom. So he came at my heels, but re­luct­antly. I gathered my broom twigs and found a long straight branch for a handle. Then we filled Kettricken’s carry-sack with wood, which I in­sis­ted on bear­ing so her hands could be free for her bow. On the way back to camp, we stopped at the stream. I looked for a place where plants over­hung the bank, and it did not take us long to find one. We then spent far longer than I had in­ten­ded in tick­ling for fish. Kettricken had never seen it done be­fore, but after some im­pa­tience, she caught the trick of it. They were a kind of trout I had not seen be­fore, tinged with pink along their bel­lies. We caught ten, and I cleaned them there, with Nighteyes snap­ping up the en­trails as quickly as I gut­ted them. Kettricken threaded them onto a wil­low stick, and we re­turned to camp.