Assassin's Quest (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘I’ve taken care of it.’ She kept her back to him.

  ‘How?’ he asked sus­pi­ciously.

  When she looked back at him, her mouth was flat. I’d known bet­ter than to ar­gue with that face. ‘Fitz’s pin. I showed it to the innkeeper to get this room. And while you both slept this af­ter­noon, I took it to a jew­eller and sold it.’ He had opened his mouth, but she gave him no chance to speak. ‘I know how to bar­gain and I got its full worth.’

  ‘Its worth was more than coins. Nettle should have had that pin,’ Burrich said. His mouth was as flat as hers.

  ‘Nettle needed a warm bed and por­ridge far more than she needed a sil­ver pin with a ruby in it. Even Fitz would have had the wis­dom to know that.’

  Oddly enough, I did. But Burrich only said, ‘I shall have to work many days to earn it back for her.’

  Molly took up the band­ages. She did not meet his eyes. ‘You are a stub­born man, and I am sure you will do as you please about that,’ she said.

  Burrich was si­lent. I could al­most see him try­ing to de­cide if that meant he had won the ar­gu­ment. She came back to the bed. She sat be­side him on the bed to smear the oint­ment on his back. He clenched his jaws, but made no sound. Then she came to crouch in front of him. ‘Lift your arms so I can wrap this,’ she com­man­ded him. He took a breath and lif­ted his arms up and away from his body. She worked ef­fi­ciently, un­rolling the bandaging as she wrapped it around him. She tied it over his belly. ‘Bet­ter?’ she asked.

  ‘Much.’ He star­ted to stretch, then thought bet­ter of it.

  ‘There’s food,’ she offered as she went to the table.

  ‘In a mo­ment.’ I saw his look darken. So did Molly. She turned back to him, her mouth gone small. ‘Molly.’ He sighed. He tried again. ‘Nettle is King Shrewd’s great-grand­child. A Farseer. Regal sees her as a threat to him. He may try to kill you again. Both of you. In fact, I am sure he will.’ He scratched at his beard. Into her si­lence, he sug­ges­ted, ‘Per­haps the only way to pro­tect you both is to put you un­der the true king’s pro­tec­tion. There is a man I know … per­haps Fitz told you of him. Chade?’

  She shook her head mutely. Her eyes were go­ing blacker and blacker.

  ‘He could take Nettle to a safe place. And see you were well provided for.’ The words came out of him slowly, re­luct­antly.

  Molly’s reply was swift. ‘No. She is not a Farseer. She is mine. And I will not sell her, not for coin or safety.’ She glared at him and prac­tic­ally spat the words. ‘How could you think I would!’

  He smiled at her an­ger. I saw guilty re­lief on his face. ‘I did not think you would. But I felt ob­liged to of­fer it.’ His next words came even more hes­it­antly. ‘I had thought of an­other way. I do not know what you will think of it. We will still have to travel away from here, find a town where we are not known.’ He looked at the floor ab­ruptly. ‘If we were wed be­fore we got there, folk would never ques­tion that she was mine …’

  Molly stood as still as if turned to stone. The si­lence stretched. Burrich lif­ted his eyes and met hers plead­ingly. ‘Do not take this wrong. I ex­pect noth­ing of you … that way. But … even so, you need not wed me. There are Wit­ness Stones in Kevdor. We could go there, with a min­strel. I could stand be­fore them, and swear she was mine. No one would ever ques­tion it.’

  ‘You’d lie be­fore a Wit­ness Stone?’ Molly asked in­cred­u­lously. ‘You’d do that? To keep Nettle safe?’

  He nod­ded slowly. His eyes never left her face.

  She shook her head. ‘No, Burrich, I will not have it. It is the worst of luck, to do such a thing. All know the tales of what be­comes of those who pro­fane the Wit­ness Stones with a lie.’

  ‘I will chance it.’ He spoke grimly. I had never known the man to lie be­fore Nettle had come into his life. Now he offered to give a false oath. I wondered if Molly knew what he was of­fer­ing her.

  She did. ‘No. You will not lie.’ She spoke with cer­tainty.

  ‘Molly. Please.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ she said with great fi­nal­ity. She cocked her head and looked at him, puzz­ling some­thing out. ‘Burrich?’ she asked with a tent­at­ive note to her voice. ‘I have heard it told … Lacey said that once you loved Pa­tience.’ She took a breath. ‘Do you love her still?’ she asked.

  Burrich looked al­most angry. Molly met his stare with a plead­ing look un­til Burrich looked away from her. She could barely hear his words. ‘I love my memor­ies of her. As she was then, as I was then. Prob­ably much as you still love Fitz.’

  It was Molly’s turn to wince. ‘Some of the things I re­mem­ber … yes.’ She nod­ded as if re­mind­ing her­self of some­thing. Then she looked up and met Burrich’s eyes. ‘But he is dead.’ So oddly fi­nal, those words com­ing from her. Then, with a plea in her voice, she ad­ded, ‘Listen to me. Just listen. All my life it’s been … First my father. He al­ways told me he loved me. But when he struck me and cursed me, it never felt like love to me. Then Fitz. He swore he loved me and touched me gently. But his lies never soun­ded like love to me. Now you … Burrich, you never speak to me of love. You have never touched me, not in an­ger nor de­sire. But both your si­lence and your look speak more of love to me than ever their words or touches did.’ She waited. He did not speak. ‘Burrich?’ she asked des­per­ately.

  ‘You are young,’ he said softly. ‘And lovely. So full of spirit. You de­serve bet­ter.’

  ‘Burrich. Do you love me?’ A simple ques­tion, tim­idly asked.

  He fol­ded his work-scarred hands in his lap. ‘Yes.’ He gripped his hands to­gether. To stop their trem­bling?

  Molly’s smile broke forth like the sun from a cloud. ‘Then you shall marry me. And af­ter­wards, if you wish, I shall stand be­fore the Wit­ness Stones. And I will ad­mit to all that I was with you be­fore we were wed. And I will show them the child.’

  He fi­nally lif­ted his eyes to hers. His look was in­cred­u­lous. ‘You’d marry me? As I am? Old? Poor? Scarred?’

  ‘You are none of those things to me. To me, you are the man I love.’

  He shook his head. Her an­swer had only baffled him more. ‘And after what you just said about bad luck? You would stand be­fore a Wit­ness Stone and lie?’

  She smiled a dif­fer­ent sort of smile at him. One I had not seen in a long time. One that broke my heart. ‘It need not be a lie,’ she poin­ted out quietly.

  His nos­trils flared like a stal­lion’s as he surged to his feet. The breath he drew swelled his chest.

  ‘Wait,’ she com­man­ded him softly, and he did. She licked her thumb and fore­fin­ger. She swiftly pinched out all but one candle. Then she crossed the darkened room to his arms.

  I fled.

  ‘Oh, my boy. I am so sorry.’

  I shook my head si­lently. My eyes were squeezed tight shut, but tears leaked from them any­way. I found my voice. ‘He will be good to her. And Nettle. He is the sort of man she de­serves. No, Ver­ity. I should take com­fort in it. To know he will be with her, caring for them both.’

  Com­fort. I could find no com­fort in it. Only pain.

  ‘It seems a very poor bar­gain I have made you.’ Ver­ity soun­ded genu­inely grieved for me.

  ‘No. It’s all right.’ I caught my breath. ‘Now, Ver­ity. I would it were done quickly.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As you will.’

  He took my life from me.

  It was a dream I had had be­fore. I knew the feel of an old man’s body. The other time, I had been King Shrewd, in a soft night­shirt, in a clean bed. This time was harsher. I ached in every joint of my body. My gut burned in­side me. And I had scal­ded my­self, on my face and hands. There was more pain than life left in this body. Like a candle al­most burned to the socket. I opened my eyes stick­ily. I sprawled on cold, gritty stone. A wolf sat watch­ing me.

  This is wrong, he told me.

&
nbsp; I could think of noth­ing to say to that. It cer­tainly did not feel right. After a time, I pushed my­self up to my hands and knees. My hands hurt. My knees hurt. Every joint in my body creaked and com­plained as I drew my­self up and looked around. The night was warm, but I still shivered. Above me, on a dais, an in­com­plete dragon slumbered.

  I do not un­der­stand. Nighteyes pleaded for an ex­plan­a­tion.

  I do not wish to un­der­stand. I do not want to know.

  But whether I wished it or not, I did know. I walked slowly and the wolf came at my heels. We walked past a dy­ing fire between two tents. No one kept watch. From Kettricken’s tent, there were small noises. Ver­ity’s face was what she saw in the dim­ness. Ver­ity’s dark eyes, look­ing into hers. She be­lieved her hus­band had fi­nally come to her.

  In truth, he had.

  I did not want to hear, I did not want to know. I walked on with my old man’s care­ful pa­cing. Great black blocks of stone loomed around us. Ahead of us, some­thing clicked and chinked softly. I walked through the sharp-edged stone shad­ows and into moon­light again.

  Once you shared my body. Is this like that?

  ‘No.’ I spoke the word aloud, and in the wake of my voice, I heard a small scrab­bling. What’s that?

  I’ll go and see. The wolf melted into the shad­ows. He re­turned in­stantly. It’s only the Scent­less One. He hides from you. He does not know you.

  I knew where I would find him. I took my time. This body had all it could do to move, let alone move swiftly. When I came to Girl on a Dragon, it was hor­ribly hard to clam­ber up on her dais. Once I was up, I could see the fresh rock chips every­where. I sat down by the dragon’s feet, a cau­tious lower­ing of my body to cold stone. I looked at his work. He had al­most cut her free. ‘Fool?’ I called out softly in the night.

  He came slowly, from the shad­ows, to stand eyes down be­fore me. ‘My king,’ he said softly. ‘I tried. But I can­not help my­self. I can­not just leave her here …’

  I nod­ded slowly, word­lessly. At the base of the dais, Nighteyes whined. The Fool glanced down at him, then back up at me. Puz­zle­ment crossed his face. ‘My lord?’ he asked.

  I reached for the thread of Skill-bond between us and found it. The Fool’s face grew very still as he struggled to un­der­stand. He came to sit be­side me. He stared at me, as if he could see through Ver­ity’s skin. ‘I like this not,’ he said at last.

  ‘Nor I,’ I agreed.

  ‘Why have you …’

  ‘Bet­ter not to know,’ I said briefly.

  For a time we sat in si­lence. Then the Fool reached back to brush a hand­ful of fresh stone chips from about the dragon’s foot. He met my eyes, but there was still furt­ive­ness as he drew a chisel from his shirt. His ham­mer was a stone.

  ‘That’s Ver­ity’s chisel.’

  ‘I know. He doesn’t need it any more, and my knife broke.’ He set the edge care­fully to the rock. ‘It works much bet­ter any­way.’ I watched him tap an­other small chip free. I aligned my thoughts with his.

  ‘She draws on your strength,’ I ob­served quietly.

  ‘I know.’ An­other chip came free. ‘I was curi­ous. And my touch hurt her.’ He placed his chisel again. ‘I feel I owe her some­thing.’

  ‘Fool. She could take all you of­fer her and it would still not be enough.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I shrugged. ‘This body knows.’

  Then I stared as he laid his Skill-fin­gers to the place where he had chis­elled. I winced, but sensed no pain from her. She took some­thing from him. But he had not the Skill to shape her with his hands. What he gave her was only enough to tor­ment her.

  ‘She re­minds me of my older sis­ter,’ he said into the night. ‘She had golden hair.’

  I sat in stunned si­lence. He did not look at me as he ad­ded, ‘I should have liked to see her again. She used to spoil me out­rageously. I would have liked to have seen all my fam­ily again.’ His tone was no more than wist­ful as he moved his fin­gers idly against the chis­elled stone.

  ‘Fool? Let me try?’

  He gave me a look that was al­most jeal­ous. ‘She may not ac­cept you,’ he warned me.

  I smiled at him. Ver­ity’s smile, through his beard. ‘There is a link between us. Fine as thread and neither the elf­bark nor your wear­i­ness aid it. But it is there. Put your hand to my shoulder.’

  I did not know why I did it. Per­haps be­cause he had never be­fore spoken to me of a sis­ter or a home he missed. I re­fused to stop and won­der. Not think­ing was so much easier, and not feel­ing was easi­est of all. He put his un­Skilled hand, not to my shoulder, but to the side of my neck. In­stinct­ively, he was right. Skin to skin, I knew him bet­ter. I held Ver­ity’s sil­ver hands up be­fore my eyes and mar­velled at them. Sil­ver to the eye, scal­ded and raw to the senses. Then, be­fore I could change my mind, I reached down and grasped the dragon’s shape­less fore­foot between my two hands.

  In­stantly, I could feel the dragon. Al­most it squirmed within the stone. I knew the edge of each scale, the tip of each wicked claw. And I knew the wo­man who had carved it. The wo­men. A co­terie, so long ago. Salt’s Co­terie. But Salt had been too proud. Her fea­tures were on the carven face, and she had sought to re­main in her own form, carving her­self upon the dragon that her co­terie shaped around her. They had been too loyal to ob­ject. And al­most she had suc­ceeded. The dragon had been fin­ished, and al­most filled. The dragon had quickened and began to rise as the co­terie was ab­sorbed into it. But Salt had striven to re­main only within the carved girl. She had held back from the dragon. And the dragon had fallen be­fore it could even rise, sink­ing back into the stone, mir­ing down forever. Leav­ing the co­terie trapped in the dragon and Salt trapped in the girl.

  All this I knew, swifter than light­ning. I felt, too, the hun­ger of the dragon. It pulled at me, plead­ing for susten­ance. Much had it taken from the Fool. I sensed what he had given, light and dark. The jeer­ing taunts of garden­ers and cham­ber­lains when he was young at Buck­keep. A branch of apple blos­soms out­side a win­dow in spring. An im­age of me, my jer­kin flap­ping as I hur­ried across the yard at Burrich’s heels, try­ing to make my shorter legs match his long stride. A sil­ver fish leap­ing above a si­lent pond at dawn.

  The dragon tugged at me in­sist­ently. I sud­denly knew what had really drawn me here. Take my memor­ies of my mother, and the feel­ings that went with them. I do not want to know them at all. Take the ache in my throat when I think of Molly, take all the sharp-edged, bright-col­oured days I re­call with her. Take their bril­li­ance and leave me but the shad­ows of what I saw and felt. Let me re­call them without cut­ting my­self on their sharp­ness. Take my days and nights in Regal’s dun­geons. It is enough to know what was done to me. Take it to keep, and let me stop feel­ing my face against that stone floor, hear­ing the sound of my nose break­ing, smelling and tast­ing my own blood. Take my hurt that I never knew my father, take my hours of star­ing up at his por­trait when the great hall was empty and I could do so alone. Take my –

  Fitz. Stop. You give her too much, there will be noth­ing left of you. The Fool’s voice in­side me was hor­ror-stricken at what he had en­cour­aged.

  – memor­ies of that tower-top, of the bare windswept Queen’s Garden and Ga­len stand­ing over me. Take that im­age of Molly go­ing so will­ingly to Burrich’s arms. Take it and quench it and seal it away where it can never sear me again. Take –

  My brother. Enough.

  Nighteyes was sud­denly between me and the dragon. I knew I still gripped that scaly fore­leg, but he snarled at it, de­fy­ing it to take more of me.

  I do not care if it all is taken, I told Nighteyes.

  But I do. I would sooner not be bon­ded with a Forged one. Get back, Cold One. He snarled in spirit as well as be­side me.

  To my sur­prise the dragon yiel­ded. My com­p
an­ion nipped at my shoulder. Let go. Get away from that!

  I let go of the dragon’s fore­leg. I opened my eyes, sur­prised to find it was still night all around me.

  The Fool had his arm around Nighteyes. ‘Fitz,’ he said quietly. He spoke into the wolf’s ruff, but I heard him clearly. ‘Fitz, I am sorry. But you can­not throw away all your pain. If you stop feel­ing pain …’

  I did not listen to the rest of what he said. I stared at the dragon’s fore­leg. Where my two hands had res­ted against the lumpy stone there were two hand­prints now. Within those shapes, each scale stood fine and per­fect. All of that, I thought. All of that, and this is how much dragon it brought me. Then I thought of Ver­ity’s dragon. It was im­mense. How had he done it? What had he held in­side him, all those years, to have enough for the shap­ing of such a dragon?

  ‘He feels much, your uncle. Great loves. Vast loy­alty. Some­times I think that my two hun­dred odd years pale be­side what he has felt in his forty some.’

  All three of us turned to Kettle. I felt no sur­prise. I had known she was com­ing and I had not cared. She leaned heav­ily on a stick and her face seemed to hang from the bones of her skull. She met my eyes and I knew that she knew everything. Skill-linked as she was to Ver­ity, she knew it all. ‘Get down from there. All of you, be­fore you hurt yourselves.’

  We obeyed slowly and I slow­est of all. Ver­ity’s joints ached and his body was weary. Kettle looked at me bale­fully when I fi­nally stood be­side her. ‘If you were go­ing to do that, you might have put it in Ver­ity’s dragon in­stead,’ she poin­ted out.

  ‘He wouldn’t let me. You wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘No. We wouldn’t have. Let me tell you some­thing, Fitz. You are go­ing to miss what you gave away. You will re­cover some of the feel­ings in time, of course. All memor­ies are con­nec­ted, and like a man’s skin, they can heal. In time, left to them­selves, those memor­ies would have stopped hurt­ing you. You may someday wish you could call up that pain.’