Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  Sooty stopped, not ab­ruptly, but I was not ex­pect­ing it, and I nearly slid from the saddle. I caught at her mane and stead­ied my­self. Fall­ing flakes veiled the forest around us. The spruce trees were heavy with ac­cu­mu­lated snow, while the in­ter­spersed birches were bare black sil­hou­ettes in the clouded winter moon­light. There was no sign of a trail. The woods were thick around us. Hands had reined in his black geld­ing in front of us, and that was why Sooty hal­ted. Be­hind me Burrich sat his roan mare with the prac­tised ease of the lifelong horse­man.

  I was cold, and shaky with weak­ness. I looked round dully, won­der­ing why we had stopped. The wind gus­ted sharply, snap­ping my damp cloak against Sooty’s flank. Hands poin­ted sud­denly. ‘There!’ He looked back at me. ‘Surely you saw that?’

  I leaned for­ward to peer through snow that fell like flut­ter­ing lace cur­tains. ‘I think so,’ I said, the wind and snow swal­low­ing my words. For an in­stant I had glimpsed tiny lights, yel­low and sta­tion­ary, un­like the pale blue will o’the wisps that still oc­ca­sion­ally plagued my vis­ion.

  ‘Do you think it’s Buck­keep?’ Hands shouted through the rising wind.

  ‘It is,’ Burrich as­ser­ted quietly, his deep voice car­ry­ing ef­fort­lessly. ‘I know where we are now. This is where Prince Ver­ity killed that big doe about six years ago. I re­mem­ber be­cause she leaped when the ar­row went in, and tumbled down that gully. It took us the rest of the day to get down there and pack the meat out.’

  The gully he ges­tured to was no more than a line of brush glimpsed through the fall­ing snow. But sud­denly it all snapped into place for me. The lie of this hill­side, the types of trees, the gully there, and so Buck­keep was that way, just a brief ride be­fore we could clearly see the fort­ress on the sea-cliffs over­look­ing the bay and Buck­keep Town be­low. For the first time in days, I knew with ab­so­lute cer­tainty where we were. The heavy over­cast had kept us from check­ing our course by the stars, and the un­usu­ally deep snow­fall had altered the lay of the land un­til even Burrich had seemed un­sure. But now I knew that home was but a brief ride away. In sum­mer. But I picked up what was left of my de­term­in­a­tion.

  ‘Not much farther,’ I told Burrich.

  Hands had already star­ted his horse. The stocky little geld­ing surged ahead bravely, break­ing trail through the banked snow. I nudged Sooty and the tall mare re­luct­antly stepped out. As she leaned into the hill, I slid to one side. As I scrabbled fu­tilely at my saddle, Burrich nudged his horse abreast of mine. He reached out, seized me by the back of my col­lar and dragged me up­right again. ‘It’s not much farther,’ he agreed. ‘You’ll make it.’

  I man­aged a nod. It was only the second time he’d had to steady me in the last hour or so. One of my bet­ter even­ings, I told my­self bit­terly. I pulled my­self up straighter in the saddle, res­ol­utely squared my shoulders. Nearly home.

  The jour­ney had been long and ar­du­ous. The weather had been foul, and the con­stant hard­ships had not im­proved my health. Much of it I re­membered like a dark dream; days of jolt­ing along in the saddle, barely cog­niz­ant of our path, nights when I lay between Hands and Burrich in our small tent and trembled with a wear­i­ness so great I could not even sleep. As we had drawn closer to Buck Duchy, I had thought our travel would be­come easier. I had not reckoned on Burrich’s cau­tion.

  At Tur­lake, we had stopped a night at an inn. I had thought that we’d take pas­sage on a river barge the next day, for though ice might line the banks of the Buck River, its strong cur­rent kept a chan­nel clear year round. I went straight to our room, for I had not much stam­ina. Burrich and Hands were both an­ti­cip­at­ing hot food and com­pan­ion­ship, to say noth­ing of ale. I had not ex­pec­ted them to come soon to the room. But scarcely two hours had passed be­fore they both came up to ready them­selves for bed.

  Burrich was grim and si­lent, but after he had gone to bed, Hands whispered to me from his bed how poorly the King was spoken of in this town. ‘Had they known we were from Buck­keep, I doubt they would have spoken so freely. But clad as we are in Moun­tain gar­ments, they thought us traders or mer­chants. A dozen times I thought Burrich would chal­lenge one of them. In truth, I do not know how he con­tained him­self. All com­plain about the taxes for de­fend­ing the coast. They sneer, say­ing that for all the taxes they bleed, the Raid­ers still came un­looked for in au­tumn, when the weather las­ted fine, and burned two more towns.’ Hands had paused, and un­cer­tainly ad­ded, ‘But they speak un­com­monly well of Prince Regal. He passed through here es­cort­ing Kettricken back to Buck­keep. One man at the table called her a great white fish of a wife, fit for the Coast King. And an­other spoke up, say­ing that at least Prince Regal bore him­self well des­pite his hard­ships, and looked ever as a prince should. Then they drank to the Prince’s health and long life.’

  A cold settled in me. I whispered back, ‘The two Forged vil­lages. Did you hear which ones they were?’

  ‘Whale-jaw up in Bearns. And Silt­bay in Buck it­self.’

  The dark­ness settled darker around me, and I lay watch­ing it all night.

  The next morn­ing we left Tur­lake. On horse­back. Over­land. Burrich would not even let us keep to the road. I had pro­tested in vain. He had listened to me com­plain, then taken me aside to de­mand fiercely, ‘Do you want to die?’

  I looked at him blankly. He snorted in dis­gust.

  ‘Fitz, noth­ing has changed. You’re still a royal bas­tard, and Prince Regal still re­gards you as an obstacle. He’s tried to be rid of you, not once, but thrice. Do you think he’s go­ing to wel­come you back to Buck­keep? No. Even bet­ter for him if we never make it back at all. So let’s not make easy tar­gets of ourselves. We go over­land. If he or his hire­lings want us, they’ll have to hunt us through the woods. And he’s never been much of a hunter.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Ver­ity pro­tect us?’ I asked weakly.

  ‘You’re a King’s Man, and Ver­ity is King-in-Wait­ing,’ Burrich had poin­ted out shortly. ‘You pro­tect your king, Fitz. Not the re­verse. Not that he doesn’t think well of you, and would do all he could to pro­tect you. But he has weight­ier mat­ters to at­tend. Red Ships. A new bride. And a younger brother who thinks the crown would sit bet­ter on his own head. No. Don’t ex­pect the King-in-Wait­ing to watch over you. Do that for your­self.’

  All I could think of was the ex­tra days he was put­ting between me and my search for Molly. But I did not give that reason. I had not told him of my dream. In­stead, I said, ‘Regal would have to be crazy to try to kill us again. Every­one would know he was the mur­derer.’

  ‘Not crazy, Fitz. Just ruth­less. Regal is that. Let’s not ever sup­pose that Regal abides by the rules we ob­serve, or even thinks as we do. If Regal sees an op­por­tun­ity to kill us, he’ll take it. He won’t care who sus­pects so long as no one can prove it. Ver­ity is our King-in-Wait­ing. Not our king. Not yet. While King Shrewd is alive and on the throne, Regal will find ways around his father. He will get away with many things. Even murder.’

  Burrich had reined his horse aside from the well trav­elled road, plunged off through drifts and up the un­marked snowy hill­side bey­ond, to strike a straight course for Buck­keep. Hands had looked at me as if he felt ill. But we had fol­lowed. And every night when we had slept, bundled all to­gether in a single tent for warmth in­stead of in beds at a cosy inn, I had thought of Regal. Every flounder­ing step up each hill­side, lead­ing our horses more of­ten than not, and dur­ing every cau­tious des­cent, I had thought of the young­est prince. I tal­lied every ex­tra hour between Molly and me. The only times I felt strength surge through me were dur­ing my day-dreams of bat­ter­ing Regal into ruin. I could not prom­ise my­self re­venge. Re­venge was the prop­erty of the crown. But if I could not have re­venge, Regal would not have sat­is­fac­tion. I would re­turn to Buck­keep, and I would
stand tall be­fore him, and when his black eye fell upon me, I would not flinch. Nor, I vowed, would Regal ever see me tremble, or catch at a wall for sup­port, or pass a hand be­fore my blurry eyes. He would never know how close he had come to win­ning it all.

  So at last we rode to Buck­keep, not up the wind­ing sea-coast road, but from the for­es­ted hills be­hind her. The snow dwindled, then ceased. The night winds blew the clouds aside, and a fine moon made Buck­keep’s stone walls shine black as jet against the sea. Light shimmered yel­low in her tur­rets and at the side gate. ‘We’re home,’ Burrich said quietly. We rode down one last hill, struck the road at last, and rode around to the great gate of Buck­keep.

  A young sol­dier stood night-guard. He lowered his pike to block our way and de­man­ded our names.

  Burrich pushed his hood back from his face, but the lad didn’t move. ‘I’m Burrich, the Sta­ble­mas­ter!’ Burrich in­formed him in­cred­u­lously. ‘The Sta­ble­mas­ter here for longer than you’ve been alive, most likely. I feel I should be ask­ing you what your busi­ness is here at my gate!’

  Be­fore the flustered lad could reply, there was a tumble and rush of sol­diers from the guard house. ‘It is Burrich!’ the watch ser­geant ex­claimed. Burrich was in­stantly the centre of a cluster of men, all shout­ing greet­ings and talk­ing at once while Hands and I sat on our weary horses at the edge of the hub­bub. The ser­geant, one Blade, fi­nally shouted them to si­lence, mostly so he could speak his own com­ments eas­ily. ‘We hadn’t looked for you un­til spring, man,’ the burly old sol­dier de­clared. ‘And even then, we was told you might not be the man that left here. But you look good, you do. A bit cold, and out­land­ishly dressed, and an­other scar or two, but your­self for all that. Word was that you was hurt bad, and the Bas­tard like to die. Plague or poison, the ru­mours was.’

  Burrich laughed and held out his arms that all might ad­mire his Moun­tain garb. For a mo­ment I saw Burrich as they must have seen him, his purple and yel­low quilted trousers and smock and buskins. I no longer wondered at how we had been chal­lenged at the gate. But I did won­der at the ru­mours.

  ‘Who said the Bas­tard would die?’ I de­man­ded curi­ously.

  ‘Who’s ask­ing?’ Blade de­man­ded in re­turn. He glanced over my gar­ments, looked me in the eye, and knew me not. But as I sat up straighter on my horse, he gave a start. To this day, I be­lieve he knew Sooty and that was how he re­cog­nized me. He did not cover his shock.

  ‘Fitz? There’s hardly half of you left! You look like you’ve had the blood plague.’ It was my first ink­ling of just how bad I looked to those who knew me.

  ‘Who said I had been poisoned, or af­flic­ted with plague?’ I re­peated the ques­tion quietly.

  Blade flinched and glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Oh, no one. Well, no one in par­tic­u­lar. You know how it is. When you didn’t come back with the oth­ers, well, some sup­posed this and some that, and pretty soon, it was al­most like we knew it. Ru­mours, guard-room talk. Sol­diers gos­sip. We wondered why you didn’t come back, that was all. No one be­lieved any­thing that was said. We spread too many ru­mours ourselves to give gos­sip any cre­dence. We just wondered why you and Burrich and Hands hadn’t come back.’

  He fi­nally real­ized he was re­peat­ing him­self and fell si­lent be­fore my stare. I let the si­lence stretch long enough to make it plain that I didn’t in­tend to an­swer this ques­tion. Then I shrugged it away. ‘No harm done, Blade. But you can tell them all the Bas­tard isn’t done for yet. Plagues or pois­ons, you should have known Burrich would physick me through it. I’m alive and well; I just look like a corpse.’

  ‘Oh, Fitz, lad, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that …’

  ‘I said, no harm done, Blade. Let it go.’

  ‘Good enough, sir,’ he replied.

  I nod­ded, and looked at Burrich to find him re­gard­ing me strangely. When I turned to ex­change a puzzled glance with Hands, I met the same star­tle­ment on his face. I could not guess the reason.

  ‘Well, good night to you, ser­geant. Don’t chide your man with the pike. He did well to stop strangers at Buck­keep’s gate.’

  ‘Yes sir. Good night, sir.’ Blade gave me a rusty sa­lute and the great wooden gates swung wide be­fore us as we entered the keep. Sooty lif­ted her head and some of the wear­i­ness fell from her. Be­hind me, Hands’ horse whin­nied softly and Burrich’s snorted. Never be­fore had the road from the keep wall to the stables seemed so long. As Hands dis­moun­ted, Burrich caught me by the sleeve and held me back. Hands greeted the drowsy stable-boy who ap­peared to light our way.

  ‘We’ve been some time in the Moun­tain King­dom, Fitz,’ Burrich cau­tioned me in a low voice. ‘Up there, no one cares what side of the sheets you were born on. But we’re home now. Here, Chiv­alry’s son is not a prince, but a bas­tard.’

  ‘I know that.’ I was stung by his dir­ect­ness. ‘I’ve known it all my life. Lived it all my life.’

  ‘You have,’ he con­ceded. A strange look stole over his face, a smile half in­cred­u­lous and half proud. ‘So why are you de­mand­ing re­ports of the ser­geant, and giv­ing out com­mend­a­tions as briskly as if you were Chiv­alry him­self? I scarce be­lieved it, how you spoke, and how those men came to heel. You didn’t even take no­tice of how they re­spon­ded to you, you didn’t even real­ize you’d stepped up and taken com­mand away from me.’

  I felt a slow flush creep up my face. All in the Moun­tain King­dom had treated me as if I were a prince in fact, in­stead of a prince’s bas­tard. Had I so quickly ac­cus­tomed my­self to that higher sta­tion?

  Burrich chuckled at my ex­pres­sion, then quickly grew sober. ‘Fitz, you need to find your cau­tion again. Keep your eyes down and don’t carry your head like a young stal­lion. Regal will take it as a chal­lenge, and that’s some­thing we aren’t ready to face. Not yet. Maybe not ever.’

  I nod­ded grimly, my eyes on the churned snow of the stable yard. I had be­come care­less. When I re­por­ted to Chade, the old as­sas­sin would not be pleased with his ap­pren­tice. I would have to an­swer for it. I had no doubt that he would know all about the in­cid­ent at the gate be­fore he next summoned me.

  ‘Don’t be a slug­gard. Get down, boy.’ Burrich in­ter­rup­ted my mus­ings ab­ruptly. I jumped to his tone and real­ized that he, too, was hav­ing to re­ad­just to our com­par­at­ive po­s­i­tions at Buck­keep. How many years had I been his stable-boy and ward? Best that we re­sume those roles as closely as pos­sible. It would save kit­chen gos­sip. I dis­moun­ted and, lead­ing Sooty, fol­lowed Burrich into his stables.

  In­side it was warm and close. The black­ness and cold of the winter night were shut out­side the thick stone wall. Here was home, the lan­terns shone yel­low and the stalled horses breathed slow and deep. But as Burrich passed, the stables came to life. Not a horse or a dog in the whole place didn’t catch his scent and rouse to give greet­ing. The Sta­ble­mas­ter was home, and he was greeted warmly by those who knew him best. Two stable-boys soon trailed after us, rat­tling off sim­ul­tan­eously every bit of news con­cern­ing hawk or hound or horse. Burrich was in full com­mand here, nod­ding sagely and ask­ing a terse ques­tion or two as he ab­sorbed every de­tail. His re­serve only broke when his old bitch hound Vixen came walk­ing stiff to greet him. He went down on one knee to hug and thump her and she wiggled puppy­ishly and tried to lick his face. ‘Now, here’s a real dog,’ he greeted her. Then he stood again, to con­tinue his round. She fol­lowed him, hindquar­ters wob­bling with every wag of her tail.

  I lagged be­hind, the warmth rob­bing the strength from my limbs. One boy came hur­ry­ing back to leave a lamp with me, and then hastened away to pay court to Burrich. I came to Sooty’s stall and un­latched the door. She entered eagerly, snort­ing her ap­pre­ci­ation. I set my light on its shelf and looked about me. Home. This was home, more than my cham­
ber up in the castle, more than any­where else in the world. A stall in Burrich’s stable, safe in his do­main, one of his creatures. If only I could turn back the days, and bur­row into the deep straw and drag a horse blanket over my head.

  Sooty snorted again, this time re­buk­ingly. She’d car­ried me all those days and ways, and de­served every com­fort I could give her. But every buckle res­isted my numbed and weary fin­gers. I dragged the saddle down from her back and very nearly dropped it. I fumbled at her bridle end­lessly, the bright metal of the buckles dan­cing be­fore my eyes. Fi­nally I closed them and let my fin­gers work alone to take her bridle off. When I opened my eyes, Hands was at my el­bow. I nod­ded at him, and the bridle dropped from my life­less fin­gers. He glanced at it, but said noth­ing. In­stead he poured for Sooty the bucket of fresh wa­ter he had brought, and shook out oats for her and fetched an arm­ful of sweet hay with much green still to it. I had taken down Sooty’s brushes when he reached past me and took them from my feeble grip. ‘I’ll do this,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Take care of your own horse first,’ I chided him.

  ‘I already did, Fitz. Look. You can’t do a good job on her. Let me do it. You can barely stand up. Go get some rest.’ He ad­ded, al­most kindly, ‘An­other time, when we ride, you can do Stout­heart for me.’

  ‘Burrich will have my hide off if I leave my an­imal’s care for someone else.’

  ‘No, he won’t. He wouldn’t leave an an­imal in the care of someone who can barely stand,’ Burrich ob­served from out­side the stall. ‘Leave Sooty to Hands, boy. He knows his job. Hands, take charge of things here for a bit. When you’ve done with Sooty, check on that spot­ted mare at the south end of the stables. I don’t know who owns her or where she came from, but she looks sick. If you find it so, have the boys move her away from the other horses and scrub out the stall with vin­egar. I’ll be back in a bit after I see FitzChiv­alry to his quar­ters. I’ll bring you food, and we’ll eat in my room. Oh. Tell a boy to start us a fire. Prob­ably cold as a cave up there.’