Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  Not mangy. In­dig­nant. Fleas. The cage is full of fleas.

  So I wasn’t ima­gin­ing that itch­ing on my chest. Won­der­ful. I’d have to bathe again to­night, un­less I wanted to share my bed with ver­min for the rest of the winter.

  I had reached the edge of Buck­keep Town. From here, there were only a scat­ter­ing of houses, and the road would be steeper. Much steeper. Once again, I lowered the cage to the snowy ground. The cub huddled in it, small and miser­able without an­ger and hate to sus­tain him. He was hungry. I made a de­cision.

  I’m go­ing to take you out. I’m go­ing to carry you.

  Noth­ing from him. He watched me stead­ily as I worked the catch on the cage and swung the door open. I had thought he would charge past me and van­ish into the night and the fall­ing snow. In­stead he crouched where he was. I reached into the cage and seized him by the scruff to drag him out. In a flash he was on me, driv­ing into my chest, jaws go­ing wide for my throat. I got my arm up just in time to shove my fore­arm cross­ways into his jaws. I kept my grip on the scruff of his neck and pushed my arm hard into his mouth, deeper than he liked. His hind legs tore at my belly, but my jer­kin was thick enough to di­vert most of the dam­age. In an in­stant we were rolling over and over in the snow, both snap­ping and snarling like mad things. But I had the weight and the lever­age and the ex­per­i­ence of tuss­ling with dogs for years. I got him on his back and held him there, help­less, while his head thrashed back and forth and he called me vile names that hu­mans have no words for. When he had ex­hausted him­self I leaned for­ward over him. I gripped his throat and leaned down to stare into his eyes. This was a phys­ical mes­sage he un­der­stood. I ad­ded to it. I am the Wolf. You are the Cub. You WILL obey me!

  I held him there star­ing into his eyes. He quickly looked away, but still I held him, un­til he looked back up at me and I saw the change in them. I let go of him and stood up and stepped away. He lay still. Get up. Come here. He rolled over and came to me, belly low to the ground, tail between his legs. When he got close to me, he fell over on his side and then showed his belly. He whined softly.

  After a mo­ment I re­len­ted. It’s all right. We just had to un­der­stand each other. I don’t in­tend to hurt you. Come with me now. I reached over to scratch his chest, but when I touched him, he yelped. I felt the red flash of his pain.

  Where are you hurt?

  I saw the brass-bound club of the cage man. Every­where.

  I tried to be gentle as I felt him over. Old scabs, lumps on his ribs. I stood, and kicked the cage sav­agely aside from our path. He came and leaned against my leg. Hungry. Cold. So tired. His feel­ings were bleed­ing over into mine again. When I touched him, it was dif­fi­cult to sep­ar­ate my thoughts from his. Was it my out­rage over how he had been treated, or his own? I de­cided it didn’t mat­ter. I gathered him up care­fully and stood. Without the cage, held close to my chest, he didn’t weigh nearly as much. He was mostly fur and long, grow­ing bones. I re­gret­ted the force I’d used on him, but also knew that it was the only lan­guage he would have re­cog­nized. ‘I’ll take care of you,’ I forced my­self to say aloud.

  Warm, he thought grate­fully, and I took a mo­ment to pull my cloak over him. His senses were feed­ing mine. I could smell my­self, a thou­sand times stronger than I wanted to. Horses and dogs and wood smoke and beer and a trace of Pa­tience’s per­fume. I did my best to block out my aware­ness of his senses. I snugged him to me and car­ried him up the steep path to Buck­keep. I knew of a dis­used cot­tage. An old pig man had once lived in it, out back be­hind the granar­ies. No one lived there now. It was too tumble­down, and too far from every­one else at Buck­keep. But it would suit my pur­poses. I’d put him there, with some bones to gnaw and some boiled grain, and some straw to bed down in. A week or two, maybe a month, and he’d be healed up and strong enough to care for him­self. Then I’d take him out west of Buck­keep and turn him loose.

  Meat?

  I sighed. Meat, I prom­ised. Never had any beast sensed my thoughts so com­pletely, or ex­pressed his own to me so clearly. It was good that we would not be around one an­other for long. Very good that he’d be leav­ing soon.

  Warm, he con­tra­dicted me. He set his head on my shoulder and fell asleep, his muzzle snuff­ling damply against my ear.

  FIVE

  Gam­bit

  Cer­tainly there is an an­cient code of con­duct, and cer­tainly its cus­toms were harsher than ours today. But I would ven­ture that we have not wandered so far from those cus­toms, so much as put a ven­eer over them. A war­rior’s word is still his bond, and among those who serve side by side, there is noth­ing so foul as one who lies to his com­rade, or leads him into dis­hon­our. The laws of hos­pit­al­ity still for­bid those who have shared salt at a man’s table to shed blood on his floor.

  Winter deepened around Buck­keep Castle. The storms came in off the sea, to pound us with icy fury and then de­part. Snow usu­ally fell in their wake, great dumps of it that iced the bat­tle­ments like sweet paste on nut cakes. The great darks of the long nights grew longer, and on clear nights the stars burnt cold over us. After my long jour­ney home from the Moun­tain King­dom, the fe­ro­city of the winter didn’t threaten me as it once had. As I went my daily rounds to the stable and to the old pig hut, my cheeks might burn with cold and my eye­lashes cling to­gether with frost, but I al­ways knew that home and a warm hearth were close by. The storms and the deep colds that snarled at us like wolves at the door were also the watch beasts that kept the Red Ships away from our shores.

  Time dragged for me. I called on Kettricken each day, as Chade had sug­ges­ted, but our rest­ive­ness was too much alike for us. I am sure I ir­rit­ated her as much as she did me. I dared not spend too many hours with the cub, lest we bond. I had no other fixed du­ties. There were too many hours to the day, and all were filled with my thoughts of Molly. Nights were the worst, for then my sleep­ing mind was bey­ond my con­trol, and my dreams were full of my Molly, my bright-red-skir­ted candle-maker, now gone so de­mure and drab in serving-girl blue. If I could not be near her by day, my dream­ing self cour­ted her with an earn­est­ness and en­ergy that my wak­ing self had never mustered the cour­age for. When we walked the beaches after a storm, her hand was in mine. I kissed her com­pet­ently, without un­cer­tainty, and met her eyes with no secrets to hide. No one could keep her from me. In my dreams.

  At first, Chade’s train­ing of me se­duced me into spy­ing upon her. I knew which room on the ser­vants’ floor was hers, I knew which win­dow was hers. I learned, without in­ten­tion, the hours of her com­ings and go­ings. It shamed me to stand where I might hear her step upon the stairs and catch a brief glimpse of her go­ing out on her mar­ket er­rands, but try as I might, I could not for­bid my­self to be there. I knew who her friends were among the serving-wo­men. Though I might not speak to her, I could greet them, and have a chance bit of talk with them, hop­ing al­ways for some stray men­tion of Molly. I yearned after her hope­lessly. Sleep eluded me, and food held no in­terest for me. Noth­ing held any in­terest for me.

  I was sit­ting one even­ing in the guard-room off the kit­chen. I had found a place in the corner where I could lean against the wall and prop my boots up on the op­pos­ite bench to dis­cour­age com­pany. A mug of ale that had gone warm hours ago sat in front of me. I lacked even the am­bi­tion to drink my­self into a stupor. I was look­ing at noth­ing, at­tempt­ing not to think when the bench was jerked out from un­der my propped feet. I nearly fell from my seat, then re­covered to see Burrich seat­ing him­self op­pos­ite me. ‘What ails you?’ he asked without niceties. He leaned for­ward and pitched his voice for me alone. ‘Have you had an­other seizure?’

  I looked back at the table. I spoke as quietly. ‘A few trem­bling fits, but no real seizures. They only seem to come on me if I strain my­self.’

  He nod­ded gravely, then waited. I looke
d up to find his dark eyes on me. The con­cern in them touched some­thing in me. I shook my head, my voice sud­denly gone. ‘It’s Molly,’ I said after a mo­ment.

  ‘You haven’t been able to find where she went?’

  ‘No. She’s here, at Buck­keep, work­ing as a maid for Pa­tience. But Pa­tience won’t let me see her. She says …’

  Burrich’s eyes had widened at my first words. Now he glanced around us, then tossed his head at the door. I arose and fol­lowed him as he led me back to his stables, and then up to his room. I sat down at his table, be­fore his hearth, and he brought out his good Tilth brandy and two cups. Then he set out his leather mend­ing tools. And his per­petual pile of har­ness to be men­ded. He handed me a hal­ter that needed a new strap. For him­self, he laid out some fancy work on a saddle-skirt. He drew up his own stool and looked at me. ‘This Molly. I’ve seen her then, in the washer-courts with Lacey? Car­ries her head proud? Red glint to her coat?’

  ‘Her hair.’ I cor­rec­ted him grudgingly.

  ‘Nice wide hips. She’ll bear eas­ily,’ he said with ap­proval.

  I glared at him. ‘Thank you,’ I said icily.

  He shocked me by grin­ning. ‘Get angry. I’d rather you were that than self-pity­ing. So. Tell me.’

  And I told him. Prob­ably much more than I would have in the guard-room, for here we were alone, the brandy went warm down my throat, and the fa­mil­iar sights and smells of his room and work were all around me. Here, if any­where in my life, I had al­ways been safe. It seemed safe to re­veal to him my pain. He did not speak or make any com­ments. Even after I had talked my­self out, he kept his si­lence. I watched him rub dye into the lines of the buck he had in­cised in the leather.

  ‘So. What should I do?’ I heard my­self ask.

  He set down his work, drank off his brandy, and then re­filled his cup. He looked about his room. ‘You ask me, of course, be­cause you have noted my rare suc­cess at provid­ing my­self with a fond wife and many chil­dren?’

  The bit­ter­ness in his voice shocked me, but be­fore I could re­act to it, he gave a choked laugh. ‘For­get I said that. Ul­ti­mately, the de­cision was mine, and done a long time ago. FitzChiv­alry, what do you think you should be do­ing?’

  I stared at him mor­osely.

  ‘What made things go wrong in the first place?’ When I did not reply, he asked me, ‘Did not you your­self just tell me that you cour­ted her as a boy, when she con­sidered your of­fer a man’s? She was look­ing for a man. So don’t go sulk­ing about like a thwarted child. Be a man.’ He drank down half his brandy, then re­filled both our cups.

  ‘How?’ I de­man­ded.

  ‘The same way you’ve shown your­self a man else­where. Ac­cept the dis­cip­line, live up to the task. So you can­not see her. If I know any­thing of wo­men, it does not mean she does not see you. Keep that in mind. Look at your­self. Your hair looks like a pony’s winter coat, I’ll wager you’ve worn that shirt a week straight and you’re thin as a winter-foal. I doubt you’ll re­gain her re­spect that way. Feed your­self up, groom your­self daily, and in Eda’s name get some ex­er­cise in­stead of mop­ing about the guard-room. Set your­self some tasks and get onto them.’

  I nod­ded slowly to the ad­vice. I knew he was right. But I could not help protest­ing. ‘But all of that will do me no good if Pa­tience will still not per­mit me to see Molly.’

  ‘In the long run, my boy, it is not about you and Pa­tience. It is about you and Molly.’

  ‘And King Shrewd,’ I said wryly.

  He glanced up at me quiz­zically.

  ‘Ac­cord­ing to Pa­tience, a man can­not be sworn to a king and give his heart fully to a wo­man as well. “You can­not put two saddles on one horse,” she told me. This from a wo­man who mar­ried a King-in-Wait­ing, and was con­tent with whatever time he had for her.’ I reached to hand Burrich the men­ded hal­ter.

  He did not take it. He had been in the act of lift­ing his brandy cup. He set it down on the table so sharply that the li­quid leaped and slopped over the edge. ‘She said that to you?’ he asked me hoarsely. His eyes bored into mine.

  I nod­ded slowly. ‘She said it would not be hon­our­able to ex­pect Molly to be con­tent with whatever time the King left to me as my own.’

  Burrich leaned back in his chair. A chain of con­flict­ing emo­tions dragged across his fea­tures. He looked aside into the hearth fire, and then back at me. For a mo­ment he seemed on the verge of speak­ing. Then he sat up, drank off his brandy in one gulp and ab­ruptly stood. ‘It’s too quiet up here. Let’s go down to Buck­keep Town, shall we?’

  The next day I arose and ig­nored my pound­ing heart to set my­self the task of not be­hav­ing like a love-sick boy. A boy’s im­petu­os­ity and care­less­ness were what had lost her to me. I re­solved to at­tempt a man’s re­straint. If bid­ing my time was my only path to her, I would take Burrich’s ad­vice and use that time well.

  So I arose each day early, be­fore even the morn­ing cooks were up. In the pri­vacy of my room, I stretched and then worked through spar­ring drills with an old stave. I would work my­self into sweat and dizzi­ness, and then go down to the baths to steam my­self. Slowly, very slowly, my stam­ina began to re­turn. I gained weight and began to re­build the muscle on my bones. The new cloth­ing that Mis­tress Hasty had in­flic­ted on me began to fit. I was still not free of the tremors that some­times as­sailed me. But I had fewer seizures, and al­ways man­aged to re­turn to my rooms be­fore I could shame my­self by fall­ing. Pa­tience told me that my col­our was bet­ter, while Lacey de­lighted in feed­ing me at every op­por­tun­ity. I began to feel my­self again.

  I ate with the guards each morn­ing, where quant­ity con­sumed was al­ways of more im­port­ance than man­ners. Break­fast was fol­lowed with a trip to the stables, to take Sooty out for a snowy canter to keep her in con­di­tion. When I re­turned her to the stables, there was a com­fort in tak­ing care of her my­self. Be­fore our mis­ad­ven­tures in the Moun­tain King­dom, Burrich and I had been on bad terms over my use of the Wit. I had been all but barred from the stables. So there was more than sat­is­fac­tion in rub­bing her down and see­ing to her grain my­self. There was the bu­sy­n­ess of the stables, the warm smells of the beasts and the gos­sip of the keep as only the stable-hands could tell it. On for­tu­nate days, Hands or Burrich would take time to stop and talk with me. And on other days, busy days, there was the bit­ter­sweet sat­is­fac­tion of see­ing them con­fer­ring over a stal­lion’s cough, or doc­tor­ing the ail­ing boar that some farmer had brought up to the keep. On those days they had little time for pleas­ant­ries, and without in­tend­ing it, ex­cluded me from their circle. It was as it had to be. I had moved on to an­other life. I could not ex­pect the old one to be held ajar for me forever.

  That thought did not pre­vent a pang of guilt as I slipped away each day to the dis­used cot­tage be­hind the granar­ies. War­i­ness al­ways stalked me. My new peace with Burrich had not ex­is­ted so long that I took it for gran­ted; it was only too fresh in my memory ex­actly how pain­ful los­ing his friend­ship had been. If Burrich ever sus­pec­ted that I had re­turned to us­ing the Wit, he would aban­don me just as swiftly and com­pletely as he had be­fore. Each day I asked my­self ex­actly why I was will­ing to gamble his friend­ship and re­spect for the sake of a wolf cub.

  My only an­swer was, I had no choice. I could no more have turned aside from Cub than I could have walked away from a starved and caged child. To Burrich, the Wit that some­times left me open to the minds of an­im­als was a per­ver­sion, a dis­gust­ing weak­ness in which no true man in­dulged. He had all but ad­mit­ted to the lat­ent abil­ity for it, but staunchly in­sisted that he never used it him­self. If he did, I had never caught him at it. The op­pos­ite was never true. With un­canny per­cep­tion, he had al­ways known when I was drawn to an an­imal. As a boy, my in­dul­ge
nce in the Wit with a beast had usu­ally led to a rap on the head or a sound cuff to rouse me back to my du­ties. When I had lived with Burrich in the stables, he had done everything in his power to keep me from bond­ing to any an­imal. He had suc­ceeded al­ways, save twice. The keen pain of los­ing my bond com­pan­ions had con­vinced me Burrich was right. Only a fool would in­dulge in some­thing that in­ev­it­ably led to such loss. So I was a fool, rather than a man who could turn aside from the plea of a beaten and starved cub.

  I pilfered bones and meat scraps and crusts, and did my best so that no one, not even Cook or the Fool, knew of my activ­ity. I took elab­or­ate pains to vary the times of my vis­its each day, and to take every day a dif­fer­ent path to avoid cre­at­ing too beaten a trail to the back cot­tage. Hard­est had been smug­gling clean straw and an old horse blanket out of the stables. But I had man­aged it.

  No mat­ter when I ar­rived, I found Cub wait­ing for me. It was not just the watch­ful­ness of an an­imal await­ing food. He sensed when I began my daily hike back to the cot­tage be­hind all the granar­ies and awaited me. He knew when I had ginger cakes in my pocket, and too quickly be­came fond of them. Not that his sus­pi­cions of me had van­ished. No. I felt his war­i­ness, and how he shrank in on him­self each time I stepped within reach of him. But every day that I did not strike him, every bit of food I brought him was one more plank of trust in the bridge between us. It was a link I did not want to es­tab­lish. I tried to be sternly aloof from him, to know him through the Wit as little as pos­sible. I feared he might lose the wild­ness that he would need to sur­vive on his own. Over and over I warned him, You must keep your­self hid­den. Every man is a danger to you, as is every hound. You must keep your­self within this struc­ture, and make no sound if any­one is near.

  At first it was easy for him to obey. He was sadly thin, and would fall im­me­di­ately upon the food I brought and de­vour it all. Usu­ally he was asleep in his bed­ding be­fore I left the cot­tage, or jeal­ously eye­ing me as he lay gnaw­ing a treas­ured bone. But as he was fed ad­equately, and had room to move, and lost his fear of me, the in­nate play­ful­ness of a cub began to re­as­sert it­self. He took to spring­ing upon me in mock at­tacks as soon as the door was opened, and ex­press­ing de­light in knuckly beef bones with snarls and tuss­lings in­flic­ted on them. When I re­buked him for be­ing too noisy, or for the tracks that be­trayed his night romp in the snowy field be­hind the cot­tage, he would cower be­fore my dis­pleas­ure.