Royal Assassin (UK)

by Robin Hobb

  ‘I have sworn no loy­alty to your soft Farseer king,’ she hissed.

  Folk shif­ted, some un­com­fort­ably, some for a bet­ter vant­age. So some had come to wit­ness her chal­lenge me, at Brawndy’s table. All of this had been as care­fully planned as any battle cam­paign. Would she know how well I had planned also? Did she sus­pect the tiny pack­age in my cuff? I spoke boldly, pitch­ing my voice to carry. ‘I have heard of you. I think that those you tempt to fol­low you into treach­ery would be wiser to go to Buck­keep. King-in-Wait­ing Ver­ity has is­sued a call for those skilled in arms to come and man his new war­ships and bear those arms against the Outis­landers, who are en­emy to us all. That, I think, would be a bet­ter meas­ure of a war­rior’s skill. Is not that more hon­our­able a pur­suit than to turn against lead­ers one has sworn to, or to waste bull’s blood down a cliff-side by moon­light, when the same meat might go to feed our kin de­spoiled by Red Ships?’

  I spoke pas­sion­ately, and my voice grew in volume as she stared at how much I knew. I found my­self caught up in my own words, for I be­lieved them. I leaned across the table, over Virago’s plate and cup, to thrust my face close to hers as I asked, ‘Tell me, brave one. Have you ever lif­ted arms against one who was not your own coun­try­man? Against a Red Ship crew? I thought not. Far easier to in­sult a host’s hos­pit­al­ity, or maim a neigh­bour’s son than to kill one who came to kill our own.’

  Words were not Virago’s best weapon. En­raged, she spat at me.

  I leaned back, calmly, to wipe my face clean. ‘Per­haps you would care to chal­lenge me, in a more ap­pro­pri­ate time and place. Per­haps a week hence, on the cliffs where you so boldly slew the cow’s hus­band? Per­haps I, a scribe, might present you more of a chal­lenge than your bovine war­rior did?’

  Duke Brawndy sud­denly deigned to no­tice the dis­turb­ance. ‘FitzChiv­alry! Virago!’ he re­buked us. But our gazes re­mained locked, my hands planted to either side of her place set­ting as I leaned to con­front her.

  I think the man be­side her might have chal­lenged me also, had not Duke Brawndy then slammed his salt bowl against the table, near shat­ter­ing it, and re­minded us force­fully that this was his table and his hall and he’d have no blood shed in it. He, at least, was cap­able of hon­our­ing both King Shrewd and the old ways at once, and sug­ges­ted we at­tempt to do the same. I apo­lo­gized most humbly and elo­quently, and Virago muttered her par­dons. The meal re­sumed, and the min­strels sang, and over the next few days I copied the scroll for Ver­ity and viewed the Eld­er­ling relic, which looked like noth­ing to me so much as a glass vial of very fine fish scales. Celer­ity seemed more im­pressed with me than I was com­fort­able with. The other side of that coin was fa­cing the old an­im­os­ity in the faces of those who sided with Virago. It was a long week.

  I never had to fight my chal­lenge, for be­fore the week was out, Virago’s tongue and mouth had broken out in the boils and sores that were the le­gendary pun­ish­ment for one who lied to arms com­pan­ions and be­trayed spoken vows. She scarce was able to drink, let alone eat, and so dis­fig­ur­ing was her af­flic­tion that all those close to her for­sook her com­pany for fear, it spread to them as well. Her pain was such that she could not go forth into the cold to fight, and there was no one will­ing to stand her chal­lenge for her. I waited on the cliffs for a chal­lenger who never came. Celer­ity waited with me, as did per­haps a score of minor nobles that Duke Brawndy had urged to at­tend me. We made cas­ual talk, and drank en­tirely too much brandy to keep ourselves warm. As even­ing fell, a mes­sen­ger from the keep came to tell us that Virago had left Ripple­keep, but not to face my chal­lenge. She had rid­den away, in­land. Alone. Celer­ity clasped her hands to­gether, and then as­ton­ished me with a hug. We re­turned chilled but merry to en­joy one more meal at Ripple­keep be­fore my de­par­ture for Buck­keep. Brawndy sat me at his left hand, and Celer­ity be­side me.

  ‘You know,’ he ob­served to me, to­wards the end of the meal. ‘Your like­ness to your father be­comes more re­mark­able every year.’

  All of the brandy in Bearns could not have de­feated the chill his words sent through me.

  SIX

  Forged Ones

  The two sons of Queen Con­stance and King Shrewd were Chiv­alry and Ver­ity. Only two years sep­ar­ated their births, and they grew up as close as two broth­ers can be. Chiv­alry was the eld­est, and the first to as­sume the title of King-in-Wait­ing on his six­teenth birth­day. He was al­most im­me­di­ately dis­patched by his father to deal with a bor­der dis­pute with the Chalced States. From that time on, he was sel­dom at Buck­keep for more than a few months at a time. Even after Chiv­alry had mar­ried, he was sel­dom al­lowed to spend his days at rest. It was not so much that there were so many bor­der up­ris­ings at that time as that Shrewd seemed in­tent on form­al­iz­ing his bound­ar­ies with all his neigh­bours. Many of these dis­putes were settled with the sword, though as time went on, Chiv­alry be­came more as­tute at em­ploy­ing dip­lomacy first.

  Some said that as­sign­ing Chiv­alry to this task was the plot of his step­mother Queen De­sire, who hoped to send him to his death. Oth­ers say it was Shrewd’s way of put­ting his eld­est son out of his new Queen’s sight and au­thor­ity. Prince Ver­ity, con­demned by his youth to re­main at home, made formal ap­plic­a­tion to his father every month to be al­lowed to fol­low his brother. All of Shrewd’s ef­forts to in­terest him in re­spons­ib­il­it­ies of his own were wasted. Prince Ver­ity per­formed the tasks given him, but never let any­one think for a mo­ment that he would not rather be with his older brother. At last, on Ver­ity’s twen­ti­eth birth­day, after six years of re­quest­ing monthly to be al­lowed to fol­low his brother, Shrewd re­luct­antly con­ceded to him.

  From then, un­til the day four years later when Chiv­alry ab­dic­ated and Ver­ity as­sumed the title of King-in-Wait­ing, the two princes worked as one in form­al­iz­ing bound­ar­ies, treat­ies and trade agree­ments with the lands bor­der­ing the Six Duch­ies. Prince Chiv­alry’s tal­ent was for deal­ing with people, as in­di­vidu­als or as a folk. Ver­ity’s was for the de­tail of agree­ments, the pre­cise maps that de­lin­eated agreed bor­ders, and the sup­port­ing of his brother in his au­thor­ity both as a sol­dier and as a prince.

  Prince Regal, young­est of Shrewd’s sons and his only child with Queen De­sire, spent his youth at home at court, where his mother made every ef­fort to groom him as a can­did­ate for the throne.

  I trav­elled home to Buck­keep with a sense of re­lief. It was not the first time I had per­formed such a task for my king, but I had never de­veloped a rel­ish for my work as an as­sas­sin. I was glad at how Virago had in­sul­ted me and baited me, for it had made my task bear­able. And yet, she had been a very beau­ti­ful wo­man, and skilled war­rior. It was a waste, and I took no pride in my work, save that I had obeyed my king’s com­mand. Such were my thoughts as Sooty car­ried me up the last rise to­ward home.

  I looked up the hill, and scarce could be­lieve what I saw. Kettricken and Regal on horse­back, rid­ing side by side. To­gether. They looked like an il­lus­tra­tion from one of Fed­wren’s best vel­lums. Regal was in scar­let and gold with glossy black boots and black gloves. His rid­ing cloak was flung back from one shoulder, to dis­play the bril­liant con­trast of the col­ours as they bil­lowed in the morn­ing wind. The wind had brought a red­ness of the out­doors to his cheeks, and tousled his black hair from its pre­cise ar­range­ment of curls. His dark eyes shone. Al­most, he looked a man, I thought, astride the tall black horse that car­ried it­self so well. He could be this if he chose, rather than the lan­guid prince with al­ways a glass of wine in hand and a lady be­side him. An­other waste.

  Ah, but the lady be­side him was an­other mat­ter. Com­pared to the en­tour­age that fol­lowed them, she showed as a rare and for­eign blos­so
m. She rode astride in loose trousers, and no Buck­keep dye­ing vat had pro­duced that cro­cus purple. Her trousers were ad­orned with in­tric­ate em­broid­er­ies in rich col­ours, and tucked se­curely into her boot-tops. Her boots came al­most to her knee; Burrich would have ap­proved that prac­tic­al­ity. She wore, not a cloak, but a short jacket of vo­lu­min­ous white fur, with a high col­lar to shield her neck from the wind. A white fox, I guessed, from the tun­dra on the far side of the moun­tains. Her hands were gloved in black. The wind had played with her long yel­low hair, stream­ing it out and tangling it over her shoulders. Upon her head was a knit­ted cap of every bright col­our I could ima­gine. She sat her horse high and for­ward, in the Moun­tain style, and it made Soft­step think she must prance in­stead of walk. The chest­nut mare’s har­ness was a-jingle with tiny sil­ver bells, ringing sharp as icicles in the brisk morn­ing.

  She brought to mind an exotic war­rior from a north­ern clime or an ad­ven­turer from some an­cient tale. It set her apart from her ladies, in their vo­lu­min­ous skirts and cloaks, not as a high-born and well-ad­orned wo­man shows her status among those less royal, but al­most as a hawk would ap­pear caged with song birds. I was not sure she should show her­self so to her sub­jects. Prince Regal rode at Kettricken’s side, smil­ing and talk­ing to her. Their con­ver­sa­tion was lively, spiced of­ten with laughter. As I ap­proached, I let Sooty slow her pace. Kettricken reined in, smil­ing and would have stopped to give me greet­ing, but Prince Regal nod­ded icily and kneed his horse to a trot. Kettricken’s mare, not to be left be­hind, tugged at her bit and kept pace with him. I re­ceived as brisk a greet­ing from those who trailed after the Queen and Prince. I hal­ted to watch them pass, and then con­tin­ued up to Buck­keep with an un­easy heart. Kettricken’s face had been an­im­ated, her pale cheeks pink with the cold air, and her smile at Regal had been as genu­inely merry as the oc­ca­sional smiles she still gave me. Yet I could not be­lieve she would be so gull­ible as to trust him.

  I pondered this while I un­saddled Sooty and rubbed her down. I had bent down to check her hooves when I felt Burrich watch­ing me over the wall of the stall. I asked him, ‘For how long?’

  He knew what I was ask­ing.

  ‘He began a few days after you left. He brought her down here one day, and spoke me fair, say­ing he thought it quite a shame that the Queen was spend­ing all her days shut up in the keep. She was used to such an open and hearty life up in the moun­tains. He claimed he had al­lowed her to per­suade him to teach her to ride as we rode here in the lower lands. Then he had me saddle Soft­step with the saddle Ver­ity had made for his queen, and off they went. Well, what was I to do or say?’ he asked me fiercely as I turned to look at him ques­tion­ingly. ‘It is as you have said be­fore. We are King’s Men. Sworn. And Regal is a prince of the Farseer House. Even if I were faith­less enough to re­fuse him, there was my Queen-in-Wait­ing, ex­pect­ing me to fetch her horse for her and saddle her.’

  A slight mo­tion of my hand re­minded Burrich that his words soun­ded close to treason. He stepped into the stall be­side me, to scratch be­hind Sooty’s ear pens­ively as I fin­ished with her.

  ‘You could do noth­ing else,’ I con­ceded. ‘But I must won­der what his real in­tent is. And why she suf­fers him.’

  ‘His in­tent? Per­haps just to wriggle his way back into fa­vour with her. It is no secret that she pines in the castle. Oh, she is fair spoken to all. But there is too much hon­esty in her for her to make oth­ers be­lieve she is happy when she is not.’

  ‘Per­haps,’ I con­ceded grudgingly. I lif­ted my head as sud­denly as a dog does when his mas­ter whistles. ‘I have to go. King-in-Wait­ing Ver­ity …’ I let the words trail away. I did not have to let Burrich know I had been summoned by the Skill. I slung my saddle­bags with the ar­du­ously copied scrolls in­side to my shoulder and headed up to the castle.

  I did not pause to change my clothes, or even to warm my­self at the kit­chen fires, but went straight to Ver­ity’s map-room. The door was ajar, and I tapped once and then entered. Ver­ity leaned over a map se­cured to his table. He scarcely glanced up to ac­know­ledge me. Steam­ing mulled wine already awaited me, and a gen­er­ous plat­ter of cold meats and bread stood on a table near the hearth. After a bit, he straightened up.

  ‘You block too well,’ Ver­ity said by way of greet­ing. ‘I have been try­ing to get you to hurry for the past three days, and when do you fi­nally know you are Skilled? When you are stand­ing in my own stables. I tell you, Fitz, we must find time to teach you some sort of con­trol over your Skill.’

  But I knew even as he spoke that there would never be that time. Too many other things de­man­ded his at­ten­tion. As al­ways, he im­me­di­ately plunged into his con­cern. ‘Forged ones,’ he said. I felt a chill of fore­bod­ing run up my spine.

  ‘The Red Ships have struck again? This deep in winter?’ I asked in­cred­u­lously.

  ‘No. At least we are still spared that. But it seems that the Red Ships can leave us and go home to their hearths, and still leave their poison among us.’ He paused. ‘Well, go on. Warm your­self and eat. You can chew and listen at the same time.’

  As I helped my­self to the mulled wine and food, Ver­ity lec­tured me. ‘It is the same prob­lem as be­fore. Re­ports of Forged ones, rob­bing and de­spoil­ing, not just trav­el­lers, but isol­ated farms and houses. I have in­vest­ig­ated, and must give cre­dence to the re­ports. Yet the at­tacks are hap­pen­ing far from the sites of any raids; and in every case the folk claim there are not one or two Forged ones, but groups of them, act­ing in con­cert.’

  I con­sidered for a mo­ment, swal­lowed, then spoke. ‘I don’t think Forged ones are cap­able of act­ing in bands or even as part­ners. When one en­coun­ters them, one finds they have no sense of … com­munity. Of shared hu­man­ity. They can speak, and reason, but only selfishly. They are as wol­ver­ines would be if given hu­man tongues. They care for noth­ing but their own sur­vival. They see each other only as rivals for food or com­fort of any kind.’ I re­filled my mug, grate­ful for the spread­ing warmth of the wine. At least it pushed aside the phys­ical cold. The chill thought of the bleak isol­a­tion of the Forged ones it could not touch.

  It was the Wit that had let me dis­cover this about Forged ones. So deadened were they to all sense of kin­ship with the world that I could scarcely sense them at all. The Wit gave me a cer­tain ac­cess to that web which bound all creatures to­gether; but the Forged ones were sep­ar­ate from that net, as isol­ated as stones, as hungry and mer­ci­less as an un­think­ing storm or a river in flood. To en­counter one un­ex­pec­tedly was as start­ling to me as if a stone rose up to at­tack me.

  But Ver­ity only nod­ded thought­fully. ‘Yet even wolves, an­im­als as they are, at­tack as a pack. As do tear­fish on a whale. If these an­im­als can band to­gether to bring down food, why not the Forged ones?’

  I set down the bread I had picked up. ‘Wolves and tear­fish do as they do by their nature, and share the flesh with their young. They do not kill, each for his own meat, but for meat for the pack. I have seen them in groups, but they do not act to­gether. The time I was at­tacked by more than one Forged one, the only thing that saved me was that I was able to turn them against each other. I dropped the cloak they de­sired, and they fought over it. And when they came after me again, they more got in one an­other’s way than helped one an­other.’ I fought to keep my voice steady as the memory of that night rose up in me. Smithy had died that night, and I had first killed. ‘But they do not fight to­gether. That is what is bey­ond the Forged ones; the idea of co-op­er­at­ing so that all might be­ne­fit.’

  I looked up to find Ver­ity’s dark eyes full of sym­pathy. ‘I had for­got­ten that you have had some ex­per­i­ence fight­ing them. For­give me. I don’t dis­miss it. There is just so much be­sieging me lately.’ His voice dwindled away and he seeme
d to be listen­ing to some­thing far away. After a mo­ment he came back to him­self. ‘So. You be­lieve they can­not co­oper­ate. And yet it seems to be hap­pen­ing. See, here,’ and he brushed his hand lightly over a map spread out on his table. ‘I have been mark­ing the places of the com­plaints, and keep­ing track of how many are said to be there. What do you think of this?’

  I went to stand be­side him. Stand­ing next to Ver­ity was now like stand­ing next to a dif­fer­ent sort of hearth. The strength of the Skill ra­di­ated from him. I wondered if he strove to hold it in check, if it al­ways threatened to spill out of him and spread his con­scious­ness over the whole king­dom.

  ‘The map, Fitz,’ he re­called me, and I wondered how much he knew of my thoughts. I forced my­self to con­cen­trate on the task at hand. The map showed Buck, done in won­drous de­tail. Shal­lows and tide flats were marked along the coast, as well as in­land land­marks and lesser roads. It was a map made lov­ingly, by a man who had walked and rid­den and sailed the area. Ver­ity had used bits of red wax as mark­ers. I stud­ied them, try­ing to see what his real con­cern was.

  ‘Seven dif­fer­ent in­cid­ents.’ He reached to touch his mark­ers. ‘Some within a day’s ride of Buck­keep. But we have had no raids that close, so where would these Forged ones be com­ing from? They might be driven away from their home vil­lages, true, but why would they con­verge upon Buck­keep?’

  ‘Per­haps these are des­per­ate people pre­tend­ing to be Forged ones when they go out to steal from their neigh­bours?’

  ‘Per­haps. But it is troub­ling that the in­cid­ents are hap­pen­ing closer and closer to Buck­keep. There are three dif­fer­ent groups, from what the vic­tims say. But each time there is a re­port of a rob­bery or a barn broken into or a cow butchered in the field, the group re­spons­ible seems to have moved closer to Buck­keep. I can think of no reason for Forged ones to do such a thing. And,’ he hal­ted me as I began to speak, ‘the de­scrip­tions of one group match those of an­other at­tack, re­por­ted over a month ago. If these are the same Forged ones, they have come a long way in that time.’