by Robin Hobb
The variety of the items on Fedwren's list took me all over the town. I had no idea what use a scribe had for dried seamaid's hair, or for a peck of forester's nuts. Perhaps he used them to make his colored inks, I decided, and when I could not find them in the regular shops, I took myself down to the harbor bazaar, where anyone with a blanket and something to sell could declare himself a merchant. The seaweed I found swiftly enough there, and learned it was a common ingredient in chowder. The nuts took longer, for those were something that would have come from inland rather than from the sea, and there were fewer traders who dealt in such things.
But find them I did, alongside baskets of porcupine quills and carved wooden beads and nut cones and pounded bark fabric. The woman who presided over the blanket was old, and her hair had gone silver rather than white or gray. She had a strong straight nose and her eyes were on bony shelves over her cheeks. It was a racial heritage both strange and oddly familiar to me, and a shiver walked down my back when I suddenly knew she was from the mountains.
"Keppet," said the woman at the next mat as I completed my purchase. I glanced at her, thinking she was addressing the woman I had just paid. But she was staring at me. "Keppet," she said, quite insistently, and I wondered what it meant in her language. It seemed a request for something, but the older woman only stared coldly out into the street, so I shrugged at her younger neighbor apologetically and turned away as I stowed the nuts in my basket.
I hadn't got more than a dozen steps away when I heard her shriek "Keppet!" yet again. I looked back to see the two women engaged in a struggle. The older one gripped the younger one's wrists and the younger one struggled and thrashed and kicked to get free of her. Around her, other merchants were standing to their feet in alarm and snatching their own merchandise out of harm's way. I might have turned back to watch had not another more familiar face met my eyes.
"Nosebleed!" I exclaimed.
She turned to face me full, and for an instant I thought I had been mistaken. A year had passed since I'd last seen her. How could a person change so much? The dark hair that used to be in sensible braids behind her ears now fell free past her shoulders. And she was dressed, not in a jerkin and loose trousers, but in blouse and skirt. The adult garments put me at a loss for words. I might have turned aside and pretended I addressed someone else had her dark eyes not challenged me as she asked me coolly, "Nosebleed?"
I stood my ground. "Aren't you Molly Nosebleed?"
She lifted a hand to brush some hair back from her cheek. "I'm Molly Chandler." I saw recognition in her eyes, but her voice was chill as she added, "I'm not sure that I know you. Your name, sir?"
Confused, I reacted without thinking. I quested toward her, found her nervousness, and was surprised by her fears. Thought and voice I sought to soothe it. "I'm Newboy," I said without hesitation.
Her eyes widened with surprise, and then she laughed at what she construed as a joke. The barrier she had erected between us burst like a soap bubble, and suddenly I knew her as I had before. There was the same warm kinship between us that reminded me of nothing so much as Nosy. All awkwardness disappeared. A crowd was forming about the struggling women, but we left it behind us as we strolled up the cobbled street. I admired her skirts, and she calmly informed me that she had been wearing skirts for several months now and that she quite preferred them to trousers. This one had been her mother's; she was told that one simply couldn't get wool woven this fine anymore, or a red as bright as it was dyed. She admired my clothes, and I suddenly realized that perhaps I appeared to her as different as she to me. I had my best shirt on, my trousers had been washed only a few days ago, and I wore boots as fine as any man-at-arms, despite Burrich's objections about how rapidly I outgrew them. She asked my business and I told her I was on errands for the writing master at the keep. I told her, too, that he was in need of two beeswax tapers, a total fabrication on my part, but one that allowed me to remain by her side as we strolled up the winding street. Our elbows bumped companionably and she talked. She was carrying a basket of her own on her arm. It had several packets and bundles of herbs in it, for scenting candles, she told me. Beeswax took the scent much better than tallow, in her opinion. She made the best scented candles in Buckkeep; even the two other chandlers in town admitted it. This, smell this, this was lavender, wasn't it lovely? Her mother's favorite, and hers, too. This was crushsweet, and this beebalm. This was thresher's root, not her favorite, no, but some said it made a good candle to cure headaches and winter glooms. Mavis Threadsnip had told her that Molly's mother had mixed it with other herbs and made a wonderful candle, one that would calm even a colicky baby. So Molly had decided to try, by experimenting, to see if she could find the right herbs and re-create her mother's recipe.
Her calm flaunting of her knowledge and skills left me burning to distinguish myself in her eyes. "I know the thresher's root," I told her. "Some use it to make an ointment for sore shoulders and backs. That's where the name comes from. But if you distill a tincture from it and mix it well in wine, it's never tasted, and it will make a grown man sleep a day and a night and a day again, or make a child die in his sleep."
Her eyes widened as I spoke, and at my last words a look of horror came over her face. I fell silent and felt the sharp awkwardness again. "How do you know such things?" she demanded breathlessly.
"I… I heard an old traveling midwife talking to our midwife up to the keep," I improvised. "It was… a sad story she told, of an injured man given some to help him rest, but his baby got into it as well. A very, very sad story." Her face was softening and I felt her warming toward me again. "I only tell it to be sure you are careful of the root. Don't leave it about where any child can get at it."
"Thank you. I shan't. Are you interested in herbs and roots? I didn't know a scribe cared about such things."
I suddenly realized that she thought I was the scribe's help boy. I didn't see any reason to tell her otherwise. "Oh, Fedwren uses many things, for his dyes and inks. Some copies he makes quite plain, but others are fancy, all done with birds and cats and turtles and fish. He showed me an herbal with the greens and flowers of each herb done as the border for the page."
"That I should dearly love to see," she said in a heartfelt way, and I instantly began thinking of ways to purloin it for a few days.
"I might be able to get you a copy to read… not to keep, but to study for a few days," I offered hesitantly.
She laughed, but there was a slight edge in it. "As if I could read! Oh, but I imagine you've picked up some letters, running about for the scribe's errands."
"A few," I told her, and was surprised at the envy in her eyes when I showed her my list and confessed I could read all seven words on it.
A sudden shyness came over her. She walked more slowly, and I realized we were getting close to the chandlery. I wondered if her father still beat her, but dared not ask about it. Her face, at least, showed no sign of it. We reached the chandlery door and paused there. She made some sudden decision, for she put her hand on my sleeve, took a breath, and then asked, "Do you think you could read something for me? Or even any part of it?"
"I'll try," I offered.
"When I… now that I wear skirts, my father has given me my mother's things. She had been dress help to a lady up at the keep when she was a girl, and had letters taught her. I have some tablets she wrote. I'd like to know what they say."
"I'll try," I repeated.
"My father's in the shop." She said no more than that, but something in the way her consciousness rang against mine was sufficient.
"I'm to get Scribe Fedwren two beeswax tapers," I reminded her. "I dare not go back to the keep without them."
"Be not too familiar with me," she cautioned me, and then opened the door.
I followed her, but slowly, as if coincidence brought us to the door together. I need not have been so circumspect. Her father slept quite soundly in a chair beside the hearth. I was shocked at the change in him. His skinniness had bec
ome skeletal, the flesh on his face reminding me of an undercooked pastry over a lumpy fruit pie. Chade had taught me well. I looked to the man's fingernails and lips, and even from across the room, I knew he could not live much longer. Perhaps he no longer beat Molly because he no longer had the strength. Molly motioned me to be quiet. She vanished behind the hangings that divided their home from their shop, leaving me to explore the store.
It was a pleasant place, not large, but the ceiling was higher than in most of the shops and dwellings in Buckkeep Town. I suspected it was Molly's diligence that kept it swept and tidy. The pleasant smells and soft light of her industry filled the room. Her wares hung in pairs by their joined wicks from long dowels on a rack. Fat sensible candles for ships' use filled another shelf. She even had three glazed pottery lamps on display, for those able to afford such things. In addition to candles, I found she had pots of honey, a natural by-product of the beehives she tended behind the shop that furnished the wax for her finest products.
Then Molly reappeared and motioned to me to come join her. She brought a branch of tapers and a set of tablets to a table and set them out on it. Then she stood back and pressed her lips together as if wondering if what she did were wise.
The tablets were done in the old style. Simple slabs of wood had been cut with the grain of the tree and sanded smooth. The letters had been brushed on carefully, and then sealed to the wood with a yellowing rosin layer. There were five, excellently lettered. Four were carefully precise accounts of herbal recipes for healing candles. As I read each one softly aloud to Molly, I could see her struggling to commit them to memory. At the fifth tablet, I hesitated. "This isn't a recipe," I told her.
"Well, what is it?" she demanded in a whisper.
I shrugged and began to read it to her. "'On this day was born my Molly Nosegay, sweet as any bunch of posies. For her birth labors, I burned two tapers of bayberry and two cup candles scented with two handfuls of the small violets that grow near Dowell's Mill and one handful of redroot, chopped very fine. May she do likewise when her time comes to bear a child, and her labor will be as easy as mine, and the fruit of it as perfect. So I believe.'"
That was all, and when I had read it, the silence grew and blossomed. Molly took that last tablet from my hands and held it in her two hands and stared at it, as if reading things in the letters that I had not seen. I shifted my feet, and the scuffing recalled to her that I was there. Silently she gathered up all her tablets and disappeared with them once more.
When she came back, she walked swiftly to the shelf and took down two tall beeswax tapers, and then to another shelf whence she took two fat pink candles.
"I only need—"
"Shush. There's no charge for any of these. The sweetberry-blossom ones will give you calm dreams. I very much enjoy them, and I think you will, too." Her voice was friendly, but as she put them into my basket I knew she was waiting for me to leave. Still, she walked to the door with me, and opened it softly lest it wake her father. "Goodbye, Newboy," she said, and then gave me one real smile. "Nosegay. I never knew she called me that. Nosebleed, they called me on the streets. I suppose the older ones who knew what name she had given me thought it was funny. And after a while they probably forgot it had ever been anything else. Well. I don't care. I have it now. A name from my mother."
"It suits you," I said in a sudden burst of gallantry, and then, as she stared and the heat rose in my cheeks, I hurried away from the door. I was surprised to find that it was late afternoon, nearly evening. I raced through the rest of my errands, begging the last item on my list, a weasel's skin, through the shutters of the merchant's window. Grudgingly he opened his door to me, complaining that he liked to eat his supper hot, but I thanked him so profusely he must have believed me a little daft.
I was hurrying up the steepest part of the road back to the keep when I heard the unexpected sounds of horses behind me. They were coming up from the dock section of town, and being ridden hard. It was ridiculous. No one kept horses in town, for the roads were too steep and rocky to make them of much use. Also, the town was crowded into such a small area as to make riding a horse a vanity rather than a convenience. So these must be horses from the keep's stables. I stepped to one side of the road and waited, curious to see who would risk Burrich's wrath by riding horses at such speed on slick and uneven cobbles in poor light.
To my shock they were Regal and Verity on the matched blacks that were Burrich's pride. Verity carried a plumed baton, such as messengers to the keep carried when the news they bore was of the utmost importance. At sight of me standing quietly beside the road they both pulled in their horses so violently that Regal's spun aside and nearly went down on his knees.
"Burrich will have fits if you break that colt's knees," I cried out in dismay, and ran toward him.
Regal gave an inarticulate cry, and a half instant later Verity shakily laughed at him. "You thought he was a ghost, same as I. Whoa, lad, you gave us a turn, standing so quiet as that. And looking so much like him. Ey, Regal?"
"Verity, you're a fool. Hold your tongue." Regal gave his mount's mouth a vindictive jerk and then tugged his jerkin smooth again. "What are you doing out on this road so late, bastard? Just what do you think you're up to, sneaking away from the keep and into town at this hour?"
I was used to Regal's disdain for me. This sharp rebuke was something new, however. Usually, he did little more than avoid me, or hold himself away from me as if I were fresh manure. The surprise made me answer quickly, "I'm on my way back, not to, sir. I've been running errands for Fedwren." And I held up my basket as proof.
"Of course you have." He sneered. "Such a likely tale. It's a bit too much of a coincidence, bastard." Again he flung the word at me.
I must have looked both hurt and confused, for Verity snorted in his bluff way and said, "Don't mind him, boy. You gave us both a bit of a turn. A river ship just came into town, flying the pennant for a special message. And when Regal and I rode down to get it, to and behold, it's from Patience, to tell us Chivalry's dead. Then, as we come up the road, what do we see but the very image of him as a boy, standing silent before us, and of course we were in that frame of mind and—"
"You are such an idiot, Verity," Regal spat. "Trumpet it out for the whole town to hear, before the King's even been told. And don't put ideas in the bastard's head that he looks like Chivalry. From what I hear, he has ideas enough, and we can thank our dear father for that. Come on. We've got a message to deliver."
Regal jerked his mount's head up again and then set spurs to him. I watched him go, and for an instant I swear all I thought was that I should go by the stable when I got back to the keep, to check on the poor beast and see how badly his mouth was bruised. But for some reason I looked up at Verity and said, "My father's dead."
He sat still on his horse. Bigger and bulkier than Regal, he still always sat a horse better. I think it was the soldier in him. He looked at me in silence for a moment. Then he said, "Yes. My brother's dead." He granted me that, my uncle, that instant of kinship, and I think that ever after it changed how I saw the man. "Up behind me, boy, and I'll take you back to the keep," he offered.
"No, thank you. Burrich would take my hide off for riding a horse double on this road."
"That he would, boy," Verity agreed kindly. Then: "I'm sorry you found out this way. I wasn't thinking. It does not seem it can be real." I caught a glimpse of his true grief, and then he leaned forward and spoke to his horse and it sprang forward. In moments I was alone on the road again.
A fine misting rain began and the last natural light died, and still I stood there. I looked up at the keep, black against the stars, with here and there a bit of light spilling out. For a moment I thought of setting my basket down and running away, running off into the darkness and never coming back. Would anyone ever come looking for me? I wondered. But instead I shifted my basket to my other arm and began my slow trudge back up the hill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
An Assignme
nt
THERE WERE RUMORS OF poison when Queen Desire died. I choose to put in writing here what I absolutely know as truth. Queen Desire did die of poisoning, but it had been self-administered, over a long period of time, and was none of her king's doing. Often he had tried to dissuade her from using intoxicants as freely as she did. Physicians had been consulted, as well as herbalists, but no sooner had he persuaded her to desist from one than she discovered another to try.
Toward the end of the last summer of her life, she became even more reckless, using several kinds simultaneously and no longer making any attempts to conceal her habits. Her behaviors were a great trial for Shrewd, for when she was drunk with wine or incensed with smoke, she would make wild accusations and inflammatory statements with no heed at all as to who was present or what the occasion was. One would have thought that her excesses toward the end of her life would have disillusioned her followers. To the contrary, they declared either that Shrewd had driven her to self-destruction or poisoned her himself. But I can say with complete knowledge that her death was not of the King's doing.
Burrich cut my hair for mourning. He left it only a finger's width long. He shaved his own head, even his beard and eyebrows, for his grief. The pale parts of his head contrasted sharply with his ruddy cheeks and nose; it made him look very strange, stranger even than the forest men who came to town with their hair stuck down with pitch and their teeth dyed red and black. Children stared at those wild men and whispered to one another behind their hands as they passed, but they cringed silently from Burrich. I think it was his eyes. I've seen holes in a skull that had more life in them than Burrich's eyes had during those days.
Regal sent a man to rebuke Burrich for shaving his head and cutting my hair. That was mourning for a crowned king, not for a man who had abdicated the throne. Burrich stared at the man until he left. Verity cut a hand's width from his hair and beard, as that was mourning for a brother. Some of the keep guards cut varying lengths from their braided queues, as a fighting man does for a fallen comrade. But what Burrich had done to himself and to me was extreme. People stared. I wanted to ask him why I should mourn for a father I had never even seen, for a father who had never come to see me, but a look at his frozen eyes and mouth and I hadn't dared. No one mentioned to Regal the mourning lock he cut from each horse's mane, or the stinking fire that consumed all the sacrificial hair. I had a sketchy idea that meant Burrich was sending parts of our spirits along with Chivalry's; it was some custom he had from his grandmother's people.