Assassin's Quest tft-3

by Robin Hobb

  Of her own accord, the old woman took charge of my mind. I resented it, but was not so stupid as to resist. Both Kettricken and Starling had accepted her knowledge of the Skill. I was no longer permitted to go off alone, or in the sole company of the Fool. When the wolf and I hunted at night, Kettricken went with us. Starling and I shared a watch, during which, at Kettle's urging she kept my mind busy with learning to recite both songs and stories from Starling's repertoire. During my brief hours of sleep Kettle watched over me, a dark stewing of elfbark at her elbow where, if need be, she could pour it down my throat and douse my Skill. All of this was annoying, but worst was during the day when we walked together. I was not allowed to speak of Verity, or the coterie, or anything that might touch upon them. Instead, we worked at game problems, or gathered wayside herbs for the evening meal, or I recited Starling's stories for her. At any time when she suspected my mind was not fully with her, she might give me a sharp rap with her walking stick. The few times I tried to direct our talk with questions about her past, she loftily informed me that it might lead to the very topics we must avoid.

  There is no more slippery task than to refrain from thinking of something. In the midst of my busywork, the fragrance of a wayside flower would bring Molly to my mind, and from thence to Verity who had called me away from her was but a skip of thought. Or some chance nattering of the Fool would call to my thoughts King Shrewd's tolerance for his mockery, and recall to me how my king had died and at whose hands. Worst of all was Kettricken's silence. She could no longer speak to me of her anxiety over Verity. I could not see her without feeling how she longed to find him, and then rebuking myself for thinking of him. And so the long days of our traveling passed for me.

  Gradually the countryside around us changed. We found ourselves descending deeper and deeper into valley after winding valley. For a time our road paralleled that of a milky gray river. In places its rising and fallings had gnawed the road at its side to no more than a footpath. We came at length to an immense bridge. When we first glimpsed it from a distance, the spiderweb delicacy of its span reminded me of bones, and I feared that we would find it reduced to splintered fragments of reaching timbers. Instead we crossed on a creation that arched over the river needlessly high, as if in joy that it could. The road we crossed on shone black and shining, while the archwork that graced above and below the span was a powdery gray. I could not identify what it was wrought from, whether true metal or strange stone, for it had more the look of a spun thread than hammered metal or chiseled rock. The elegance and grace of it stilled even the Fool for a time.

  After the bridge, we climbed a series of small hills, only to begin another descent. This time the valley was narrow and deep, a steeply sided cleft in the earth as if some giant had long ago cleaved it with a war-axe. The road clung to one side of it and followed it inexorably down. We could see little of where we were going, for the valley itself seemed full of clouds and greenery. This puzzled me until the first rivulet of warm water cut our pathway. It bubbled up steamily from a spring right beside the road, but had long ago disdained the ornately carved stone walls and drainage channel some vanished engineer had placed to contain it. The Fool made great show of considering its stench and whether it should be attributed to rotten eggs or some flatulence of the earth itself. For once not even his rudeness could make me smile. It was for me as if his knavery had gone on too long, the merriment fled and only the crudity and cruelty left.

  We came in early afternoon to a region of steaming pools. The lure of hot water was too much to resist, and Kettricken let us make camp early. We had the long-missed comfort of hot water for soaking our weary bodies in, though the Fool disdained it because of its smell. To me it smelled no worse than the steaming waters that rose to feed the baths in Jhaampe, but for once I was just as glad to forgo his company. He went off in search of more potable water, while the women took over the largest pool and I sought out the relative privacy of a smaller one at some distance. I soaked for a time, and then decided to pound some of the dirt from my clothing. The mineral stink of the water was far less than the odor my own body had left on them. That done, I spread my garments on the grass to dry and went to lie once more in the water. Nighteyes came to sit on the bank and watch me in puzzlement, his tail tucked neatly around his feet.

  It feels good, I told him needlessly, for I knew he could sense my pleasure.

  It must have something to do with your lack of fur, he decided at last.

  Come in and I'll scrub you off. It would help you shed of your winter undercoat, I offered him.

  He gave a disdainful sniff. I think I'd prefer to scratch it off a bit at a time.

  Well, you needn't sit and watch me and be bored. Go hunting if you wish.

  I would, but the high bitch has asked me to watch you. So I shall.

  Kettricken?

  So you name her.

  How asked you? He gave me a puzzled glance. As you would. She looked at me and I knew her mind. She worried that you were alone.

  Does she know you hear her? Does she hear you?

  Almost, at times. He lay down abruptly on the sward and stretched, curling his pink tongue. Perhaps when your mate bids you set me aside, I shall bond to her.

  Not funny.

  He made no reply to me, but rolled over onto his back and proceeded to roll about scratching his back. The topic of Molly was now an edge of uneasiness between us, a rift I dared not approach and one he obsessively peered into. I wished abruptly that we were as we once had been, joined and whole, living only in the now. I leaned back, resting my head on the bank, half in and half out of the water. I closed my eyes and thought of nothing.

  When I opened them again, the Fool was standing looking down on me. I startled visibly. So did Nighteyes, springing to his feet with a growl. "Some guardian," I observed to the Fool.

  He has no scent, and walks lighter than falling snow! the wolf complained.

  "He is always with you, isn't he?" the Fool observed.

  "One way or another," I agreed, and lay back in the water. I would have to get out soon. The late afternoon was becoming evening. The additional chill in the air only made the hot water more soothing. After a moment, I glanced over at the Fool. He was still just standing and staring at me. "Is something wrong?" I asked him.

  He made an inconclusive gesture, and then sat down awkwardly on the bank. "I've been thinking about your candlemaker girl," he said suddenly.

  "Have you?" I asked quietly. "I've been doing my best not to."

  He thought about this for a bit. "If you die, what will become of her?"

  I rolled over on my belly and propped myself on my elbows to stare at the Fool. I half expected this was the lead line to some new mockery of his, but his face was grave. "Burrich will take care of her," I said quietly. "For as long as she needs help. She's a capable woman, Fool." After a moment's consideration, I added, "She took care of herself for years before… Fool, I've never really taken care of her. I was near her, but she always stood on her own." I felt both shamed and proud as I said that. Shamed that I had given her so little besides trouble, and proud that such a woman had cared for me.

  "But you would at least want me to take word to her, would you not?"

  I shook my head slowly. "She believes me dead. They both do. If in fact I die, I'd just as soon let her believe I died in Regal's dungeons. For her to learn otherwise would only tar me blacker in her eyes. How could you explain to her that I did not come to her immediately? No. If something happens to me, I wish no tales told her." Bleakness gripped me once more. And if I survived and went back to her? That was almost worse to consider. I tried to imagine standing before her and explaining to her that once more, I had put my king ahead of her. I clenched my eyes tight shut at the thought of it.

  "Still, when all this is done and gone, I should like to see her again," the Fool observed.

  I opened my eyes. "You? I did not know that you had even spoken to one another."

  The Fool see
med a bit taken aback at this. "But, that is, I meant for your sake. To see for myself that she is well provided for."

  I felt oddly touched. "I don't know what to say," I told him.

  "Say nothing, then. Tell me only where I may find her," he suggested with a smile.

  "I don't precisely know that myself," I admitted to him. "Chade knows. If… if I do not live through what we must do, ask it of him." It felt unlucky to speak of my own death, so I added, "Of course, we both know we shall survive. It is foretold, is it not?"

  He gave me an odd look. "By whom?"

  My heart sank. "By some White Prophet or other, I had hoped," I muttered. It occurred to me that I had never asked the Fool if my survival was foretold. Not every man survives winning a battle. I found my courage. "Is it foretold that the Catalyst lives?"

  He appeared to be thinking hard. He suddenly observed, "Chade leads a dangerous life. There is no assurance that he will survive either. And if he does not, well, surely you must have some idea of where the girl is. Will not you tell me?"

  That he had not answered my question seemed suddenly answer enough. The Catalyst did not survive. It was like being hit by a wave of cold salt water. I felt tumbled in that cold knowledge, drowning in it. I'd never hold my daughter, never feel Molly's warmth again. It was almost a physical pain, and it dizzied me.

  "FitzChivalry?" the Fool pressed me. He lifted a hand to suddenly cover his mouth tightly, as if he could speak no more. His other hand rose to grip his wrist suddenly. He looked sickened.

  "It's all right," I said faintly. "Perhaps it's better that I know what is to come." I sighed and racked my brain. "I've heard them speak of a village. Burrich goes there to buy things. It cannot be far. You could start there."

  The Fool gave a tiny nod of encouragement to me. Tears stood in his eyes.

  "Capelin Beach," I said quietly.

  A moment longer he sat staring at me. Then he suddenly toppled over sideways.

  "Fool?"

  There was no response. I stood, the warm water running off me and looked over at him. He sprawled on his side as if asleep. "Fool!" I called irritably. When there was still no response, I waded out of the pond and over to him. He lay on the grassy bank, miming the deep, even breathing of sleep. "Fool?" I asked again, half expecting him to come leaping up in my face. Instead he made a vague motion as if I disturbed his dreaming. It irritated me beyond words that he could go so abruptly from serious words to some kind of knavery. Yet it was typical of his behavior over the past few days. There was suddenly no relaxation or peace left in the hot water. Still dripping, I began to gather my clothes. I refused to look at him as I brushed and shook most of the water from my body. The clothing I pulled on was slightly damp anyway. The Fool slept on as I turned away from him and walked back to camp. Nighteyes trailed at my heels.

  Is it a game? he asked me as we walked.

  Of a kind, I suppose, I told him shortly. Not one I enjoy.

  The women were already back at the camp. Kettricken was poring over her map while Kettle gave the jeppas tiny shares of the remaining grain. Starling was sitting by the fire, worrying a comb through her hair, but looked up as I approached. "Did the Fool find clean water?" she asked me.

  I shrugged. "Not when I last saw him. At least, if he had, he wasn't carrying it with him."

  "We've enough in the waterskins to get by with, anyway. I just prefer fresh for the tea."

  "Me, too." I sat down by the cook fire and watched her. She seemed to give no thought to her fingers at all as they danced over her hair, binding the wet shining hair into smooth braids. She coiled them to her head and pinned them down securely.

  "I hate Wet hair flapping around my face," she observed, and I realized I had been staring. I glanced away, embarrassed.

  "Ah, he can still blush," she laughed. Then added, pointedly, "Would you like to borrow my comb?"

  I lifted my hand to my own draggled hair. "I suppose I should," I muttered.

  "Truly," she agreed, but did not pass it to me. Instead she came to kneel behind me. "How did you do all this?" she wondered aloud as she began to tug the comb through it.

  "It just gets that way," I mumbled. Her gentle touch, the soft tugging at my scalp felt incredibly good.

  "It's so fine, that's the problem. I never met a Buck man with hair so fine."

  My heart moved sideways in my chest. A Buck beach on a windy day, and Molly on a red blanket beside me, her blouse not quite laced. She had told me I was considered the best thing to have come out of the stables since Burrich. "I think it is your hair. It is not as coarse as most Buck men's." One brief interlude, of flirtatious compliments and idle talk and her sweet touch under the open sky. I almost smiled. But I could not recall that day without also recalling that, like so many of our times together, it had ended in quarreling and tears. My throat closed up and I shook my head, trying to clear the memories away.

  "Sit still," Starling chided me with a sharper tug on my hair. "I've almost got it smooth. Brace yourself, this is the last snarl." She caught hold of my hair above it, and ripped out the snarl with a swift jerk that I almost didn't feel. "Give me the thong," she told me, and took it from me to bind my hair back for me.

  Kettle came back from tending the jeppas. "Any meat?" she asked me pointedly.

  I sighed. "Not yet. Soon," I promised. I hauled myself to my feet wearily.

  "Watch him, wolf," Kettle asked Nighteyes. He gave a slight wag of his tail and then led me away from the camp.

  It was past dark when we returned to camp. We were well pleased with ourselves, for we brought, not rabbit, but a cloven-hoofed creature rather like a small kid, but with a silkier hide. I had opened its belly at the kill site, both to let Nighteyes have the entrails and to lighten it for carrying. I slung the meat over my shoulder, but regretted that after a short time. Whatever biting vermin it had been carrying were only too happy to transfer to my neck. I would have to wash myself again this night.

  I grinned at Kettle as she came to meet me and unslung the kid to hold it up for her inspection. But instead of congratulations, she only demanded, "Have you any more elfbark?"

  "I gave you all I had," I told her. "Why? Have we run out? The way it makes the Fool behave, I'd almost welcome that news."

  She gave me an odd look. "Did you quarrel?" she demanded. "Did you strike him?"

  "What? Of course not!"

  "We found him by the pool where you bathed," she said quietly. "Twitching in his sleep like a dreaming dog. I woke him, but even awake, he seemed vague. We brought him back here, but he only sought his blankets. Since then, he has been sleeping like a dead thing."

  We had reached the cook fire and I dropped the kid beside it and hurried into the tent, Nighteyes pushing his way in front of me.

  "He revived, but only for a bit," Kettle continued. "Then he dropped off to sleep again. He behaves like a man recovering from exhaustion, or a very long illness. I fear for him."

  I scarcely heard her. Once in the tent, I dropped to my knees beside him. He lay on his side, curled in a ball. Kettricken knelt by him, her face clouded with worry. He looked to me simply like a man sleeping. Relief warred with irritation in me.

  "I've given him almost all the elfbark," Kettle was going on. "If I give him what's left now, we have no reserves if the coterie tries to attack him."

  "Is there no other herb…" Kettricken began, but I interrupted her.

  "Why don't we simply let him sleep? Perhaps this is just the end of his other illness. Or maybe an effect of the elfbark itself. Even with potent drugs, one can only trick the body so long, and then it makes its demands known."

  "That is true," Kettle agreed reluctantly. "But this is so unlike him…"

  "He has been unlike himself since the third day he was using the elfbark," I pointed out. "His tongue too sharp, his gibes too cutting. If you asked me, I would say I prefer him asleep to awake these days."

  "Well. Perhaps there is something to what you say. We will let him sleep
then," Kettle conceded. She took a breath, as if to say more, but did not. I went back outside to prepare the kid for cooking. Starling followed me.

  For a time, she just sat silently watching me skin it out. It was not that large an animal. "Help me build up the fire and we'll roast the whole thing. Cooked meat will keep better in this weather."

  The whole thing?

  Except a generous portion for you. I worked my knife around a knee joint, snapped the shank free and cut the remaining gristle.

  I'll want more than bones, Nighteyes reminded me.

  Trust me, I told him. By the time I was finished, he had the head, hide, all four shanks, and one hind quarter to himself. It made it awkward to fasten the meat to a spit, but I managed. It was a young animal, and though it did not have much fat, I expected the meat would be tender. The hardest part would be waiting for it to be cooked. The flames licked their tips against it, searing it, and the savory smell of roasting meat taunted me.

  "Are you so angry with the Fool?" Starling asked me quietly.

  "What?" I glanced over my shoulder at her.

  "In the time we have traveled together, I have come to see how you are with one another. Closer than brothers. I would have expected you to sit beside him and fret, as you did when he was ill. Yet you behave as if nothing is wrong with him at all."

  Minstrels, perhaps, see too clearly. I pushed my hair back from my face and thought. "Earlier today, he came to me and we talked. About what he would do, for Molly, if I did not live to return to her." I looked at Starling and shook my head. When my throat went tight, it surprised me. "He does not expect me to survive. And when a prophet says such a thing, it is hard to believe otherwise."

  The look of dismay on her face was not comforting. It gave the lie to her words when she insisted, "Prophets are not always right. Did he say, for certain, that he had seen your death?"

  "When I asked him, he would not answer," I replied.