Farseer 1 - Assassin's Apprentice

by Robin Hobb

  I looked at him miserably. "So what happened with my father?"

  He suddenly looked weary. "I don't know, boy. I don't know. He was young, just twenty or so. And far from home, and trying to shoulder a heavy burden. Those are neither reasons nor excuses. But it's as much as either of us will ever know."

  And that was that.

  My life went 'round in its settled routine. There were evenings that I spent in the stables, in Burrich's company, and more rarely, evenings that I spent in the Great Hall when some traveling minstrel or puppet show arrived. Once in a great while I could slip out for an evening down in town, but that meant paying the next day for missed sleep. Afternoons were inevitably spent with some tutor or instructor. I came to understand that these were my summer lessons, and that in winter I would be introduced to the kind of learning that came with pens and letters. I was kept busier than I had ever been in my young life. But despite my schedule, I found myself mostly alone.

  Loneliness.

  It found me every night as I vainly tried to find a small and cozy spot in my big bed. When I had slept above the stables in Burrich's rooms, my nights had been muzzy, my dreams heathery with the warm and weary contentment of the well-used animals that slept and shifted and thudded in the night below me. Horses and dogs dream, as anyone who has ever watched a hound yipping and twitching in dream pursuit well knows. Their dreams had been like the sweet rising waft from a baking of good bread. But now, isolated in a room walled with stone, I finally had time for all those devouring, aching dreams that are the portion of humans. I had no warm dam to cozy against, no sense of siblings or kin stabled nearby. Instead I would lie awake and wonder about my father and my mother, and how both could have dismissed me from their lives so easily. I heard the talk that others exchanged so carelessly over my head, and interpreted their comments in my own terrifying way. I wondered what would become of me when I was grown and old King Shrewd dead and gone: I wondered, occasionally, if Molly Nosebleed and Kerry missed me, or if they accepted my sudden disappearance as easily as they had accepted my coming. But mostly I ached with loneliness, for in all that great keep, there were none I sensed as friend. None save the beasts, and Burrich had forbidden me to have any closeness with them.

  One evening I had gone wearily to bed, only to torment myself with my fears until sleep grudgingly pulled me under. Light in my face awoke me, but I came awake knowing something was wrong. I hadn't slept long enough, and this light was yellow and wavering, unlike the whiteness of the sunlight that usually spilled in my window. I stirred unwillingly and opened my eyes.

  He stood at the foot of my bed, holding aloft a lamp. This in itself was a rarity at Buckkeep, but more than the buttery light from the lamp held my eyes. The man himself was strange. His robe was the color of undyed sheep's wool that had been washed, but only intermittently and not recently. His hair and beard were about the same color and their untidiness gave the same impression. Despite the color of his hair, I could not decide how old he was. There are some poxes that will scar a man's face with their passage. But I had never seen a man marked as he was, with scores of tiny pox scars, angry pinks and reds like small burns, and livid even in the lamp's yellow light. His hands were all bones and tendons wrapped in papery white skin. He was peering at me, and even in the lamplight, his eyes were the most piercing green I had ever seen. They reminded me of a cat's eyes when it is hunting something; the same combination of joy and fierceness. I pulled my quilt up higher under my chin.

  "You're awake," he said. "Good. Get up and follow me."

  He turned abruptly from my bedside and walked away from the door, to a shadowed corner of my room between the hearth and the wall. I didn't move. He glanced back at me, held the lamp higher. "Hurry up, boy," he said irritably, and rapped the stick he leaned on against my bedpost.

  I got out of bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the cold floor. I reached for my clothes and shoes, but he wasn't waiting for me. He glanced back once to see what was delaying me, and the piercing look was enough to make me drop my clothes and quake.

  And I followed, wordlessly, in my nightshirt, for no reason I could explain to myself. Except that he had suggested it. I followed him to a door that had never been there, and up a narrow flight of winding steps that were lit only by the lamp he held above his head. His shadow fell behind him and over me, so that I walked in a shifting darkness, feeling each step with my feet. The stairs were cold stone, worn and smooth and remarkably even. And they went up, and up, and up, until it seemed to me that we had climbed past the height of any tower the keep possessed. A chill breeze flowed up those steps, and up my nightshirt, shriveling me with more than mere cold. And we went up, and then finally he was pushing open a substantial door that nonetheless moved silently and easily. We entered a chamber.

  It was lit warmly by several lamps, suspended from an unseen ceiling on fine chains. The chamber was large, easily three times the size of my own. One end of it beckoned me. It was dominated by a massive wooden bed frame fat with feather beds and cushions. There were carpets on the floor, overlapping one another with their scarlets and verdant greens and blues both deep and pale. There was a table made of wood the color of wild honey, and on it sat a bowl of fruit so perfectly ripe that I could smell their fragrances. Parchment books and scrolls were scattered about carelessly, as if their rarity were of no concern. All three walls were draped with tapestries that depicted open rolling country with wooded foothills in the distance. I started toward it.

  "This way," said my guide, and relentlessly led me to the other end of the chamber.

  Here was a different spectacle. A stone slab of a table dominated it, its surface much stained and scorched. Upon it were various tools, containers and implements, a scale, a mortar and pestle, and many things I couldn't name. A fine layer of dust overlaid much of it, as if projects had been abandoned in midcourse, months or even years ago. Beyond the table was a rack that held an untidy collection of scrolls, some edged in blue or gilt. The scent of the room was at once pungent and aromatic; bundles of herbs were drying on another rack. I heard a rustling and caught a glimpse of movement in a far corner, but the man gave me no time to investigate. The fireplace that should have warmed this end of the room gaped black and cold. The old embers in it looked damp and settled. I lifted my eyes from my perusal to look at my guide. The dismay on my face seemed to surprise him. He turned from me and slowly surveyed the room himself. He considered it a bit, and then I sensed an embarrassed disgruntlement from him.

  "It is a mess. More than a mess, I suppose. But, well. It's been a while, I suppose. And longer than a while. Well. It's soon put to rights. But first, introductions are in order. And I suppose it is a bit nippy to be standing about in just a nightshirt. This way, boy."

  I followed him to the comfortable end of the room. He seated himself in a battered wooden chair that was overdraped with blankets. My bare toes dug gratefully into the nap of a woolen rug. I stood before him, waiting, as those green eyes prowled over me. For some minutes the silence held. Then he spoke.

  "First, let me introduce you to yourself. Your pedigree is written all over you. Shrewd chose to acknowledge it, for all his denials wouldn't have sufficed to convince anyone otherwise." He paused for an instant and smiled as if something amused him. "A shame Galen refuses to teach you the Skill. But years ago it was restricted, for fear it would become too common a tool. I'll wager if old Galen were to try to teach you, he'd find you apt. But we have no time to worry about what won't happen." He sighed meditatively and was silent for a moment. Abruptly he went on, "Burrich's shown you both how to work, and how to obey. Two things that Burrich himself excels at. You're not especially strong, or fast, or bright. Don't think you are. But you'll have the stubbornness to wear down anyone stronger, or faster, or brighter than yourself. And that's more of a danger to you than to anyone else. But that is not what is now most important about you.

  "You are the King's man now. And you must begin to understand, now, right n
ow, that that is the most important thing about you. He feeds you, he clothes you, he sees you are educated. And all he asks in return, for now, is your loyalty. Later he will ask your service. Those are the conditions under which I will teach you. That you are the King's man, and loyal to him completely. For if you are otherwise, it would be too dangerous to educate you in my art." He paused and for a long moment we simply looked at one another. "Do you agree?" he asked, and it was not a simple question but the sealing of a bargain.

  "I do," I said, and then, as he waited: "I give you my word."

  "Good." He spoke the word heartily. "Now. On to other things. Have you ever seen me before?"

  "No." I realized for an instant how strange that was. For, though there were often strangers in the keep, this man had obviously been a resident for a long, long time. And almost all those who lived there, I knew by sight if not name.

  "Do you know who I am, boy? Or why you're here?"

  I shook my head a quick negative to each question. "Well, no one else does either. So you mind it stays that way. Make yourself clear on that-you speak to no one of what we do here, nor of anything you learn. Understand that?"

  My nod must have satisfied him, for he seemed to relax in the chair. His bony hands gripped the knobs of his knees through his woolen robe. "Good. Good. Now. You can call me Chade. And I shall call you?" He paused and waited, but when I did not offer a name, he filled in, "Boy. That's not names for either of us, but they'll do, for the time we'll have together. So. I'm Chade, and I'm yet another teacher that Shrewd has found for you. It took him a while to remember I was here, and then it took him a space to nerve himself to ask me. And it took me even longer to agree to teach you. But all that's done now. As to what I'm to teach you ... well."

  He rose and moved to the fire. He cocked his head as he stared into it, then stooped to take a poker and stir the embers to fresh flames. "It's murder, more or less. Killing people. The fine art of diplomatic assassination. Or blinding, or deafening. Or a weakening of the limbs, or a paralysis or a debilitating cough or impotency. Or early senility, or insanity or ... but it doesn't matter. It's all been my trade. And it will be yours, if you agree. Just know, from the beginning, that I'm going to be teaching you how to kill people. For your king. Not in the showy way Hod is teaching you, not on the battlefield where others see and cheer you on. No. I'll be teaching you the nasty, furtive, polite ways to kill people. You'll either develop a taste for it, or not. That isn't something I'm in charge of. But I'll make sure you know how. And I'll make sure of one other thing, for that was the stipulation I made with King Shrewd. That you know what you are learning, as I never did when I was your age. So. I'm to teach you to be an assassin. Is that all right with you, boy?"

  I nodded again, uncertain, but not knowing what else to do.

  He peered at me. "You can speak, can't you? You're not a mute as well as a bastard, are you?"

  I swallowed. "No, sir. I can speak."

  "Well, then, do speak. Don't just nod. Tell me what you think of all this. Of who I am and what I just proposed that we do."

  Invited to speak, I yet stood dumb. I stared at the poxed face, the papery skin of his hands, and felt the gleam of his green eyes on me. I moved my tongue inside my mouth, but found only silence. His manner invited words, but his visage was still more terrifying than anything I had ever imagined.

  "Boy," he said, and the gentleness in his voice startled me into meeting his eyes. "I can teach you even if you hate me, or if you despise the lessons. I can teach you if you are bored, or lazy or stupid. But I can't teach you if you're afraid to speak to me. At least, not the way I want to teach you. And I can't teach you if you decide this is something you'd rather not learn. But you have to tell me. You've learned to guard your thoughts so well, you're almost afraid to let yourself know what they are. But try speaking them aloud, now, to me. You won't be punished."

  "I don't much like it," I suddenly blurted. "The idea of killing people."

  "Ah." He paused. "Neither did I, when it came down to it. Nor do I, still." He sighed suddenly, deeply. "As each time comes, you'll decide. The first time will be hardest. But know, for now, that that decision is many years away. And in the meantime, you have much to learn." He hesitated. "'There is this, boy. And you should remember it in every situation, not just this one. Learning is never wrong. Even learning how to kill isn't wrong. Or right. It's just a thing to learn, a thing I can teach you. That's all. For now, do you think you could learn how to do it, and later decide if you want to do it?"

  Such a question to put to a boy. Even then, something in me raised its hackles and sniffed at the idea, but boy that I was, I could find no objection to raise. And curiosity was nibbling at me.

  "I can learn it."

  "Good." He smiled, but there was a tiredness to his face and he didn't seem as pleased as he might have. "That's well enough, then. Well enough." He looked around the room. "We may as well begin tonight. Let's start by tidying up. There's a broom over there. Oh, but first, change out of your nightshirt into something ... ah, there's a ragged old robe over there. That'll do for now. Can't have the washer folk wondering why your nightshirts smell of camphor and pain's ease, can we? Now, you sweep up the floor a bit while I put away a few things."

  And so passed the next few hours. I swept, then mopped the stone floor. He directed me as I cleared the paraphernalia from the great table. I turned the herbs on their drying rack. I fed the three lizards he had caged in the corner, chopping up some sticky old meat into chunks that they gulped whole. I wiped clean a number of pots and bowls and stored them. And he worked alongside me, seeming grateful for the company, and chatted to me as if we were both old men. Or both young boys. .

  "No letters as yet? No ciphering. Bagrash! What's the old man thinking? Well, I shall see that remedied swiftly. You've your father's brow, boy, and just his way of wrinkling it. Has anyone ever told you that before? Ah, there you are, Slink, you rascal! What mischief have you been up to now?"

  A brown weasel appeared from behind a tapestry, and we were introduced to one another. Chade let me feed Slink quail eggs from a bowl on the table, and laughed when the little beast followed me about begging for more. He gave me a copper bracelet that I found under the table, warning that it might make my wrist green, and cautioning that if anyone asked me about it, I should say I had found it behind the stables.

  At some time we stopped for honey cakes and hot spiced wine. We sat together at a low table on some rugs before the fireplace, and I watched the firelight dancing over his scarred face and wondered why it had seemed so frightening. He noticed me watching him, and his face contorted in a smile. "Seems familiar, doesn't it, boy? My face, I mean."

  It didn't. I had been staring at the grotesque scars on the pasty white skin. I had no idea what he meant. I stared at him questioningly, trying to figure it out.

  "Don't trouble yourself about it, boy. It leaves its tracks on all of us, and sooner or later you'll get the tumble of it. But now, well ..." He rose, stretching, so that his cassock bared his skinny white calves. "Now it's mostly later. Or earlier, depending on which end of the day you fancy most. Time you headed back to your bed. Now. You'll remember that this is all a very dark secret, won't you? Not just me and this room, but the whole thing, waking up at night and lessons in how to kill people, and all of it."

  "I'll remember," I told him, and then, sensing that it would mean something to him, I added, "You have my word."

  He chuckled, and then nodded almost sadly. I changed back into my night robe, and he saw me down the steps. He held his glowing light by my bed as I clambered in, and then smoothed the blankets over me as no one had done since I'd left Burrich's chambers. I think I was asleep before he had even departed from my bedside.

  Brant was sent to wake me the next morning, so late was I in arising. I came awake groggy, my head pounding painfully. But as soon as he left, I sprang from my bed and raced to the corner of my room. Cold stone met my hands as I pushed aga
inst the wall there, and no crack in mortar or stone gave any sign of the secret door I felt sure must be there. Never for one instant did I think Chade had been a dream, and even if I had, there remained the simple copper bracelet on my wrist to prove he wasn't.

  I dressed hurriedly and passed through the kitchens for a slab of bread and cheese that I was still eating when I got to the stables. Burrich was out of sorts with my tardiness and found fault with every aspect of my horsemanship and stable tasks. I remember well how he berated me. "Don't think that because you've a room up in the castle and a crest on your jerkin that you can turn into some sprawl about rogue who snores in his bed until all hours and then only rises to fluff at his hair. I'll not have it. Bastard you may be, but you're Chivalry's bastard, and I'll make you a man he'll be proud of."

  I paused, the grooming brushes still in my hands. "You mean Regal, don't you?"

  My unwonted question startled him. "What?"

  "When you talk about rogues who stay in bed all morning and do nothing except fuss about hair and garments, you mean how Regal is."

  Burrich opened his mouth and then shut it. His wind reddened cheeks grew redder. "Neither you nor I," he muttered at last, "are in a position to criticize any of the Princes. I meant only as a general rule, that sleeping the morning away ill befits a man, and even less so a boy."