Farseer 1 - Assassin's Apprentice

by Robin Hobb

  She lifted the sheets carefully and examined each one in turn, holding them close and then at arm's length. She stared longest at the muzzy one. "Who did these for you?" she asked at last. "Not that it excuses your being late. But I could find good use for someone who can put on paper what the eye sees, with the colors so true. That is the trouble with all the herbals I have; all the herbs are painted the same green, no matter if they are gray or tinged pink as they grow. Such tablets are useless if you are trying to learn from them-"

  "I suspect he's painted the puppy himself, ma'am," Lacey interrupted benignly.

  "And the paper, this is better than what I've had to-" Patience paused suddenly. "You, Thomas?" (And I think that was the first time she remembered to use the name she had bestowed on me.) "You paint like this?"

  Before her incredulous look, I managed a quick nod. She held up the pictures again. "Your father could not draw a curved line, save it was on a map. Did your mother draw?"

  "I have no memories of her, lady." My reply was stiff. I could not recall that anyone had ever been brave enough to ask me such a thing before.

  "What, none? But you were six years old. You must remember something-the color of her hair, her voice, what she called you ...." Was that a pained hunger in her voice, a curiosity she could not quite bear to satisfy?

  Almost, for a moment, I did remember. A smell of mint, or was it ... it was gone. "Nothing, lady. If she had wanted me to remember her, she would have kept me, I suppose." I closed my heart. Surely I owed no remembrance to the mother who had not kept me, nor ever sought me since.

  "Well." For the first time I think Patience realized she had taken our conversation into a difficult area. She stared out the window at a gray day. "Someone has taught you well," she observed suddenly, too brightly.

  "Fedwren." When she said nothing, I added, "The court scribe, you know. He would like me to apprentice to him. He is pleased with my letters, and works with me now on the copying of his images. When we have time, that is. I am often busy, and he is often out questing after new paper reeds."

  "Paper reeds?" she asked distractedly.

  "He has a bit of paper. He had several measures of it, but little by little he has used it. He got it from a trader, who had it from another, and yet another before him, so he does not know where it first came from. But from what he was told, it was made of pounded reeds. The paper is a much better quality than any we make; it is thin, flexible, and does not crumble so readily with age, yet it takes ink well, not soaking it up so that the edges of runes blur. Fedwren says that if we could duplicate it, it would change much. With a good, sturdy paper, any man might have a copy of tablet lore from the keep. Were paper cheaper, more children could be taught to write and to read both, or so he says. I do not understand why he is so-"

  "I did not know any here shared my interest." A sudden animation lit the lady's face. "Has he tried paper made from pounded lily root? I have had some success with that. And also with paper created by first weaving and then wet-pressing sheets made with threads of bark from the kinue tree. It is strong and flexible, yet the surface leaves much to be desired. Unlike this paper ..."

  She glanced again at the sheets in her hand and fell silent. Then she asked hesitantly, "You like the puppy this much?"

  "Yes," I said simply, and our eyes suddenly met. She stared into me in the same distracted way that she often stared out the window. Abruptly, her eyes brimmed with tears.

  "Sometimes, you are so like him that ..." She choked. "You should have been mine! It isn't fair, you should have been mine!"

  She cried out the words so fiercely that I thought she would strike me. Instead, she leaped at me and caught me in a flying hug, at the same time treading upon her dog and overturning a vase of greenery. The dog sprang up with a yelp, the vase shattered on the floor, sending water and shards in all directions, while my lady's forehead caught me squarely under the chin, so that for a moment all I saw was sparks. Before I could react, she flung herself from me and fled into her bedchamber with a cry like a scalded cat. She slammed the door behind her.

  And all the while Lacey kept on with her tatting.

  "She gets like this, sometimes," she observed benignly, and nodded me toward the door. "Come again tomorrow," she reminded me, and added, "You know, Lady Patience has become quite fond of you."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Galen

  GALEN, SON OF A weaver, came to Buckkeep as a boy. His father was one of Queen Desire's personal servants who followed her from Farrow. Solicity was then the Skillmaster at Buckkeep. She had instructed King Bounty and his son Shrewd in the Skill, so by the time Shrewd's sons were boys, she was ancient already. She petitioned King Bounty that she might take an apprentice, and he consented. Galen was greatly favored of the Queen, and at Queen-in-Waiting Desire's energetic urging, Solicity chose the youth Galen as her apprentice. At that time, as now, the Skill was denied to bastards of the Farseer House, but when the talent bloomed, unexpected, among those not of royalty, it was cultivated and rewarded. No doubt Galen was such a one as this, a boy showing strange and unexpected talent that came abruptly to the attention of a Skillmaster.

  By the time the Princes Chivalry and Verity were old enough to receive Skill instruction, Galen had advanced enough to assist in their instruction, though he was but a year or so older than they.

  Once again my life sought a balance and briefly found it. The awkwardness with Lady Patience gradually eroded into our acceptance that we would never become casual or overly familiar with one another. Neither of us felt a need to share feelings; instead we skirted one another at a formal distance, and nevertheless managed to gain a good mutual understanding. Yet in the formal dance of our relationship, there were occasional times of genuine merriment, and sometimes we even danced to the same piper.

  Once she had given up the notion of teaching me everything that a Farseer prince should know, she was able to teach me a great deal. Very little of it was what she initially intended to teach me. I did gain a working knowledge of music, but this was by the loan of her instruments and many hours of private experimentation. I became more her runner than her page, and from fetching for her, I learned much of the perfumer's art, as well as greatly increasing my knowledge of plants. Even Chade became enthused when he discovered my new talents for root-and-leaf propagation, and he followed with interest the experiments, few of them successful, that Lady Patience and I made into coaxing the buds of one tree to open to leaf when spliced into another tree. This was a magic she had heard rumored, but did not scruple to attempt. To this day, in the Women's Garden, there is an apple tree, one branch of which bears pears. When I expressed a curiosity about the tattooer's art, she refused to let me mark my own body, saying I was too young for such a decision. But without the least qualm, she let me observe, and finally assist with, the slow pricking of dye into her own ankle and calf that became a coiled garland of flowers.

  But all of that evolved over months and years, not days. We had settled into a blunt-spoken courtesy toward one another by the end of ten days. She met Fedwren and enlisted him in her root-paper project. The pup was growing well and was a greater pleasure to me every day. Lady Patience's errands to town gave me ample opportunities to see my town friends, especially Molly. She was an invaluable guide to the fragrant stalls where I purchased Lady Patience's perfume supplies. Forging and Red-Ship Raiders might still threaten from the horizon, but for those few weeks they seemed a remote terror, like the remembered chill of winter on a midsummer day. For a very brief period I was happy, and, an even rarer gift, I knew I was happy.

  And then my lessons with Galen began.

  The night before my lessons were to begin, Burrich sent for me. I went to him wondering what chore I had done poorly and would be rebuked for. I found him waiting for me outside the stables, shifting his feet as restlessly as a confined stallion. He immediately beckoned me to follow him and took me up to his chambers.

  "Tea?" he offered, and when I nodded,
poured me a mug from a pot still warm on his hearth.

  "What's the matter?" I asked as I took it from him. He was strung as tight as I had ever seen him. This was so unlike Burrich that I feared some terrible news-that Sooty was ill, or dead, or that he had discovered Smithy.

  "Nothing," he lied, and did it so poorly that he himself immediately recognized it. "It's this, boy," he confessed suddenly. "Galen came to me today. He told me that you were to be instructed in the Skill. And he charged me that while he was teaching you, I could interfere in no way-not to counsel, or ask chores of you, or even share a meal with you. He was most ... direct about it." Burrich paused, and I wondered what better word he had rejected. He looked away from me. "There was a time when I'd hoped this chance would be offered you, but when it wasn't, I thought, well, perhaps it's for the best. Galen can be a hard teacher. A very hard teacher. I've heard talk of it before. He drives his pupils, but he claims he expects no more of them than he does of himself. And, boy, I've heard that gossiped about me, too, if you can credit it."

  I permitted myself a small smile, that brought an answering scowl from Burrich.

  "Listen to what I'm telling you. Galen makes no secret that he has no fondness for you. Of course, he doesn't know you at all, so it's not your fault. It's based solely on ... what you are, and what you caused, and God knows that wasn't your fault. But if Galen admitted that, then he'd have to admit it was Chivalry's fault, and I've never known him to admit that Chivalry had any faults ... but you can love a man and know better than that about him." Burrich took a brisk turn around the room, then came back to the fire.

  "Just tell me what you want to say," I suggested.

  "I'm trying," he snapped. "It's not easy to know what to say. I'm not even sure if I should be speaking to you. Is this interference, or counsel? But your lessons haven't started yet. So I say this now. Do your best for him. Don't talk back to Galen. Be respectful and courteous. Listen to all he says and learn it as well and quickly as you can." He paused again.

  "I hadn't intended to do otherwise," I pointed out a bit tartly, for I could tell that none of this was what Burrich was trying to say.

  "I know that, Fitz!" He sighed suddenly, and threw himself down at the table opposite me. With the heels of both hands he pressed at his temples, as if pained. I had never seen him so agitated. "A long time ago I talked to you about that other ... magic. The Wit. The being with the beasts, almost becoming one of them." He paused and glanced about the room as if worried someone would hear. He leaned in closer to me and spoke softly but urgently. "Stay clear of it. I've tried my best to get you to see it's shameful and wrong. But I've never really felt that you agreed. Oh, I know you've abided by my rule against it, most of the time. But a few times I've sensed, or suspected, that you were tinkering with things no good man touches. I tell you, Fitz, I'd sooner see ... I'd sooner see you Forged. Yes, don't look so shocked, that's truly how I feel. And as for Galen ... Look, Fitz, don't even mention it to him. Don't speak of it, don't even think of it near him. It's little that I know about the Skill and how it works. But sometimes ... oh, sometimes when your father touched me with it, it seemed he knew my heart before I did, and saw things that I kept buried even from myself."

  A sudden deep blush suffused Burrich's dark face, and almost I thought I saw tears stand in his dark eyes. He turned aside from me to the fire, and I sensed we were coming to the heart of what he needed to say. Needed, not wanted. There was a deep fear in him, one he denied himself. A lesser man, a man less stern with himself, would have trembled with it.

  "... fear for you, boy." He spoke to the stones above the mantelpiece, and his voice was so deep a rumble that I almost couldn't understand him.

  "Why?" A simple question unlocks best, Chade had taught me.

  "I don't know if he will see it in you. Or what he will do if he does. I've heard ... no. I know it's true. There was a woman, actually, little more than a girl. She had a way with birds. She lived in the hills to the west of here, and it was said she could call a wild hawk from the sky. Some folk admired her, and said it was a gift. They took sick poultry to her, or called her in when hens wouldn't set their eggs. She did aught but good, for all I heard. But Galen spoke out against her. Said she was an abomination, and that it would be the worse for the world if she lived to breed. And one morning she was found beaten to death."

  "Galen did it?"

  Burrich shrugged, a gesture most unlike him. "His horse had been out of the stable that night. That much I know. And his hands were bruised, and he had scratches on his face and neck. But not the scratches a woman would have dealt him, boy. Talon marks, as if a hawk had tried to strike him."

  "And you said nothing?" I asked incredulously.

  He barked a bitter laugh. "Another spoke before I could. Galen was accused, by the girl's cousin, who happened to work here in the stables. Galen would not deny it. They went out to the Witness Stones and fought one another for El's justice, which always prevails there. Higher than the King's court is the answer to a question settled there, and no one may dispute it. The boy died. Everyone said it was the El's justice, that the boy had accused Galen falsely. One said it to Galen. And he replied that El's justice was that the girl had died before she bred, and her tainted cousin, too."

  Burrich fell silent. I was queasy with what he had told me, and a cold fear snaked through me. A question once decided at the Witness Stones could not be raised again. That was more than law, it was the very will of the gods. So I was to be taught by a man who was a murderer, a man who would try to kill me if he suspected I had the Wit.

  "Yes," Burrich said as if I had spoken aloud. "Oh, Fitz, my son, be careful, be wise." And for a moment I wondered, for it sounded as if he feared for me. But then he added, "Don't shame me, boy. Or your father. Don't let Galen say that I've let my prince's son grow up a half beast. Show him that Chivalry's blood runs true in you."

  "I'll try," I muttered. And I went to bed that night wretched and afraid.

  The Queen's Garden was nowhere near the Women's Garden or the kitchen garden or any other garden in Buckkeep. It was, instead, atop a circular tower. The garden walls were high on the sides that faced the sea, but to the south and west, the walls were low and had seats along them. The stone walls captured the warmth of the sun and fended off the salt winds-from the sea. The air was still there, almost as if hands were cupped over my ears. Yet there was a strange wildness to the garden founded on stone. There were rock basins, perhaps birdbaths or water gardens at one time, and various tubs and pots and troughs of earth, intermingled with statuary. At one time the tubs and pots had probably overflowed with greenery and flowers. Of the plants, only a few stalks and the mossy earth in the tubs remained. The skeleton of a vine crawled over a half-rotted trellis. It filled me with an old sadness colder than the first chill of winter that was also here. Patience should have had this, I thought. She would bring life here again.

  I was the first to arrive. August came soon after. He had Verity's broad build, much as I had Chivalry's height, and the dark Farseer coloring. As always, he was distant but polite. He dealt me a nod and then strolled about, looking at the statuary.

  Others appeared rapidly after him. I was surprised at how many, over a dozen. Other than August, son of the King's sister, no one could boast so much Farseer blood as I could. There were cousins and second cousins, of both sexes, and both younger and older than I. August was probably the youngest, at two years my junior, and Serene, a woman in her mid twenties, was probably the eldest. It was an oddly subdued group. A few clustered, talking softly, but most drifted about, poking at the empty gardens or looking at the statues.

  Then Galen came.

  He let the door of the stairwell slam shut behind him. Several of the others jumped. He stood regarding us, and we in turn looked at him in silence.

  There is something I have observed about skinny men. Some, like Chade, seem so preoccupied with their lives that they either forget to eat, or burn every bit of sustenance
they take in the fires of their passionate fascination with life. But there is another type, one who goes about the world cadaverously, cheeks sunken, bones jutting, and one senses that he so disapproves of the whole of the world that he begrudges every bit of it that he takes inside himself. At that moment I would have wagered that Galen had never truly enjoyed one bite of food or one swallow of drink in his life.

  His dress puzzled me. It was opulently rich, with fur at his collar and neck, and amber beading so thick on his vest it would have turned a sword. But the rich fabrics strained over him, the clothing tailored so snugly to him that one wondered if the maker had lacked sufficient fabric to finish the suit. At a time when full sleeves slashed with colors were the mark of a wealthy man, he wore his shirt as tight as a cat's skin. His boots were high and fitted to his calves, and he carried a little quirt, as if come straight from riding. His clothing looked uncomfortable and combined with his thinness to give an impression of stinginess.

  His pale eyes swept the Queen's Garden dispassionately. He considered us, and immediately dismissed us as wanting. He breathed out through his hawk's nose, as does a man facing an unpleasant chore. "Clear a space," he directed us. "Push all this rubbish to one side. Stack it there, against that wall. Quickly, now. I have no patience with sluggards."

  And so the last lines of the garden were destroyed. The arrangements of the pots and beds that had been shadows of the little walks and arbors that had once existed here were swept aside. The pots were moved to one side, the lovely little statues stacked crookedly atop them. Galen spoke only once, to me. "Hurry up, bastard," he ordered me as I struggled with a heavy pot of earth, and he brought down his riding crop across my shoulders. It was not much of a blow, more a tap, but it seemed so contrived that I stopped in my efforts and looked at him. "Didn't you hear me?" he demanded. I nodded, and went back to moving the pot. From the corner of my eye, I saw his odd look of satisfaction. The blow, I felt, had been a test, but I was not sure if I had passed or failed it.