by Robin Hobb
‘I have prepared a powder, tasteless in a dish, colourless in a wine. We trust to your ingenuity and discretion in applying it.’ He lifted a cover from an earthenware dish on the table. Within was a packet made of very fine paper, thinner and finer than anything Fedwren had ever shown me. Odd, how my first thought was how much my scribe master would love to work with paper like that. Inside the packet was the finest of white powders. It clung to the paper and floated in the air. Chade shielded his mouth and nose with a cloth as he tapped a careful measure of it into a twist of oiled paper. He held it out to me, and I took death upon my open palm.
‘And how does it work?’
‘Not too quickly. He will not fall dead at the table, if that is what you are asking. But if he lingers over his cup, he will feel ill. Knowing Kelvar, I suspect he will take his bubbling stomach to bed, and never awaken in the morning.’
I slipped it into my pocket. ‘Does Verity know anything of this?’
Chade considered. ‘Verity is as good as his name. He could not sit at table with a man he was poisoning and conceal it. No, in this endeavour, stealth will serve us better than truth.’ He looked me directly in the eyes. ‘You will work alone, with no counsel other than your own.’
‘I see.’ I shifted on my tall wooden stool. ‘Chade?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is this how it was for you? Your first time?’
He looked down at his hands, and for a moment he fingered the angry red scars that dotted the back of his left hand. The silence grew long, but I waited.
‘I was a year older than you are,’ he said at last. ‘And it was simply the doing of it, not the deciding if it should be done. Is that enough for you?’
I was suddenly embarrassed without knowing why. ‘I suppose,’ I mumbled.
‘Good. I know you meant no harm by it, boy. But men don’t talk about times spent among the pillows with a lady. And assassins don’t talk about … our business.’
‘Not even teacher to pupil?’
Chade looked away from me, to a dark corner of the ceiling. ‘No.’ After a moment more he added, ‘Two weeks from now, you’ll perhaps understand why.’
And that was all we ever said about it.
By my count, I was thirteen years old.
EIGHT
Lady Thyme
A history of the duchies is a study of their geography. The Court Scribe of King Shrewd, one Fedwren, was very fond of this saying. I cannot say I have ever found it wrong. Perhaps all histories are recountings of natural boundaries. The seas and ice that stood between us and the Outislanders made us separate peoples and the rich grasslands and fertile meadows of the duchies created the riches that made us enemies; perhaps that would be the first chapter of a history of the duchies. The Bear and the Vin rivers are what created the rich vineyards and orchards of Tilth, as surely as the Painted Edges Mountains rising above Sandsedge both sheltered and isolated the folk there and left them vulnerable to our organized armies.
I jerked awake before the moon had surrendered her reign over the sky, amazed that I had slept at all. Burrich had supervised my travel preparations so thoroughly the night before that, had it been left to me, I would have departed a minute after I had swallowed my morning porridge.
But such is not the way when a group of folk set out together to do anything. The sun was well over the horizon before we were all assembled and ready. ‘Royalty,’ Chade had warned me, ‘never travels light. Verity goes on this journey with the weight of the King’s sword behind him. All folk who see him pass know that without being told. The news must run ahead to Kelvar, and to Shemshy. The imperial hand is about to reconcile their differences. They must both be left wishing they had never had any differences at all. That is the trick of good government. To make folk desire to live in such a way that there is no need for its intervention.’
So Verity travelled with a pomp that clearly irritated the soldier in him. His picked troop of men wore his colours as well as the Farseer buck badges, and rode ahead of the regular troops. To my young eyes, that was impressive enough. But to keep the impact from being too martial, Verity brought with him noble companions to provide conversation and diversion at the end of the day. Hawks and hounds with their handlers, musicians and bards, one puppeteer, those who fetched and carried for the lords and ladies, those who saw to their garments and hair and the cooking of favourite dishes; baggage beasts; all trailed behind the well-mounted nobles, and made the tail of our procession.
My place was about midway in the procession. I sat a restive Sooty beside an ornate litter borne between two sedate grey geldings. Hands, one of the brighter stable-boys, had been assigned a pony and given charge of the horses bearing the litter. I would manage our baggage mule, and see to the litter’s occupant. This was the very elderly Lady Thyme whom I had never met before. When she at last appeared to mount her litter, she was so swathed in cloaks, veils and scarves that I received only the impression that she was elderly in a gaunt rather than plump way, and that her perfume caused Sooty to sneeze. She settled herself in the litter amidst a nest of cushions, blankets, furs and wraps, then immediately ordered that the curtains be drawn and fastened despite the fineness of the morning. The two little maids who had attended her darted happily away, and I was left, her sole servant. My heart sank. I had expected at least one of them to travel within the litter with her. Who was going to see to her personal needs when her pavilion was set up? I had no notion as to waiting on a woman, let alone a very elderly one. I resolved to follow Burrich’s advice for a young man dealing with elderly women: be attentive and polite, cheerful and pleasant of mien. Old women were easily won over by a personable young man. Burrich said so. I approached the litter.
‘Lady Thyme? Are you comfortable?’ I inquired. A long interval passed with no response. Perhaps she was slightly deaf. ‘Are you comfortable?’ I asked more loudly.
‘Stop bothering me, young man!’ was the surprisingly vehement response. ‘If I want you, I’ll tell you.’
‘I beg pardon,’ I quickly apologized.
‘Stop bothering me, I said!’ she rasped indignantly. And added in an undertone, ‘Stupid churl.’
At this, I had the sense to be quiet, though my dismay increased tenfold. So much for a merry and companionable ride. Eventually I heard the horns cry out and saw Verity’s pennant lifted far ahead of us. Dust drifting back told me that our foreguard had begun the journey. Long minutes passed before the horses in front of us moved. Hands started the litter horses and I chirruped to Sooty. She stepped out eagerly and the mule followed resignedly.
I well recall that day. I remember the dust hanging thick in the air from all those who preceded us, and how Hands and I conversed in lowered voices, for the first time we laughed aloud, Lady Thyme scolded, ‘Stop that noise!’ I also remember bright blue skies arching from hill to hill as we followed the gentle undulations of the coast road. There were breathtaking views of the sea from the hilltops, and flower-scented air thick and drowsy in the vales. There were also the shepherdesses, all in a row on top of a stone wall to giggle and point and blush at us while we passed. Their fleecy charges dotted the hillside behind them, and Hands and I exclaimed softly at the way they had bundled their bright skirts to one side and knotted them up, leaving their knees and legs bare to the sun and wind. Sooty was restive and bored with our slow pace, while poor Hands was constantly nudging his old pony in the ribs to make it keep up.
We stopped twice during the day, to allow riders to dismount and stretch, and to let the horses water. Lady Thyme did not emerge from her litter, but one time tartly reminded me that I should have brought her water by now. I bit my tongue and fetched her a drink. It was as close as we came to conversation.
We halted when the sun was still above the horizon. Hands and I erected Lady Thyme’s small pavilion while she dined within her litter from a wicker basket of cold meat, cheese and wine that she had thoughtfully provided for herself. Hands and I fared more poorly, on soldier’s rati
ons of hard bread and harder cheese and dried meat. In the midst of my meal, Lady Thyme demanded that I escort her from the litter to her pavilion. She emerged draped and veiled as if for a blizzard. Her finery was of varying colours and degrees of age, but all had been both expensive and well cut at one time. Now, as she leaned heavily on me and tottered along, I smelled a repulsive cacophony of dust and mildew and perfume, with an underlying scent of urine. She tartly dismissed me at the door, and warned me that she had a knife and would use it if I attempted to enter and bother her in any way. ‘And well do I know how to use it, young man!’ she threatened me.
Our sleeping accommodations were also the same as the soldiers’: the ground and our cloaks. But the night was fine and we made a small fire. Hands teased and giggled about my supposed lust for Lady Thyme and the knife that awaited me if I should attempt to satisfy it. That led to a wrestling match between us, until Lady Thyme shrilled threats at us for keeping her awake. Then we spoke softly as Hands told me that no one had envied my assignment to her; that anyone who had ever journeyed with her avoided her ever after. He warned me also that my worst task was yet to come, but adamantly refused, though his eyes brimmed with tears of laughter, to let me know what it was. I fell asleep easily, for boy-like, I had put my true mission out of my head until I should have to face it.
I awoke at dawn to the twittering of birds and the over-whelming stench of a brimming chamberpot outside Lady Thyme’s pavilion. Though my stomach had been hardened by cleaning stables and kennels, it was all I could force myself to do to dump it and cleanse it before returning it to her. By then she was harpying at me through the tent door that I had not yet brought her water, hot or cold, nor cooked her porridge whose ingredients she had set out. Hands had disappeared, to share the troop’s fire and rations, leaving me to deal with my tyrant. By the time I had served her on a tray that she assured me was slovenly arranged, and cleaned the dishes and pot and returned all to her, the rest of the procession was almost ready to leave. But she would not allow her pavilion to be struck until she was safely within her litter. We accomplished that packing in a frantic haste and I found myself finally on my horse without a crumb of breakfast inside me.
I was ravenous after my morning’s work. Hands regarded my glum face with some sympathy and motioned me to ride closer to him. He leaned over to speak to me.
‘Everyone but us had heard of her before.’ This with a furtive nod toward Lady Thyme’s litter. ‘The stench she makes every morning is a legend. Whitelock says she used to go along on a lot of Chivalry’s trips … She has relatives all over the Six Duchies, and not much to do except visit them. All the men in the troop say they learned a long time ago to stay out of her range or she puts them to a bunch of useless errands. Oh, and Whitelock sent you this. He says not to expect to sit down and eat as long as you’re tending her. But he’ll try to set aside a bit for you each morning.’
Hands passed me a wad of camp-bread with three rashers of bacon greasily cold inside it. It tasted wonderful. I wolfed down the first few bites greedily.
‘Churl!’ shrilled Lady Thyme from inside her pavilion. ‘What are you doing up there? Discussing your betters, I’ve no doubt. Get back to your position! How are you to see to my needs if you’re gallivanting ahead like that?’
I quickly reined Sooty in and dropped back to a position alongside the litter. I swallowed a great lump of bread and bacon and managed to ask, ‘Is there anything your ladyship requires?’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ she snapped. ‘And stop bothering me. Stupid clod.’
And so it went. The road followed the coastline, and at our laden pace it took us a full five days to reach Neatbay. Other than two small villages, our scenery consisted of windswept cliffs, gulls, meadows and occasional stands of twisted and stunted trees. Yet to me it seemed full of beauties and wonders, for every bend in the road brought me to a place I had never seen before.
As our journey wore on, Lady Thyme became more tyrannical. By the fourth day she had a constant stream of complaints, few of which I could do anything about. Her litter swayed too much; it was making her ill. The water I brought from a stream was too cold, that from my own water bags too warm. The men and horses ahead of us were raising too much dust; they were doing it on purpose, she was sure. And tell them to stop singing those rude songs. With her to deal with I had no time to think about killing or not killing Lord Kelvar, even if I had wanted to.
Early on the fifth day we saw the rising smoke of Neatbay. By noon we could pick out the larger buildings and the Neatbay watchtower on the cliffs above the town. Neatbay was a much gentler piece of land than Buckkeep. Our road wound down through a wide valley. The blue waters of Neatbay itself opened wide before us. The beaches were sandy, and their fishing fleet was all shallow draught vessels with flat bottoms, or spunky little dories that rode the waves like gulls. Neatbay didn’t have the deep anchorage that Buckkeep did, so it was not the shipping and trading port that we were, but all the same it seemed to me it would have been a fine place to live.
Kelvar sent an honour guard to meet us, so there was a delay as they exchanged formalities with Verity’s troops. ‘Like two dogs sniffing each other’s bung-holes,’ Hands observed sourly. By standing in my stirrups, I was able to see far enough down the line to observe the official posturings, and grudgingly nodded my agreement. Eventually we got under way again, and were soon riding through the streets of Neatbay town itself.
Everyone else proceeded straight up to Kelvar’s keep, but Hands and I were obliged to escort Lady Thyme’s litter through several backstreets to reach the particular inn that she insisted on using. From the look on the chambermaid’s face, she had guested there before. Hands took the litter horses and litter to the stables, but I had to endure her leaning heavily on my arm as I escorted her to her chamber. I wondered what she had eaten that had been so foully spiced as to make her every breath a trial to me. She dismissed me at the door, warning myriad punishments if I didn’t return promptly in seven days. As I left, I felt sympathy for the chambermaid, for Lady Thyme’s voice was lifted in a loud tirade about thieving maids she had encountered in the past, and exactly how she wanted the bed linens arranged on the bed.
With a light heart I mounted Sooty and called to Hands to make haste. We cantered through the streets of Neatbay, and managed to rejoin the tail of Verity’s procession as they entered Kelvar’s keep. Bayguard was built on flat land that offered little natural defence, but was fortified by a series of walls and ditches that an enemy would have had to surmount before facing the stout stone walls of the keep. Hands told me that raiders had never got past the second ditch and I believed him. Workmen were doing maintenance on the walls and ditches as we passed, but they halted and watched in wonder as the King-in-Waiting came to Bayguard.
Once keep gates closed behind us, there was another interminable welcoming ceremony. Men and horses and all, we were kept standing in the midday sun while Kelvar and Bayguard welcomed Verity. Horns sounded and then the mutter of official voicings muted by shifting horses and men. But at last it was over. This was signalled by a sudden general movement of men and beasts as the formations ahead of us broke up.
Men dismounted and Kelvar’s stable-folk were suddenly among us, directing us where to water our mounts, where we might rest for the night, and most important to any soldier, where we might ourselves wash and eat. I fell in beside Hands as we led Sooty and his pony toward the stables. I heard my name called and turned to see Sig from Buckkeep pointing me out to someone in Kelvar’s colours.
‘There he be: that’s the fitz. Ho, Fitz! Sitswell here says you’re summoned. Verity wants you in his chamber; Leon’s sick. Hands, you take Sooty for the fitz.’
I could almost feel the food being snatched from my jaws. But I took a breath and presented a cheerful countenance to Sitswell, as Burrich had counselled me. I doubt that dour man even noticed. To him I was just one more boy underfoot on a hectic day. He took me to Verity’s chamber and
left me, obviously relieved to return to his stables. I tapped softly and Verity’s man opened the door at once.
‘Ah! Thank Eda it’s you. Come in, then, for the beast won’t eat and Verity’s sure it’s serious. Hurry up, Fitz.’
The man wore Verity’s badge, but was no one I remembered having met. Sometimes it was disconcerting how many folk knew who I was when I had no inkling who they were. In an adjoining chamber Verity was splashing and instructing someone loudly about what garments he wished for the evening. But he was not my concern. Leon was.
Leon was Verity’s wolfhound. I groped toward him, for I had no qualms about it when Burrich wasn’t about, Leon lifted his bony head and regarded me with martyred eyes. He was lying on Verity’s sweaty shirt in a corner by a cold hearth. He was too hot, he was bored, and if we weren’t going to hunt anything he wanted to go home.
I made a show of running my hands over him and lifting his lips to examine his gums and then pressing my hand down firmly on his belly. I finished all this by scratching behind his ears and then told Verity’s man, ‘There’s nothing wrong with him, he just isn’t hungry. Let’s give him a bowl of cold water and wait. When he wants to eat, he’ll let us know. And let’s take away all this, before it spoils in this heat and he eats it anyway and becomes really sick.’ I referred to a dish already overfilled with scraps of pastries from a tray that had been set for Verity. None of it was fit for the dog, but I was so hungry I wouldn’t have minded dining off the scraps myself; in fact my stomach growled at the sight of it. ‘I wonder if I found the kitchens, perhaps they would have a fresh, beef bone for him? Something that’s more toy than food is what he would welcome most now …’
‘Fitz? Is that you? In here, boy! What’s troubling my Leon?’
‘I’ll fetch the bone,’ the man assured me, and I rose and stepped to the entrance of the adjoining room.
Verity rose dripping from his bath and took the proffered towel from his serving-man. He towelled his hair briskly and then again demanded as he dried himself, ‘What’s the matter with Leon?’