by Robin Hobb
It had felt so strange to remind my master of his own wisdom. I had watched him grudgingly nod to it. While he pored over the archaic lettering, muttering as his pen flowed a clear translation onto paper, I had carefully read the more accessible scroll. Then I had read it again, hoping it would make more sense. On my third attempt, I found myself nodding off over the old, blurred lettering. Chade had leaned across the table to clasp my wrist gently. "Go to bed, boy," he ordered me gruffly. "Lack of sleep makes a man stupid, and this will demand your best wits." I had conceded and left him there, still hunched over his pen and paper.
I shifted onto my back. I ached from all the stairs I had climbed today. Well, as long as I could not sleep, I might as well see what good I could do. I closed my eyes to the pressing darkness and composed myself. I emptied my mind of my concerns, and tried only to recall the last dream I had had of the boy and the cat. I conjured up their exhilaration at the night and the hunt. I summoned my recollection of the scents that had flavored the air, and reached for the indefinable aura of a dream not my own. Almost I could enter that dream, but that was not what I sought. I tried to recall a tenuous Skill-link I had not been aware of at the time I experienced it.
Prince Dutiful. The son of my body. These titles in my mind had no impressions attached to them, yet oddly they interfered with what I was trying to do. My preconceived notions of Dutiful, my possessive idealizations of what my natural son would be like, stood between me and the frail threads of the Skill-link I sought to untangle. From somewhere in the keep, the stone bones of the castle carried a stray bit of music to my ears. It distracted me. I blinked at the dark before me. I had lost all sense of time; night stretched eternally around me. I hated this windowless room, shut of from the natural world. I hated the confinement I had to endure. I had lived with the wolf too long to find it tolerable, In frustration, I abandoned the Skill and reached out with the Wit for my companion. He still had up the guard he had so often employed of late. I could sense him sleeping, and as I leaned against his walls, I felt the dull thunder of pain in his hips and back. I withdrew quickly when I sensed that my focusing on his pain was bringing it to the forefront of his mind. I had sensed no fear or foreboding in him, only weariness and aching joints. I wrapped him in my thoughts, drawing gratefully on his senses.
I'm sleeping, he grumpily informed me. Then, You're worried about something?
It's nothing. I just wanted to know you were fine.
Oh, yes, we're fine. We've had a lovely day of walking down a dry, dusty road. Now we're sleeping at the edge of it, Then, more kindly, he added, Don't worry about things you can't change. I'll be with you soon.
Watch Hap for me.
Of course. Go to sleep.
I could smell damp grass and the waning smoke of the campfire, and even Hap's salty sweat as he lay nearby. It reassured me. All was well in my world, then. I let go of all save those simple sensations and finally spiraled down into sleep.
"Might I remind you that you are to serve as my valet, not the reverse?"
The words that jolted me from sleep were spoken with Lord Golden's arrogant sneer, but the smile on the Fool's face was entirely his own. A set of clothing hung over his arm, and I could smell warm, scented water. He was already faultlessly dressed in garb that was even more elegantly understated than what he had worn yesterday. His colors today were cream and forest green, with a thin edging of gilt at his cuffs and collar. He wore a new earring, a filigreed golden orb. I knew what was inside it. He looked fresh and alert. I sat up and then cradled my aching head in my hands.
"Skill-headache?" he asked sympathetically.
I shook my head and the pain rattled inside it. "I only wish it were," I muttered. I glanced up at him. "I'm just tired."
"I thought perhaps you would sleep in the tower."
"It didn't feel right." I rose and tried to stretch but my back kinked in protest. The Fool set the clothing across the foot of the bed, and then sat down on my rumpled blankets. "So. Any thoughts on where our Prince might be?"
"Too many. Anywhere in Buck Duchy, or even beyond the borders by now. There are too many nobles who might want to take him. If he ran on his own, that only increases the number of places he might have gone." The wash water was still steaming. A few leaves of lemon balm floated fragrantly on the surface of the plain pottery bowl. I plunged my face into it gratefully and came up rubbing my hands over my face. I felt more awake and aware of the world. "I need a bath. Are the steam baths behind the guard barracks still there?"
"Yes, but servants don't use them. You'll have to be wary of falling back into old habits. Personal servants, generally speaking, get the second use of their master's or mistress's bathwater. Or they haul their own from the kitchens."
I gave him a look. "I'll haul my own tonight." I proceeded to make the best use I could of the handbasin while he sat and silently watched me. While I was shaving, he observed quietly, "You'll have to get up earlier tomorrow. All the kitchen staff know that I'm an early riser."
I looked at him in consternation. "And?"
"And they'll be expecting my servant to come down for my breakfast tray."
The sense sank in slowly. He was right. I needed to do a better job of stepping into my role if I was to find out anything useful. "I'll go now," I offered.
He shook his head. "Not looking like that. Lord Golden is a proud and temperamental man. He would not keep such a rough-thatched servant as you show yourself now. We must make you look your part. Come here and sit down,"
I followed him out into the light and air of the master chamber. He had set out comb, brush, and shears on his table, and propped a large mirror on it. I steeled myself to endure this. I crossed to the door to be sure it was securely bolted against untimely intrusion. Then I sat in a chair and waited for him to lop my hair into a servant's short cut.
I freed my hair from its tail as Lord Golden took up the shears. When I looked into his ornately framed mirror, I saw a man I scarcely recognized. There is something about a large glass and seeing oneself all at once. Starling was right, I decided. I did look much older than my years. When leaned back from the mirror and regarded my face, I was surprised to see how my scar had faded. It was still there as a seam, but it was not as remarkable as it had been on a young man's unlined face. The Fool let me look at myself for a time in silence. Then he gathered my hair into his hands. I glanced up at his face in the mirror. His lower lip was caught in his teeth in an agony of indecision. Abruptly he clacked the shears back onto the table. "No," he said emphatically. "I can't bring myself to do it, and I don't think we need to." He took a breath, then rapidly curried my hair back into its warrior tail. "Try the clothing," he urged me. "I had to guess at size, but no one expects a servant's clothing to be well tailored."
I went back to the small chamber and looked at the garments draped across the foot of my cot. They were cut from the familiar blue homespun that servants at Buckkeep had always worn. It was not all that different from the clothing I had worn as a child. But as I put it on, it felt different. I was donning the garments that marked me to all eyes as a servingman. A disguise, I told myself. I was not truly anyone's servant. But with a sudden pang, I wondered how Molly had felt the first time she had donned the blue dress of a servinggirl. Bastard or not, I was the son of a prince. I had never expected to wear the garments of a servant. In place of my Farseer charging buck, there was an embroidery of Lord Golden's golden cock pheasant. Yet the garments fit me well, and, "Actually, these are the best quality clothes I've worn in years," I ruefully admitted. The Fool leaned round the door to look at me, and for a second I thought I saw anxiety in his eyes. But at the sight of me, he grinned, then made a show of walking a slow circle of inspection around me.
"You'll do, Tom Badgerlock. There are boots by the door, made a good three finger-widths longer than my foot, and wider, too. Best you put your things away in the chest, so that if anyone does become curious to look about our rooms, there will be nothing to arouse
suspicion."
This I did hastily while the Fool quickly tidied his own chamber. Verity's sword went under the clothing in my chest. There were scarcely enough garments to cover it. The boots fit as well as new boots usually did. Time would make them comfortable.
"I'm sure you remember the way to the kitchens. I always eat my breakfast on a tray in my room; the kitchen boys will be glad to see you're taking on the task of bringing it to me. It may give you an opening for gossip." He paused. "Tell them I ate little last night and hence am ravenous this morning. Then bring up enough for both of us."
It was strange to have him direct me so minutely, but, I reminded myself, I had best get used to it. So I bobbed a bow at him and essayed a "Yes, sir," before I went out of the door of the chamber. He started to smile, caught himself, and inclined a slow nod to me.
Outside the chamber, the castle was well awake. Other servants were busy, replenishing candles and sweeping soiled rushes away or scurrying about with fresh linens or buckets of wash water. Perhaps it was my new perspective, but it seemed to me that there were far more servants in Buckkeep than I recalled. It was not the only aspect that had changed. Queen Kettricken's Mountain ways were more in evidence than ever. In her years of residence, the inside of the castle had been raised to a new standard of cleanliness. A sparse simplicity characterized the rooms passed, replacing decades of ornate clutter that had once filled them. The tapestries and banners that remained were clean and free of cobwebs.
But in the kitchens, Cook Sara still reigned. I stepped into the steam and smells and it was like stepping through a doorway back into my boyhood. As Chade had told me, the old cook was ensconced on a chair rather than bustling from hearth to table to hearth, but clearly food was cooked in Buckkeep kitchens as it had always been cooked. I wrenched my eyes from Sara's ample form, lest she catch my gaze and somehow know me. I humbly tugged at the sleeve of a servingboy to make Lord Golden's breakfast wishes known to him. The boy pointed out the trays, dishes, and cutlery and then gestured wide at the cooking hearths. "Yer his servant, not me," he pointed out snippily, and went back to chopping turnips. I scowled at him, but was inwardly grateful. I had soon served up enough for two very ample breakfasts onto the tray. I whisked it and myself out of the kitchen.
I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a familiar voice in conversation. I halted and then leaned on the balustrade to look down. Unbidden, a smile came to my face. Queen Kettricken strode through the hall below, a half-dozen ladies struggling valiantly to keep pace with her. I knew none of her ladies; they were all young, none much past twenty. They had been children when last I was at Buckkeep. One looked vaguely familiar, but perhaps I had known her mother. My gaze fixed on the Queen.
Kettricken's shining hair, still gloriously golden, was looped and pinned about her head in a crown of braids. She wore a simple circlet of silver atop her head. She was dressed in russet brown with an embroidered yellow kirtle, and her skirts rustled as she walked. Her ladies emulated her simple style without being able to capture it, for it was Kettricken's innate grace that lent elegance to her unpretentious garb. Despite the years that had passed, her posture and stride were still upright and unfettered. She walked with purpose, but I saw a stillness captured in her face. Some part of her was constantly aware of her missing son, and yet she still moved through the court as a queen. My heart stood still at the sight of her. I thought how proud Verity would be of this woman and, "Oh, my Queen," I breathed to myself.
She halted in mid-stride and I almost heard the intake of her breath. She glanced about and then up, her eyes meeting mine across the distance. In the shadow of the Great Hall, I could not see her blue gaze, but somehow I felt it. For an instant our eyes locked, but her face held puzzlement, not recognition.
I felt the sudden thwack of fingers against the side of my head. I turned to my attacker, too amazed to be angry. A gentleman of the Court, taller than I, looked down on me in sharp disapproval. His words were clipped. "You are obviously new to Buckkeep, oaf. Here, the servants are not permitted to stare so brazenly at the Queen. Be about your business. After this, remember your place, or soon you will have no place to remember."
I looked down at the tray of food I gripped, struggling to control my face. Anger filled me. I knew that my face had darkened with blood. It took every bit of my will to avert my eyes and bob my head. "Your pardon, sir. I will remember." I hoped he took my strangled voice for crushed humiliation rather than rage. Gripping the sides of the tray tightly, I continued my journey up the stairs as he went down and did not allow myself to glance over the balustrade to see if my Queen watched me go.
A servant. A servant, I am a loyal, well-trained manservant. I am newly come from the country, but well recommended, so I am a mannered servant, accustomed to discipline. Accustomed to humiliation. Or was I? When l had followed Lord Golden into Buckkeep, Verity's blade in its plain scabbard had hung at my side. Surely, some would have marked that. My complexion and the scars on my hands marked me as a man who lived more out-of-doors than in. If I was to play this role, then it must be believable, It must be a role I could endure, as well as one I could act convincingly.
At Lord Golden's door, I knocked, paused discreetly to allow my master to expect me, then entered. The Fool was at the casement looking out. I carefully closed the door behind me, latched it, and then set down the tray on the table. As I began to lay out the meal, I spoke to his back. "I am Tom Badgerlock, your servant. I was recommended to you as a fellow who was educated above his station by an indulgent master, but kept more for his blade than his manners. You chose me because you wanted a manservant capable of being your bodyguard as well as your valet. You have heard that I am moody and occasionally quick-tempered, but you are willing to try me to see if I will serve your purpose. I am… forty-two years old. The scars I bear I took defending my last master from an attack by three no, six highwaymen. I killed them all. I am not a man to be provoked lightly. When my last master died, he left me a small bequest that enabled me to live simply. But now my son has come of age, and I wished to apprentice him in Buckkeep Town. You persuaded me to return to service as away to defray my expenses."
Lord Golden had turned from the window. His aristocratic hands clasped one another as he listened to my soliloquy. When I had finished, he nodded. "I like it, Tom Badgerlock. Such a coup for Lord Golden, to have a manservant who is just a tiny bit dangerous to keep about. Such an air shall I put on over having hired such a man! You will do, Tom. You will do well."
He advanced to the table, and I drew his chair out for him. He seated himself, and looked over the setting and dishes I had prepared for him. "Excellent. This is exactly to my liking. Tom, keep this up, and I shall have to raise your wages." He lifted his gaze to meet mine. "Sit down and eat with me," the Fool suggested.
I shook my head. "Best I practice my manners, sir. Tea?"
For an instant the Fool looked horrified. Then Lord Golden lifted a napkin and patted at his lips. "Please."
I poured for him.
"This son of yours, Tom. I have not met him. He's in Buckkeep Town, is he?"
"I told him to follow me here, sir." I suddenly realized I had told Hap little more than that. He would arrive with a weary old pony pulling a rickety cart with an aging wolf in it. I had not gone to Jinna's niece, to ask her to expect him. What if she took affront at my assumption that my boy could come there? Like a wave breaking over me, my other life caught up with me. I'd made no provisions for him. He knew no one else in Buckkeep Town, save Starling, and I did not even know if she was currently in residence here. Besides, with relations strained between us, Hap was unlikely to turn to her for aid.
I suddenly knew I had to seek out the hedge-witch and be sure my boy would be accepted there. I'd leave a message for Hap with her. And I had to approach Chade immediately about making provisions for him. Given what I knew now, it seemed a cold bargain and my heart shrank within me at the thought of it. I could always borrow the money from the Fool. I w
inced at the thought. Just what are my wages? I prompted myself to ask. But the words could not find their way to my tongue.
Lord Golden pushed back from his table. "You are quiet, Tom Badgerlock. When your son does arrive, I expect you to present him to me. For now, I think I shall let you have this first morning to yourself. Tidy up here, get to know the castle and the grounds." He looked me over critically. "Fetch me paper, quill, and ink. I will write you a letter of credit to Scrandon the tailor. I expect you will find his shop easily enough. You knew it of old. You need to be measured for more clothing, some for everyday, and some for when I want you to show well. If you are bodyguard as well as valet, then I think it fitting that you stand behind my chair at formal dinners and accompany me when I ride, And go also to Croy's. He has a weapons stall down near the smithy's lane. Look through his used swords and find yourself a serviceable blade."
I nodded to each of his orders. I went to a small desk in the corner to set out pen and ink for my master. Behind me, the Fool spoke quietly. "Both Hod's work and Verity's blade are likely to be too well remembered here at Buckkeep Castle. I'd advise you to keep that blade in Chade's old tower room."
I did not look at him as I replied. "I shall. And I shall also be speaking to the Weaponsmaster, to ask him to provide me a practice partner. I shall tell him my skills are a bit rusty and you want me to sharpen them. Who was Prince Dutiful's drill partner?"
The Fool knew. He always knew things like that. He spoke as he took his seat at the writing desk. "Cresswell was his instructor, but he paired him most often with a young woman named Delleree. But you can't very well ask for her by name… hmm. Tell him you'd like to work with someone who fights with two swords, to sharpen your defense skills. I believe that is her specialty."