Читать книгу The Complete Tawny Man Trilogy: Fool’s Errand, The Golden Fool, Fool’s Fate - Робин Хобб - Страница 25

The depredations of the Red Ship War took their heaviest tolls on the Coastal Duchies. Old fortunes were decimated, family lines failed, and once-proud holdings were reduced to ashy ruins and weedy courtyards. Yet in the wake of the war, just as seedlings sprout in the spring after a lightning fire, so too did many of the minor nobility find their fortunes swelling. Many of the humbler holdings had escaped the raiders’ attention. Flocks and crops survived, and what would once have seemed a secondary property came to be seen as places of plenty. The lesser lords and ladies of these lands suddenly found themselves seen as desirable matches for the heirs of older but suddenly less wealthy family lines. Thus the widowed lord of the Bresinga holdings near Galeton took a much younger and wealthier bride from amongst the Earwood family of Lesser Tor in Buck. The Earwood family was an old and noble line that had dwindled in both standing and wealth. Yet in the years of the Red Ship War, their sheltered valley prospered and shared harvest with the devastated folk of the Bresinga holdings that bordered them. This kindness bore fruit for the Earwood family when Jaglea Earwood became Lady Bresinga. She bore to her elderly lord an heir, Civil Bresinga, shortly before his death from a fever.

Scribe Duvlen’s A History of the Earwood Line

Lord Golden moved with the grace and certainty that is supposedly bone-bred in the nobility. Unerringly he led me to an elegant antechamber where his hostess and her son awaited him. Laurel was there, attired in a simple gown of soft cream trimmed with lace. She was deep in conversation with the Bresinga Huntsman. I thought that the gown did not suit her as well as her simple tunic and riding breeches had, for her tanned arms and face seemed to make the dainty lace at the collar and belled sleeves incongruous on her. Lady Bresinga was elaborately flounced and draped for dinner, the abundance of her garments swelling the proportions of her bust and hips. There were three other guests: a married couple and their daughter of about seventeen, obviously local gentry. All had been waiting for Lord Golden.

Their reaction when we entered was everything the Fool had claimed it would be. Lady Bresinga turned to greet her guest, smiling. Her eyes swept over him, widening with pleasure. ‘Our honoured guest is here,’ she announced. Lord Golden turned his head slightly to one side, tucking his chin in with an innocent air as if he were unaware of his own beauty. Laurel stared at him in frank admiration as Lady Bresinga introduced Lord Golden to Lord and Lady Grayling of Cotterhills and their daughter Sydel. Their names were unfamiliar but I seemed to recall Cotterhills as a tiny holding in the foothills of Farrow. Sydel’s cheeks grew pink and she appeared almost flustered at being included in Lord Golden’s bow, and after that, the young gentlewoman’s gaze appeared fixed on him. Her mother’s eyes had wandered over to me and were frankly appraising me in a way that should have made her blush. I glanced away only to find Laurel looking at me with a bemused smile, as if she had forgotten she knew me. I could almost feel Lord Golden’s radiant satisfaction in how he had turned their heads.

He offered his arm to Lady Bresinga, and her son Civil escorted Sydel. Lord and Lady Grayling followed and then came the Huntmasters. I followed my betters into the dining room and took up my post behind Lord Golden’s chair. My position proclaimed me bodyguard as well as servant. Lady Bresinga glanced at me questioningly but I did not meet her eyes. If she thought that Lord Golden had breached her hospitality by having me accompany him, she did not comment on it. Young Civil simply stared for a moment or two, and then shrugged off my presence with a quiet aside to his companion. And after that, I became invisible.

I think it was the most curious vantage point I’d ever held in my spying career. It was not comfortable. I was hungry, and Lady Bresinga’s board was loaded with dishes both savoury and sweet. The servants who brought and cleared away the repast passed right before me. I was also weary and aching from the long day’s ride, yet I forced myself to stand as still as possible, with no restless shifting, and to keep my eyes and my ears open.

All the talk at the table had to do with game and hunting. Lord Grayling and his lady and daughter were avid hunters, and evidently had been invited for this reason. Almost immediately, another common thread emerged. They hunted, not with hounds, but with cats. Lord Golden professed himself a complete novice at this sort of sport and begged them to enlighten him. They were only too pleased to do so, and the conversation soon bogged down into intricate arguments as to which breed of hunting cat did better on birds, with various tales exchanged to illustrate the different breeds’ prowess. The Bresingas were vocal in support of a short-tailed breed called ealynex, while Lord Grayling vociferously offered heavy wagers that his gruepards would take the day regardless of whether they sought birds or hares.

Lord Golden was a most flattering listener, asking avid questions and expressing amazement and fascination at the replies. The cats, he learned for both of us, were not coursing beasts, at least not in the same manner as hounds. Each hunter took a single feline, and it rode to the hunt on a special cushion, secured just behind its master’s saddle. The larger gruepards could be loosed against game up to the size of young deer. They relied on a burst of speed to catch their prey, and then suffocated it to death with a throat hold. The smaller ealynex was more often set loose in tall grassy meadows or underbrush, where it stalked its prey until it could leap upon it. It preferred to stun with a blow from a swift paw, or to break the neck or back with a single bite. It was sport, we learned, to loose such beasts upon a flock of tame pigeons or doves, to see how many they could bat to the ground before the whole flock took flight. Often these smaller, bob-tailed cats were matched against one another in bird batting competitions, with sizeable wagers riding on the favourites. The Bresingas boasted no less than twenty-two cats of both types in their hunting stables. The Graylings had only the gruepards, and but six of them in their clowder, but Lady Bresinga assured Lord Golden that her friend was fortunate in possessing some of the best breeding lines she had ever seen.

‘Then they are bred, these hunting cats? I was told that they had to be captured, that they would not breed if tamed.’ Lord Golden fastened his attention on the Bresingas’ Huntmaster.

‘Oh, the gruepards will breed, but only if they are allowed to carry out their mating battles and harsh courtship without interference. The enclosure Lord Grayling has devoted to this purpose is quite large, and no human must ever enter it. We are quite fortunate that his efforts in that regard have been successful. Prior to this, as you perhaps know, all gruepards were brought in from either Chalced or the Sandsedge regions of Farrow, all at great expense, of course. They were quite rare in this area when I was a boy, but the moment I saw one, I knew that was the hunting beast for me. And I hope I don’t sound a braggart in saying that, since the gruepards were so expensive, I was one of the first who thought of trying to tame our native ealynex to the same task. Hunting with the ealynex was quite unknown in Buck until my uncle and I first caught two of them. The ealynex are the cats that must be taken as adults, usually in pit-traps, and schooled to hunt as companions.’ This all spouted from the Bresinga Huntsman, a tall fellow who hunched forwards earnestly as he spoke. Avoin was his name. The topic was plainly his passion.

Lord Golden flattered him with his unwavering attention. ‘Fascinating. I must hear how such deadly little creatures are brought to heel. Nor was I aware there were so many names for hunting cats. I had assumed there was but one breed. So. Let me see. I was told that Prince Dutiful’s hunting animal had to be taken from the den as a kitten. It must be a gruepard, then?’

Avoin exchanged a glance with his mistress, almost as if he asked permission before he spoke. ‘Ah, well. The Prince’s cat is neither ealynex nor gruepard, Lord Golden. It is a rarer creature than either of those. Most know it as the mistcat. It ranges much higher into the mountains than our cats do, and is known for hunting amid the branches of the trees as well as on the ground.’ Avoin had dropped into the lecturing tone of the expert. Once he had begun to share his expertise, he would continue until his listeners’ eyes glazed over. ‘For its size, it takes game substantially larger than itself, dropping down on both deer and wild goats to either ride them to exhaustion, or to break the neck with a bite. On the ground, it is neither as swift as the gruepard nor as stealthy as the ealynex, but combines the techniques of both with good success against small game. But of the mistcat, you heard true. It must be taken from its home den before its eyes are opened if it is to be tamed at all. Even then, it may have an uneven temperament, but those who are taken and trained correctly become the truest companions that any hunter could desire. They will only hunt for one master, however. Of mistcats it is said, “from the den to the heart, never to part”. Meaning, of course that only he who is sly enough to find the mistcat’s den will ever possess one. It is quite a feat, to have a mistcat. When you see a hunter with a mistcat, you know you’re seeing a master of cat-hunting.’

Avoin’s voice suddenly faltered. If some sign had passed between him and his mistress, I had not seen it. Was the Huntsman involved then, in the circumstances that had brought such a cat to the Prince?

Lord Golden, however, blithely ignored the implications of what he had heard. ‘A sumptuous gift for our prince indeed,’ he enthused. ‘But it quite dashes my hopes of having a mistcat as my hunting creature tomorrow. At least, shall I have the prospect of seeing one set loose?’

‘I fear not, Lord Golden,’ Lady Bresinga replied graciously. ‘We have none in our hunting pack. They are quite rare. To see a mistcat hunt, you will have to ask the Prince himself to take you along on one of his outings. I am sure he would be delighted to do so.’

Lord Golden shook his head merrily, tucking his chin in as if taken aback. ‘Oh, no, dear lady, for I have heard that our illustrious prince hunts afoot with his cat, at night, regardless of the weather. Much too physical an endeavour for me, I fear. Not at all to my taste, not at all!’ Chuckles tumbled from him like spinning pins in a juggler’s hands. All around the table, the others joined in his mirth.

Climb.

I felt the prickle of tiny claws and glanced down. From somewhere, a small striped kitten had materialized. She stood on her hind legs, her front feet securely attached to my leggings by her embedded claws. Her yellow-green eyes looked up earnestly at mine. Coming up!

I refused the touch of her mind without, I hoped, seeming to. At the table, Lord Golden had led the conversation to what types of cats they might use tomorrow, and whether or not they would damage the plumage on the game. Feathers, he reminded them all, were what he sought, though he did enjoy gamebird pie.

I shifted my foot, hoping to dislodge the young bramble-foot. It did not work. Climbing! she insisted, and hopped up another notch. Now she hung from me by all four paws, her claws having penetrated my leggings to hook in my flesh. I reacted, I hoped, as any other servant might. I winced and then unobtrusively bent to pry the creature free, one thorny foot at a time. My action might have escaped attention if she had not mewled piteously at being thus thwarted. I had hoped to set her gently back on the floor, but Lord Golden’s amused voice with, ‘Well, Badgerlock, and what have you caught?’ directed all eyes to me.

‘Just a kitten, sir. She seemed determined to climb my leg.’ She was like a puff of dandelion fuzz in my hand. The deceptive depth of her fluffy coat was belied by the tiny ribcage in my hand. She opened her little red mouth and miaowed for her mother.

‘Oh, there you are!’ Lord Grayling’s daughter exclaimed, leaping up from the table. Heedless of any decorum, Sydel rushed to take the squirming kitten from my hand. With both hands she cradled the kitten under her chin. ‘Oh, thank you for finding her.’ She walked back to her place at the table, speaking as she went. ‘I could not bear to leave her alone at home, and yet she must have slipped out of my room just after breakfast, for I haven’t seen her all day.’

‘And is this, then, the kit of a hunting cat?’ Lord Golden asked as the daughter seated herself.

Sydel leapt at the chance to address Lord Golden. ‘Oh, no, Lord Golden, this is my own sweet pet, my little pillow-cat, Tibbits. She is such a mischief, aren’t you, lovey? And yet I cannot bear to be parted from her. How you have worried me this afternoon!’ She kissed the kitten on the top of her head and then settled the creature in her lap. No one at table seemed to regard her behaviour as unusual. As the meal and conversation resumed, I saw the little tabby head pop up at the edge of the table. Fish! The kit thought delightedly. A few moments later, Civil offered her a sliver of fish. I decided it meant little; it could be coincidence, or even the unconscious reaction that those without the Wit sometimes make to the wishes of animals they know well. The kit swiped a paw to claim possession of the morsel, and then took it into her owner’s lap to devour it.

Servants entered the hall to clear dishes and platters away, while a second rank of servants followed with sweet dishes and berry wines. Lord Golden had seized control of all conversation. The hunting tales he told were either fabulous concoctions or indicated that his life during the last ten years or so had been far different from what I had imagined. When he spoke of spearing sea-mammals from a skinboat drawn by harnessed dolphins, even Sydel looked slightly incredulous. But as is ever the case, if a story is well told, the listeners will stay with it to the end, and so they did this time. Lord Golden finished his recital with a flourish and a wicked gleam in his eye that suggested that if he were embellishing his adventure, he would never admit it.

Lady Bresinga called for brandy to be brought, and the table was cleared again. The brandy appeared with yet another assortment of small items to tempt already-satiated guests. Eyes went from sparkling with wine and merriment to the deep gleam of contentment that good brandy brings forth after a fine meal. My legs and lower back ached abominably. I was hungry as well, and tired enough that if I had been free to lie down on the flagged floor, I would instantly have been asleep. I scraped my nails against the inside of my palms, pricking myself back to alertness. This was the hour when tongues were loosest and talk most expansive. Despite the way Lord Golden leaned back in his chair, I doubted that he was as intoxicated as he seemed. The subject had rounded back to cats and hunting again. I felt I had learned as much as I needed to know about the topic.

The kitten had managed, after six thwarted efforts, to gain the top of the table. She had curled up and briefly napped, but now was wending her way amongst the bottles and glasses, threatening to topple them as she rubbed against each. Mine. And mine. This is mine, too. And mine. With the total confidence of the very young, she claimed every item on the table as her own. When Civil reached for the brandy snifter to refill his glass and that of his companion, the kitten arched her little back and bounced towards him on her toes, intent on making good on her claims. Mine!

‘No. Mine,’ he told her affably, and fended her off with the back of his wrist. Sydel laughed at the exchange. A slow excitement uncoiled within me but I kept my dulled stare apparently fixed on my master’s shoulder. Witted. Both of them. I was sure of it now. And as it tended to be inherited in families …

‘So. Who did catch the mistcat for the Prince’s gift?’ Lord Golden suddenly asked. The question almost followed from the conversation, yet it was pointed enough to turn all heads at the table. Lord Golden gave a small hiccup that bordered on being a discreet belch. It was enough of a distraction to combine with his slightly goggled stare to take the edge from his query. ‘I’ll wager it was you, Huntsman.’ His graceful hand made his words a compliment to Avoin.

‘No, not I,’ Avoin shook his head but oddly volunteered no more information.

Lord Golden leaned back, tapping his forefinger on his lips as if it were a guessing game. He rolled his gaze about the table, then chortled sagely and pointed at Civil. ‘Then it was you, young man. For I heard it was you who carried the cat up to Prince Dutiful to present him.’

The boy’s eyes flickered once to his mother’s before he gravely shook his head. ‘Not I, Lord Golden,’ he demurred. And again, that unusual silence of information withheld followed his words. A united front, I decided. The question would not be answered.

Lord Golden lolled his head back against his chair, and took a long noisy breath and sighed it out. ‘Damned fine gift,’ he observed liberally. ‘Love to have one myself, from all I’ve heard. But hearing’s no substitute for seeing. B’lieve I will ask Prince Dutiful to allow me to ’ccompany him some night.’ He sighed again and let his head wag to one side. ‘If he ever comes back from his meditation retreat. Not natural, if you ask me, for a boy that age to spend so much time alone. Not natural a’tall.’ Lord Golden’s enunciation was giving way rapidly.

Lady Bresinga’s diction was quite clear as she asked, ‘So our prince has retired again from the public eye, to follow his own thoughts for a time?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Lord Golden affirmed. ‘And been a long time gone this time.’ course, he has a good deal to think about these days. Betrothal coming up and all, Outislander delegation coming. A lot for a young man to handle. I mean, how would you take to it, young sir?’ He wagged a finger in Civil’s general direction. ‘How’d you like to be betrothed to a woman you’ve never met … well, she isn’t even a woman yet, if rumour runs true. More like a girl on the cusp. She’s what, eleven? So young. Terribly young, don’t you think? And I don’t understand the advantages of the match. That I do not.’

His words were indiscreet, verging on direct criticism of the Queen’s decision. Looks were exchanged around the table. Plainly Lord Golden had taken more brandy than he handled well, and yet he was pouring more. His words hung unchallenged in the air. Perhaps Avoin thought he was turning conversation into a safer channel when he asked, ‘The Prince often retreats to meditate, then?’

‘It’s the Mountain way,’ Lord Golden confirmed. ‘Or so I am told. Wha’ do I know? Only that it’s not the Jamaillian way. The young nobles of my fair home are more worldly-minded. And that is encouraged, mind you, for where better will a young nobleman learn the manners and ways of the world than t’be out in the midst of it? Your Prince Dutiful might do better t’mingle more with his court. Yes, and to look closer to home for a suitable consort.’ A Jamaillian accent had begun to flavour Lord Golden’s softening words, as if intoxication took him back to the speech habits of his erstwhile home. He sipped from his glass and then set it back upon the table so awkwardly that a tiny amber wave leapt over the edge. He rubbed his mouth and chin as if to massage away the brandy’s numbing effect. I suspected that he had done little more than hold the brimming glass against his lip.

No one had replied to his comments, but Lord Golden appeared not to notice.

‘And this time has marked his longest absence of all!’ he enlarged. ‘That’s all we hear at the court these days. “Where is Prince Dutiful? What, still in seclusion? When will he return? What, no one can say?” Very dampening t’spirits at the court for our young ruler t’be absent so long. Wager that his cat hates it, too. What d’you think, Avoin? Does a hunting cat pine when his master’s away for long?’

Avoin appeared to consider it. ‘One devoted to his cat would not leave it long alone. A cat’s loyalty is not a thing to be taken for granted, but courted day by day.’

Avoin drew breath to continue but Lady Bresinga smoothly interrupted. ‘Well, our cats hunt best while dawn is still on the land. So if we are to show Lord Golden our beauties at their prime, we had all best retire so we may arise early.’ At a small sign from her, a servant moved forwards to draw back her chair. Everyone else came to his or her feet, though Lord Golden did so with a small lurch. I thought I heard a small titter of amusement from the Graylings’ daughter, but Sydel was none too steady herself. Knowing my role, I moved forwards to offer Lord Golden a firm arm. He disdained it loftily, waving me aside and scowling at my impertinence. I stood by stolidly as the nobility offered goodnights to one another, and then followed Lord Golden to his chambers.

I opened the door for him and saw him through it. Following him, I perceived that the household servants had been at work in our chambers. The bath-things were tidied away, fresh candles filled the holders, and the window was shut. A tray of cold meats, fruit and pastries rested on the table. My first act after closing the door was to open the window. It simply felt wrong to have a solid barrier between Nighteyes and me. I glanced out, but saw no sign of the wolf. Doubtless he was doing his own prowl of the premises, and I would not risk questing out towards him. I made a swift circuit of our rooms, checking for any signs of a search, and then looking under beds and within wardrobes for possible spies. The Bresinga household and their guests had been wary tonight. Either they knew why we had come, or they were expecting someone like us to come seeking the Prince. But I found no spies in the bedclothes, nor any sign that my carelessly-hung garments had been disturbed. I never left a room in perfect order. It is easy to return a searched room to perfect order, more difficult to recall exactly how both sleeves of the garment flung across the chair touched the floor.

I completed a similar perusal of Lord Golden’s chamber while he waited in silence. When I was finished, I turned back to my master. He dropped heavily into a chair and puffed out an immense sigh. His eyes drooped as his chin dropped to his chest. All of his features sagged with drink. I made a small sound of dismay. How could he have been so careless as to get drunk? As I watched him, he kicked out his feet one after the other so that his heels clonked against the floor. Obediently I went to draw his boots off and set them to one side. ‘Can you stand?’ I asked him.

‘Whsay?’

I glanced up from where I crouched by his feet. ‘I said, can you stand?’

He opened his eyes a slit, and then a slow smile stretched his mouth. ‘I am so good,’ he congratulated himself in a whisper. ‘And you are such a satisfactory audience, Fitz. Do you know how draining it can be, to strike poses when no one knows they are poses, to assume a whole different character when there is no one to appreciate how well I do it?’ A glint of the old Fool’s mischief shone in his golden eyes. Then it faded and his mouth became serious. He spoke very softly. ‘Of course I can stand. And dance and leap, if need be. But tonight is not for that. Tonight, you must go to the kitchens and complain of how hungry you are. Fetching as you look tonight, I don’t doubt you will be fed. And see where you can lead the conversation. Go ahead, go now, I am perfectly capable of getting myself to bed. Do you wish the window left open?’

‘I would prefer it so,’ I hedged.

And I. The confirming thought from Nighteyes was softer than a breath.

‘Then it shall be so,’ Lord Golden decreed.

The kitchen was still full of servants, for the end of the meal is not the end of the serving of it. Indeed, few folk work harder or longer hours than those who feed a keep, for usually just as the tidying and washing is done from the evening meal it is nearly time to set the bread rising for the next. This was as true at Galeton as it was at Buckkeep Castle. I came to the door and ventured to lean in with an inquisitive and hopeful look on my face.

Almost immediately one of the kitchen women took pity on me. I recognized her as one of the women who had waited on the table. Lady Bresinga had addressed her as Lebven. ‘You must be ravenous. There they all sat, eating and drinking, and treated you as if you were made of wood. Well, come in. As much as they ate, there is still plenty and to spare.’

In a short time, I was perched on a tall stool at a corner of the floury and scarred bread-table. Lebven set out an array of dishes within arm’s reach of me, and true to her telling, there was plenty and to spare. Slices of cold smoked venison still half filled a platter artfully ringed with little pickled apples. Sweetened apricots were fat golden cushions in little pastry squares so rich they crumbled away at one bite. Scores of tiny bird livers marinated with bits of garlic in an oily bath did not appeal to me, but beside those there were dark breasts of duck garnished with syrupy slices of sweet ginger root. I wallowed in culinary indulgence. There was good brown bread and a slab of butter to grease it down as well. Lebven brought a mug of cold ale and a pitcher to refill it. When she had set it down to my nodded thanks, she stood at the table across from me, sprinkled flour generously, and turned out onto it a risen sponge of bread. She commenced to thump and turn it, adding handfuls of flour as she worked at the dough until it was satiny.

For a time I simply ate and watched and listened. It was the usual kitchen talk, gossip and minor rivalries between servants, one spat over a bucket of milk left out to sour, and talk of the work to prepare for the morrow. The grand folk of the house would be up early, but they would expect the food to be ready when they were, and as lavish as tonight’s dinner. They’d want saddle-food to carry along as well, and this must charm the eye as much as fill the gut. I watched Lebven as she flattened the dough, spread it with butter, folded it, and then flattened it again, only to butter and fold it again. She became aware of me watching her and looked up with a smile. ‘It makes lots of layers in the rolls this way, all flaky and crisp. But it’s a lot of work for something that they’ll eat down in less than a minute.’

Behind her, a servant placed a covered basket on the counter. He opened it, spread a linen napkin to line it, and then began to place food in it: fresh rolls, a small pot of butter, a dish with slices of meat in it, and some of the pickled apples. I watched him from the corner of my eye, while nodding and replying to Lebven’s words. ‘It’s odd. Most of them don’t give half a thought to how much work goes into our making them comfortable.’

There was more than one muttered assent in the kitchen. ‘Well, look at you,’ Lebven returned the sympathy. ‘Kept on guard all through dinner, like someone might do your master a harm in a house where he’s guesting. Ridiculous Jamaillian way of thinking. But for that, you could have had a meal and some time to yourself tonight.’

‘I would have welcomed that,’ I returned honestly. ‘I’d have liked a look around. I’ve never been in a place where they kept cats instead of dogs.’

The other servant took the basket to the back door. A man waiting there took it from his hands. Something furry swung limp from his other hand. I had only a glimpse before the door was closed again. I longed to leap up and follow that food, but Lebven was still speaking.

‘Well. That’s only been in the last ten years or so, since the old master died. Before that, we had hounds for the most part, and only a cat or two for my lady’s hunting. But the young master prefers the cats to the dogs, and so he’s let the hounds die out. Not that I miss their barking and yammer, nor having them underfoot! The big cats are kept to their pens, save when they’re hunting. And as for the small ones, why, they’re darlings and no mistake. Not a river rat dares put his nose into this kitchen any more.’ She cast a fond look at a parti-coloured housecat on the hearth. Despite the mild evening, it was toasting itself by the dwindling cook-fire. She finally gave off her folding, and commenced beating the layered dough until it began to blister. It made conversation difficult and my departure more graceful. I went to the door of the kitchen and opened it. The man with the food was out of sight.

Lebven called to me, ‘If you’re seeking the back house, it’s out the other door and around the side. Just before you get to the rabbit hutches.’

I thanked her and obediently went out of the other door. A long look around showed me no other folk moving. I went around the side of the house, but another wing thwarted my view. The moonlight showed me rows of rabbit hutches between the house and the stable. So that had been what the man carried, a rabbit, its neck freshly wrung. The perfect late meal for a hunting cat. But there was no sign of the man and I dared not reach out towards Nighteyes, nor be gone from the kitchen too long. I growled to myself in frustration, certain that the packed meal had been for the Prince and his cat. I’d missed a chance. I returned to the warmth and light of the kitchen.

The kitchen had grown quieter. The washing up was mostly done, and the chore boys and girls escaped to their beds. Only Lebven remained beating the dough, and a morose man who was tending a pot of simmering meat. I resumed my seat and poured the last of the ale into my mug. Doubtless the others would get what sleep they could before they had to rise and prepare the next meal. The mottled cat abruptly stretched, rose and came to investigate me. I feigned ignoring him as he sniffed at my shoes and then my calf. The tom turned his head and opened his mouth wide as if expressing disgust, but I suspected he was only savouring my scent.

Smells like that dog outside. A disdainful curl of thought from him. Effortlessly, he floated up to land on the table beside me and thrust his nose towards the platter of venison. I fended him off with the back of my wrist. He took neither offence nor notice, but stepped over my arm to seize the slice he desired.

‘Oh, Tups, such manners in front of our guest. Don’t you mind him, Tom, he’s as spoiled as they come.’ She picked him up with floury hands. He kept possession of his meat as she set him on the floor then hunkered down over it, turning his head sideways to shear off mouthfuls. He gave Lebven one reproachful look. Shouldn’t feed the dogs at the table, woman. It was hard not to imagine malevolence in his yellow-eyed stare. Childishly, I stared right back, knowing well that most animals hate that. He muttered a threat in his throat, seized his meat, and whisked himself out of sight under the table.

I drank the last of my ale slowly. The cat knew. Did that mean the whole household knew of my connection to Nighteyes? Despite Avoin’s monologues all evening, I still knew too little of the hunting cats. Would they regard Nighteyes as an intruder, or would they ignore his scent in the courtyard? Would they think the information significant enough to communicate to the Witted humans? Not all Wit-bonds were as intimate as the one I shared with Nighteyes. His concern with the human aspects of my life had distressed Black Rolf almost to the point of disgusting him. Perhaps these cats only bonded with humans for the joy of the hunt. It was not impossible. Unlikely, but not impossible.

Well, I had not learned much more than what we had already suspected, but I’d had a more than ample meal. Sleep seemed the only other thing I could accomplish tonight. I offered Lebven my thanks and goodnight, and despite her insistence that she would do it, cleared my things from the table. The keep was quiet as I made my way softly back to my room. Only a dim light shone from under the door. I set my hand to it, expecting to find it latched. It was not. Every nerve suddenly ajangle, I eased it silently open on the darkened room. Then I caught my breath and stood motionless.

Laurel wore a long dark cloak over her nightgown. Her hair was loose and spilling down her back. Lord Golden wore an embroidered dressing gown over his nightshirt. The light from the tiny fire in the hearth glinted off the burnished thread of the birds embroidered on the back and sleeves of his dressing gown, and picked up the lighter streaks in Laurel’s flowing hair. He wore lacy gloves on his hands. They stood very close together by the fire, their heads bent together. I stood silent as a shocked child, wondering if I had interrupted an embrace. Lord Golden glanced over Laurel’s shoulder at me, and then made a small motion for me to come in and shut the door. As Laurel turned to see me, her eyes seemed very large.

‘I thought you were asleep in your chamber,’ she said quietly. Was she disappointed?

‘I was down in the kitchens, eating,’ I explained to her. I expected her to reply to my words, but she merely looked at me. I felt a sudden desire to be elsewhere. ‘But I am extremely tired. I think I shall be going to bed immediately. Good night.’ I turned towards my servant’s room, but Lord Golden’s voice halted me.

‘Tom. Did you learn anything?’

I shrugged. ‘Small details of the servants’ lives. Nothing that seems useful.’ I was still not certain of how freely I should speak before Laurel.

‘Well. Laurel seems to have done better.’ He turned to her, inviting her to speak. Any woman would have been flattered by his golden focus.

‘Prince Dutiful has been here,’ Laurel announced in a breathless whisper. ‘Before I retired to sleep, I asked Avoin to show me the stables and the cattery. I wanted to see how the animals were housed.’

‘His mistcat was there?’ I guessed incredulously.

‘No. Nothing that obvious. But the Prince has always insisted on tending to the cat’s needs himself. Dutiful has certain odd little habits, ways of folding things or hanging tack. He is very fussy about such things. There was an empty enclosure in the cattery. On the shelf by it were brushes and such, arranged just so. It was the Prince’s doing. I know it.’

I recalled the Prince’s chamber at Buckkeep, and suspected she was right. And yet – ‘Do you think the Prince would have let his precious cat be housed down there? In Buckkeep, the creature sleeps in his rooms.’

‘There is everything for a cat’s comfort there: things to claw, the herbs they fancy, fresh greens growing in a tub, toys for exercise, even live prey for their meals. The Bresingas keep hutch upon hutch of rabbits, so that their cats need never eat cold meat. The cats are truly pampered royalty.’

It seemed to me that my next question followed logically. ‘Might the Prince have stayed down in the stables to be closer to his cat?’ Perhaps the basket had not had too long a journey to make.

Laurel raised one brow at me. ‘The Prince stay in the cattery?’

‘He seemed to be very fond of the animal. I thought he might do that rather than be parted from it.’ I had nearly betrayed my conclusion: that the Prince was Witted and would not be parted from his bond-animal. There was a small silence. Lord Golden broke it. His mellow voice carried no further than the two of us. ‘Well, at least we have discovered that the Prince was here, even if he is not here now. And tomorrow may yield us more information. The Bresingas play cat-and-mouse with us. They know the Prince has left the court with his cat. They may suspect that we have come seeking him. But we shall stay in our roles, and graciously dance after whatever they dangle for us. We must not betray what we know.’

‘I hate this sort of thing,’ Laurel declared flatly. ‘I hate the deceit, and the polite faces we must wear. I wish I could simply go and shake that woman awake and demand to know where Dutiful is. When I think of the anguish that she has caused our queen … I wish I had asked to see the cattery before dinner. I would have asked different questions, I assure you. But I brought you the news as soon as I could. The Bresingas had furnished me with a maid who insisted on helping me prepare for bed, and then I did not dare slip from my room until I was sure most of the keep was asleep.’

‘Asking blunt questions will not serve us, nor shaking the truth out of noble ladies. The Queen wants Dutiful returned quietly. We must all keep that in mind.’ Lord Golden included me in his instruction.

‘I will try,’ Laurel replied with quiet resignation.

‘Good. And now we must all try to get what rest we can before tomorrow’s hunt. Good night, Tom.’

‘Good night, Lord Golden, Huntswoman Laurel.’

After a moment or two of silence, I realized something. I had been expecting Laurel to leave so that I could secure the door behind her. I had wanted to tell the Fool about the basket and the dead rabbit. But Laurel and Lord Golden were waiting for me to leave. She was studying a tapestry on a wall with an intensity it did not merit, while Lord Golden contentedly contemplated the gleaming fall of Laurel’s hair.

I wondered if I should lock the outer door for them, then decided that would be an oafish act. If Lord Golden wanted it locked, he would do it. ‘Good night,’ I repeated, trying to sound sleepy and not awkward. I took a candle and went to my own chamber, shutting the connecting door gently behind me. I undressed and got into bed, refusing to let my mind wander beyond that closed door. I felt no envy, I told myself, only the sharper bite of my loneliness in contrast to what they might be sharing. I told myself I was selfish. The Fool had endured years of loneliness and isolation. Would I begrudge him the gentle touch of a woman’s hand now that he was Lord Golden?

Nighteyes? I floated the thought, light as a dry leaf on the wind.

The brush of his mind against mine was a comfort. I sensed oak trees and fresh wind blowing past his fur. I was not alone. Sleep, little brother. I hunt our prey, but I think nothing new will we learn until dawn.

He was wrong.