Читать книгу The Complete Tawny Man Trilogy: Fool’s Errand, The Golden Fool, Fool’s Fate - Робин Хобб - Страница 27

Many are the tales told of Witted taking on their beasts’ shapes to wreak havoc upon their neighbours. The bloodier legends are of Witted in wolves’ skins, who in that guise rend their neighbours’ families as well as their flocks. Less sanguine are the tales who depict Witted suitors taking on the shapes of birds, or cats, or even dancing bears to gain access to a bedchamber in the course of a seduction.

All such tales are imaginative nonsense, perpetuated by those who seek to fuel hatred of the Witted. Although a Witted person can share the mind of his beast, and hence, its physical perceptions, he cannot metamorphose his Human form into that of an animal. It is true that some Witted who have been long in a partnership with their animal sometimes take on some of their habits of posture, diet, and mannerism. But a man who eats, dens, scavenges and smells like a bear does not become a bear. If that myth of shapechanging could be vanquished, it would go far to re-establishing trust between the Witted and unWitted.

Badgerlock’s Old Blood Tales

The wolf was not where I had left him. It rattled me, and I took some few moments convincing myself that I had not mistaken the spot. But there were the spatters of his blood where he had sprawled on last year’s leaves, and here were the spatters in the dust where he had lapped water from my hands. He had been here and now he was not.

It is one thing to track two shod horses with riders. It is another to follow the spoor of a wolf over dry ground. He had left no trace of his passage, and I feared to reach out towards him. I followed the tracks of the horses, believing that he would have done the same. As I trailed them through the sun-drenched hills, their tracks went down into a draw and crossed a small stream. They had stopped here to let the horses water. And then in the muddy bank was a wolf’s paw-print atop the horse’s hoof-mark. So. He was tracking them.

Three hills later, I caught up with him. He knew I was coming. He did not pause to wait for me, but moved on. That gait caught my eyes. It was not his purposeful trot. He walked. Myblack was not especially pleased to approach the wolf, but she didn’t fight me. As I drew closer, he stopped in the shelter of some trees and awaited me.

‘I brought meat,’ I told him as I dismounted.

I felt his awareness of me, but he sent no thought towards me. It was eerie. I took the meat out of my shirt and gave it to him. He wolfed it down and then came to sit beside me. I took the salve out of my pouch. He sighed and lay down.

The claw-swipes along his belly were livid ridges of lacerated flesh, and hot to the touch. When I applied the salve, the pain became an edged thing between us. I was as gentle as I could be and still be thorough. He tolerated it, but not gladly. I sat for a time beside him, my hand resting on his ruff. He sniffed at the salve I had applied. Honey and bear grease, I told him. He licked the long scratch and I let him. His tongue would push the ointment deeper into the wound and do him no harm. Besides, there was no way I could have stopped him. He already knew that I would have to go back to Galekeep.

It would be wisest for me to keep following them, even if I don’t go swiftly. The longer you are delayed, the colder the trail will be. Easier for you to come to me than to try to follow fading tracks.

There is no arguing with that. I gave no voice to my worries that he could neither hunt nor defend himself just now. He knew it, I knew it, and he had made his decision. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. He knew that too, but I could not refrain from the promise.

My brother. Be careful what you dream tonight.

I won’t seek to dream with them.

I fear they may seek you.

Fear smoked through my mind, but again there was nothing to say. I wished, vainly, that I had been brought up knowing more of the Wit. Perhaps if I had understood Old Blood better, I would know what I was dealing with now.

No. I think not. What you do, how you link to him, that is not just Skill. It is the crossing of your magic. You open the door with one and travel with the other. As when I attacked Justin after he had bridged into you with Skill. His Skill made the bridge, but I used my bond with you to run across it.

He had deliberately shared that thought with me, acknowledging a worry that had been growing in me for some time. Dog-magic, Justin had called my Wit, and told me that my use of the Skill stank of it. Verity had never complained of that. But Verity, I admitted unwillingly, shared my truncated education in the Skill. Perhaps he had not detected a staining of the Wit in my use of the Skill, or perhaps he had been too kind to ever rebuke me with it. Now I worried for my wolf. Do not follow them too closely. Try not to let them know that we track them.

What did you fear? That I would attack a cat, and two men on horseback? No. That battle belongs to you. I will trail this game; it is up to you to bring it to bay and down it.

His thought created unpleasant images in my mind all the way back to Galekeep. I had entered into this to track down a boy, runaway or perhaps kidnapped. Now I was facing not only a boy who did not wish to be returned to Buckkeep, but his confederates. How far would I go in my efforts to return him to the Queen, and what limits would he set in his determination to have his own way?

Would those with him have any constraints as to what they would do to keep him?

I knew Lord Golden was wise to continue our play. Much as I longed to drop all pretence and simply hunt down the Prince and drag him back to Buckkeep, I could see the consequences of that. If the Bresingas were certain that we pursued him, they would certainly get a warning to him. He would flee faster and hide deeper. Worse, they might directly interfere with our pursuit of him. I had no wish to meet with an untimely ‘accident’ as we tracked Prince Dutiful. As matters stood, we could still hope to move secretly to regain the Prince and discreetly convey him back to Buckkeep. He had fled Galekeep at our arrival, yet not gone far at first. Now he was on the move again, but still had no reason to connect Lord Golden to any pursuit. If the Fool could pry us loose of Lady Bresinga’s hospitality without arousing any suspicion, we could follow him unobtrusively and have a better chance of catching up with him.

I returned to Galekeep hot and dusty and parched. It still seemed odd to surrender my horse to a stableman. I found Lord Golden napping in his chambers. The curtains were drawn against the heat and light, putting the room in twilight. I went quietly past him to my own room to wash most of the dust and sweat away. I hung my shirt on the bedpost to dry and air and slung my fresh one over my shoulder.

Servants had replenished the bowl of fruit in Lord Golden’s chamber. I helped myself to a plum and ate it by the window, peering around the curtain at the garden outside. I felt both tired and restless. I could think of nothing constructive to do, and no way to pass the time. Frustration and worry chafed me.

‘Did you find my chain, Badgerlock?’ It was Lord Golden’s aristocratic tone that interrupted my thought.

‘Yes, my lord. Just where you thought you’d lost it.’

I drew the delicate jewellery from my pocket and carried it over to where he lounged on his bed. He accepted it as gratefully as if he were truly a nobleman and it had truly been lost. I lowered my voice. ‘Nighteyes follows the trail for us. When we can leave, we can go straight to the wolf.’

‘How is he?’

‘Stiff. Sore. But I think he will recover.’

‘Excellent.’ He sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’ve selected evening clothing for us, and laid it out in your room. Really, Badgerlock, you must learn to handle my garments more carefully.’

‘I’ll try, my lord,’ I muttered, but I could not get my heart back into the game. I was suddenly tired of the whole charade. ‘Have you thought of a way for us to leave discreetly?’

‘No.’ He strolled to the table. Wine had been left there for him. He poured a glass and drank it, then poured another. ‘But I’ve thought of an indiscreet one, and already laid the groundwork for it this afternoon. Not without regrets – I’ll be compromising Lord Golden’s reputation somewhat, but what is a nobleman without a bit of scandal to his name? It will probably just increase my popularity at court. Everyone will want to know my side of it, and will speculate on what truly happened.’ He sipped from his glass. ‘I think that if I succeed at this, it will convince Lady Bresinga that her fears that we are seeking the Prince are groundless. No proper emissary of the Queen would behave as I intend.’ He gave me a sickly smile.

‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, just yet. But I fancy that by morning, our leaving will be facilitated as swiftly as we could wish.’ He drank again. ‘Sometimes I don’t care for the things that I must do,’ he observed, and there was a plaintive note in his voice. He finished the glass of wine as if girding himself for a task.

Not another word would he divulge to me. He arrayed himself carefully for dinner, and I had to suffer the indignity of the green jerkin and yellow leggings. ‘Perhaps it is a shade too bright,’ he conceded in response to my incensed gaze. His grin was too broad for me to believe any apology in his words. I did not know if it was the wine or one of his fey humours. ‘Stop glowering, Badgerlock,’ he rebuked me as he adjusted the cuffs of a muted green coat. ‘I expect my servants to maintain a pleasant demeanour. Besides, the colour does set off the darkness of your eyes and skin and hair – all of you. It rather reminds me of an exotic parrot. You may not appreciate such a show of yourself, but the ladies will.’

Obeying him taxed all my ability to dissemble. I walked behind him to where the nobility had gathered before dinner. This was a larger group than the night before, for Lady Bresinga had extended her hospitality to those who had hunted with her earlier. They might have been invisible for all the notice Lord Golden gave them. Sydel was seated at a low table with young Civil. An assortment of feathers was spread out before her on a cloth, and they seemed to be discussing them. She had obviously been watching the door, for the moment Lord Golden entered, her face was transfigured. She gleamed like a lantern in the darkness. Young Civil also underwent a transformation, but it was not so pleasant. He could not very well sneer at a guest in his mother’s home, but his features went very still and cold. Dismay clutched at my belly. No. I wanted no part of this.

But Golden, smiling and charming, made directly for the pair. His greetings to everyone else in the chamber were brief to the point of neglect. Without even a pretence of subtlety, he seated himself between them, obliging Civil to move over to make room for him. From that moment on, he virtually ignored everyone else in the room as he focused all of his allure on the girl. Their heads bent together over the feathers. His every movement was a seduction. His long fingers stroked the gaudy feathers on the cloth. He selected one, and touched its softness to his own cheek, and then leaned forwards to draw it gently down the length of Sydel’s arm. She giggled nervously and drew back from the touch. He smiled. She blushed. He set the feather back on the cloth and shook a reproachful finger at it as if it were at fault. Then he selected another one. Boldly he held it against the sleeve of her gown, murmuring some comparison of colour. He gathered others from the cloth, arranged them in a sort of feather bouquet. With the tip of one forefinger, he turned her face to look at his, and then, by a trick I could not see, fastened the feathers into her hair so that they hung down and followed the line of her cheek.

Civil rose abruptly and stalked away. His mother spoke to a woman at her side, who moved swiftly to intercept him before he left the chamber. There were low voiced words between them, and the young man’s tone was not calm. I could not follow what he said, for Lord Golden’s words rose over general conversation to proclaim, ‘Would that I had a looking-glass to show you, but you must be content to see how well this ornament becomes you by looking into my eyes.’

Earlier in the day, I had been appalled at how brazenly she had stalked Lord Golden and at how willing she had been to throw over her young suitor for the strange nobleman. Now I almost pitied Sydel. One hears of birds charmed by snakes, though I have never seen such a thing. What I witnessed now was more like a flower leaning towards light. She absorbed his attention and blossomed in its warmth. In the space of a few moments, her girlish infatuation with his age and wealth and fine ways had been transformed into a more womanly warmth and fascination with him. I knew with crawling certainty that she was his to bed, if he chose. Should he tap at her chamber door tonight, she would admit him without hesitation.

‘He goes too far.’ Laurel’s breathless whisper was tinged with horror as she strolled past me.

‘He excels at that,’ I murmured in reply. I shifted my shoulders in the confines of my gaudy jacket. My pretence at being Lord Golden’s bodyguard might become real tonight. Certainly the look Civil shot him promised murder.

When Lady Bresinga announced that it was time to dine, Civil made the foolish mistake of hesitating. Before he had even the chance churlishly to refuse to escort Sydel to the table, his rival had offered his arm and the girl had taken it. This left Civil duty-bound to escort his slighted mother as they followed their esteemed guest and his prey into the dining hall.

I tried to rein my emotions in and be a stoic observer of that dinner. Lord Golden’s tactic revealed much to me. Sydel’s parents were obviously torn between courtesy to Lady Bresinga and her son, and the enticing prospect of their daughter winning the attention of this extremely wealthy nobleman. Lord Golden was a far more desirable catch than young Civil, yet they were not unmindful of the danger to their young daughter. To catch a nobleman’s eye is not the same as to have the pledge of one. There was a danger that he might toy with her and ruin her for future marriage. It was a dangerous line for a young girl to walk, and in the way that Lady Grayling picked her bread to pieces I plainly saw her mother’s doubts that Sydel could toe it.

Avoin and Laurel tried desperately to kindle a conversation about the day’s hunt, and the talk lurched along, but Lord Golden and Sydel were too deeply engrossed in their own quiet talk to pay any attention. Civil, seated to the other side of Sydel, was ignored by both of them. Avoin was holding forth on the uses of rue in training cats, for all knew that a cat would avoid anything marked with the essence of the herb. Laurel said that onion was sometimes used for the same purpose. Lord Golden offered Sydel a titbit from his plate, and then stared in rapt fascination as the girl ate it. He was drinking heavily tonight, glass after glass, and to all appearances, he was actually pouring it all down his throat. I felt anxiety. The Fool, drunk, had always been both unpredictable and volatile. Would Lord Golden have more restraint when in his cups?

Civil’s anger must have flared, for I felt a querying Wit-echo from something. I could not catch the thought, only the emotion that accompanied it. Something was fully willing to rend Lord Golden to shreds on Civil’s behalf. I did not doubt that his hunting cat was his Wit-beast. For that unguarded moment of fury, the connection between them sang with bloodlust. It was quenched in an instant, but there was no mistaking what it was. The boy was Witted. And Lady Bresinga? I looked past her, watching her without seeming to. I felt no trace of the Wit from her, but she radiated maternal disapproval of her son’s lapse. Because he had betrayed his Old Blood to any who might be aware of such things? Or because his displeasure showed so plainly on his face? Betraying one’s emotions so blatantly was not genteel.

I stood, as I had the previous night, behind Lord Golden’s chair all through the meal. I learned little from the words exchanged that night, but much from the glances. Lord Golden’s scandalous behaviour both fascinated and horrified the other guests. Quiet words were exchanged, as were shocked glances. Lord Grayling, at one point, sat breathing through his white-pinched nostrils for several moments while his wife spoke frantically to him in an undertone. She appeared willing to gamble the Bresingas’ good will for the possible benefit of a better match. Through all this interplay, I sifted expressions and exchanges, looking for some sign of who was Witted. It was not information I could quantify, but before the dinner was over, I was satisfied that both Civil and Lady Bresinga were. I was equally certain their Huntsman was not. Of the other guests at their table, there were two I suspected of the Wit. A certain Lady Jerrit had something of the cat in her mannerisms. She was perhaps unaware of how she breathed in the scent of every dish before she ventured to taste it. Her spouse, a hale and hearty man, had a trick of turning his head sideways to the leg of fowl he was devouring, as if he had sharper teeth there with which to scissor the meat free. Small habits, but telling. As the Prince had fled Buckkeep to Galekeep, so he might, when driven from Galekeep, go to another Wit-friendly holding. These two lived to the south. The Prince’s trail led north, but that did not mean he would not circle back.

I noticed another thing as well. Lady Bresinga’s eyes came often to settle on me, and I did not think she was admiring my gaudy garments. She looked like a woman trying to recall something. I was almost certain I had never met her in my other life as FitzChivalry. But to be almost certain of something means that there is always a squirming of doubt in the back of the mind. For a time, I kept my head slightly lowered and my eyes cast to one side. Only after I observed the others did I realize what a wolf-like attitude that was. When next she looked at me, I met her eyes boldly and stared back. I was not so bold as to smile at her, but I deliberately widened my eyes, feigning an interest in her. Her affront at Lord Golden’s bold servant was plain. Catlike, she unfocused her eyes and looked through me. In that glance, I was finally sure of her. Old Blood.

I wondered if she was the woman that had captivated my prince’s fancy. Certainly, she was attractive. Her full lips hinted at sensuality. Dutiful would not be the first young man to fall victim to a knowledgeable older woman. Had that been her aim in giving the cat to him? To seduce him and win his young heart, so that no matter where he was wed, she would always keep his heart? It would explain why he had come here when he had fled Buckkeep. But, I reflected, it would not explain his unfulfilled passion. No. If she had intended to seduce the Prince, she would have moved swiftly to entangle him as deeply as possible. There was something else here, something strange, as the wolf had said.

A brief flip of Lord Golden’s hand at the end of the meal dismissed me. I went, but reluctantly. I wanted to witness whatever reactions his abominable behaviour might bring. The diners would move on to other amusements now; music, games of chance, and conversation. I went to the kitchen, and again was offered a choice of the feast’s remains. There had been a piglet tonight, cooked whole, and plenty of tender meat and crisp skin lay scattered among the bones on the platter. A sauce of sour apples and berries had accompanied it. This, with bread and soft white cheese and several mugs of ale made a more than adequate meal. It might have been more enjoyable if Lord Golden’s man had not been taken to task over his master’s behaviour.

Civil and Sydel, I was informed sternly by Lebven, had been affianced almost from birth. Well, if not formally, at least it was common knowledge among all the folk of both households that the two were intended for one another. His mother’s house and Lord Grayling’s family had always been on the best of terms, and the two estates were adjacent to one another. Why should not Grayling’s daughter benefit from Lady Bresinga’s rapid rise in the world? Old friends should help one another. What was my master thinking, to come between them? Could his intentions be honourable? Would he steal young Civil’s bride from him, to bear her off to court and wealth beyond her station? Did he womanize at Buckkeep, was he but toying with her affections? Was he good with a sword? For it was well known that Civil had a temper, and hospitality or no, the boy might challenge him over Sydel.

To all of this I professed ignorance. I was newly come to Lord Golden’s service, and to the court at Buckkeep. I knew little of my master’s ways or temperament yet. I was as curious as they were as to what would befall them all. The excitement that Golden had stirred was such that I could not steer the conversation to Dutiful or Old Blood or any useful topic. I lingered only long enough to purloin a large chunk of meat. Then I pleaded my duties and departed the kitchen for my room, frustrated of knowledge and deeply concerned for Lord Golden’s welfare. As soon as I was back in our rooms, I changed back into my humbler blue clothing. The green jerkin had rather suffered from concealing the meat. Then I sat down to await my master’s return. Anxiety roiled through me. If he carried this role too far, he might indeed find himself facing young Civil’s blade. I doubted that Lord Golden was any better with a sword than the Fool had been. It would, of course, be scandalous if it came to bloodshed, but young men in Civil’s position were not inclined to worry about such niceties.

The depths of the night had passed and we were venturing towards the shallows of dawn when there was a tap at the door. A dour-faced maid informed me that my master required my assistance. Heart in mouth, I followed her, to discover Lord Golden senseless with drink on a bench in a parlour. He sprawled there like a cast-off garment. If other folk had witnessed his collapse, they had left. Even the maid gave a small toss of her head as she abandoned me to tend to him. As soon as she left, I half-expected him to rouse and tip me a wink that this was all a sham. He did not.

I hauled him to his feet but even that did not stir him. I could either drag him or carry him. I resorted to the undignified expediency of slinging him over my shoulder and toting him back to his chamber like a sack of grain. I dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed, and fastened the door behind us. Then I dragged off his boots and shook him out of his jacket. As he fell back onto the bed, he said, ‘Well, I did it. I’m certain of it. I’ll apologize tomorrow, most abjectly, to Lady Bresinga. Then we’ll leave immediately. And all will be relieved to see us go. No one will follow us, no one will suspect we track the Prince.’ His voice wavered towards the end of this speech. He still had not opened his eyes. Then, in a strained voice he added, ‘I think I’m going to vomit.’

I brought him the washbasin and set it on the bed next to him. He crooked an arm around it as if it were a doll. ‘What, exactly, did you do?’ I demanded.

‘Oh, Eda, make it all stand still.’ He clenched his eyes tightly and spoke. ‘I kissed him. I knew that would do it.’

‘You kissed Sydel? Civil’s intended?’

‘No,’ he groaned, and I knew a short-lived moment of relief. ‘I kissed Civil.’

‘What?’

‘I had gone to piss. When I came back, he was waiting for me outside the parlour where the others were gaming. He grabbed my arm and all but dragged me into a sitting room where he confronted me. What were my intentions towards Sydel? Did not I grasp that they had an understanding?’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said–’ He paused abruptly and his eyes grew round. He leaned towards the basin, but after a moment he only burped gassily and lay back. He groaned, then continued: ‘I said I understood their understanding, and hoped that perhaps we could come to an understanding of our own. I clasped his hand in mine. I said I saw no difficulty. That Sydel was a lovely girl, as lovely a girl as he was a boy, and that I hoped we might all become close and loving friends.’

‘And then you kissed him?’ I was incredulous.

Lord Golden screwed his eyes shut. ‘He seemed a bit naïve. I wanted to be sure he took the fullness of my meaning.’

‘Eda and El in a tangle,’ I swore. I stood up and he groaned as the bed moved beneath him. I walked to the window and stared out. ‘How could you?’ I demanded of him.

He took a breath and strained mockery crept into his voice. ‘Oh, please, beloved. You needn’t be jealous. It was the most brief and chaste kiss you can imagine.’

‘Oh, Fool,’ I rebuked him. How could he make a jest of something like this?

‘It wasn’t even on the mouth. Just a warm press of my lips to the palm of his hand, a single flick of my tongue.’ He smiled feebly. ‘He snatched it away as if I had branded him.’ Suddenly he hiccuped loudly and then made a sour face. ‘You’re dismissed. To your room, Badgerlock. I’ve no more need of you tonight.’

‘Are you certain?’

He nodded, a short vehement nod. ‘Go away,’ he said plainly. ‘If I’m going to puke, I don’t want you watching me.’

I understood his need to preserve that much dignity. He had little enough left. I retreated to my room and shut the door. I busied myself with packing my things. A short time later, when I heard the sounds of his misery, I did not go to him. Some things a man should do alone.

I did not sleep well. I longed to touch minds with my wolf, but dared not allow myself that comfort. Necessary they might be, yet I still felt dirtied by the Fool’s political manipulations. I longed to live the direct and clean life of a wolf. Towards dawn, I came out of a doze to the sound of the Fool moving about in his chamber. I found him sitting at the small table looking haggard. Somehow the fresh clothing he had donned only made him look the more rumpled. Even his hair looked sweaty and dishevelled. He had a little box in front of him and a mirror. As I watched, puzzled, he dipped his finger in something and wiped it under his eye. The shadow there deepened to a pouch. Then he sighed. ‘I hate what I did last night.’

I did not need him to explain. I tried to ease his conscience. ‘Perhaps it was a kindness. Perhaps it is better they discovered, before they wed, that Sydel’s heart is not as constant as Civil believed.’

He shook his head, refusing the comfort. ‘If I had not led, she would not have followed in that dance. Her first sallies were but a girl’s coquetry. I think it as instinctive for a girl to flirt as it is for boys to show off their muscles and daring. Girls of her age are like little kittens pouncing at grass to practise their hunting skills. They do not yet know the meaning of the motions they make.’ He sighed, and went back to his little box of coloured powders.

Silently I watched as he not only made himself look more ill, but added a decade to his years by delineating the lines in his face.

‘Do you think that’s necessary?’ I asked him as he snapped the little box shut and handed it to me. I tucked it back into his case, which was, I noted, already neatly packed for our journey.

‘I do. I wish to be sure that the glamour I put over Sydel is completely broken before I depart. Let her see me as substantially older than she is, and dissolute. She will wonder what she was thinking, and flee back to Civil. I hope he will have her. It would be better than her pining after me.’ He gave a melodramatic sigh, but I knew his ridicule was for himself. This morning, Lord Golden’s façade was fractured and the Fool shone forth from the cracks.

‘A glamour?’ I asked sceptically.

‘Of course. No one is invulnerable to me if I choose to enchant them. No one but you, that is.’ He rolled his eyes at me dolorously. ‘But there is no time for me to mourn that. Now you must go forth and make it known that I wish a private moment with Lady Bresinga. Then go and tap at Laurel’s door and let her know that we ride soon.’

By the time I returned from the second half of my errand, Lord Golden had departed the room to his meeting with Lady Bresinga. It was a very brief meeting, and when he returned, he indicated that I should take our bags down immediately. He did not stop to eat anything, but I had already purloined all the fruit that had been in our room. We would survive, and he was probably wiser to avoid food for a time yet.

Our horses were brought round. Lady Bresinga descended to wish us a chill farewell. Not even the servants deigned to notice our departure. Lord Golden offered yet another apology, attributing much of his behaviour to the fine quality of her wines. If this flattery was meant to appease her, it failed. We rode slowly from her courtyard, Lord Golden setting a very easy pace for us. At the foot of the hill, we turned towards the ferry. Only when the line of trees along the road hid us from the manor’s view did he halt and ask me, ‘Which way?’

Laurel had been riding in a mortified silence. She had said nothing, but I gathered that in humiliating himself, Lord Golden had daubed her with the same brush. Now she looked shocked as I said, ‘This way,’ and turned Myblack off the road and into the sun dappled forest.

‘Don’t wait for us,’ he told me brusquely. ‘Go as swiftly as you can to close the gap. We’ll catch up as we may, though my poor head may hold us back a bit. The worry now is that we may lose his trail. I am certain Laurel can follow yours. Go now.’

I wanted no more than that. I saw the purpose of his order at once. It would allow me to be alone when I overtook Nighteyes and to confer with him privately. I nodded once and set my heels to Myblack. She sprang forwards willingly, and I let my heart lead us. I did not bother looping back to where I had last seen the wolf, but reined her north and east to where I knew he was today. I let a tiny thread of my awareness tug at him to let him know I was coming and felt the twitch of his response. I urged Myblack to greater speed.

Nighteyes had covered a surprising amount of ground. I did not let myself worry about whether or not Laurel could track me easily. My drive now was to rejoin my wolf, see that he was well, and then to push on in pursuit of the Prince. My uneasiness for him had been steadily swelling.

The day was hot, summer’s last sprawl across the land, and the sun beat down on us even through the thin shade of the trees. The dry air seemed laden with dust that sucked the moisture from my mouth and clung to my eyelashes. I did not bother trying to find trails but pushed Myblack through the forested hills and down into the dales between them. Lusher vegetation showed where creeks sometimes ran, but their waters seeped under the surface now. Twice we crossed streams, and each time I stopped to let Myblack water and to drink deeply myself. Then we pushed on.

By early afternoon, I had an indefinable conviction that Nighteyes was near. Before I saw him or scented him, I began to get the strange feeling that I had seen this terrain before, that something about those trees ahead was oddly familiar. I pulled in the horse and slowly scanned the hills around me, only to have him step out from a patch of alder brush scarce a stone’s throw away. Myblack flinched and then focused her full attention on him. I set a hand to her neck. Calm. No need to fear. Calm.

Too tired and not hungry enough to chase you, Nighteyes added helpfully.

‘I brought you meat.’

I know. I smell it.

I had scarcely unwrapped it before it was gone. I wanted to look at his injuries, but knew better than to bother him with that while he was eating. And as soon as he had finished eating, he gave himself a shake. Let’s go.

Let me look at …

No. Maybe tonight. But while they have light, they travel, and so must we. They already have a good start on us, and the dry soil holds their scents poorly. Let’s go.

He was right about tracking them. The dry ground resisted both print and scent. Before the afternoon was over, we had twice been stymied, and had only rediscovered their trail by casting for it in a wide circle. The shadows were growing long when Lord Golden and Laurel caught up with us. ‘I see your dog has found us again,’ she observed wryly, and I could think of nothing to say in reply.

‘Lord Golden tells me that you track the Prince, that a serving girl told you the Prince had fled north?’ There was question in her voice, and her mouth was flat with disapproval. I did not know if she hoped to catch Lord Golden in a lie, or if I was supposed to have seduced someone for the information.

‘She didn’t know he was the Prince. She simply called him a lad with a hunting cat.’ I tried to think of something that would divert her from more questions. ‘The trail is poor. Any help you could give me would be welcome.’

My ruse worked. She proved an able tracker. As the light went out of the day, she picked up small signs that I might have missed, and thus we kept following them long past the hour when I would have said the light was too poor. We came to a creek where they had stopped to water. The spoor of two men, two horses and the cat were all plain in the damp soil at the water’s edge. There we decided to make camp for the night. ‘It’s better to stop tracking while we know we are on the right trail than to wait until we are not certain, and have confused things with our own tracks. Early tomorrow we will start again,’ Laurel announced.

We made a bare camp, little more than a tiny fire and our blankets beside it. Food was in short supply, but at least we had plenty of water. The fruit I had taken from our room was warm and bruised but welcome. Laurel carried, from habit, some twists of dried meat and travel bread. There was precious little of it, and she unwittingly bought much good favour from me when she announced, ‘We don’t need the meat as much as the dog does. We have both fruit and bread.’ Another woman, I thought, might have ignored the wolf’s hunger and hoarded the meat for the next day. Nighteyes, for his part, deigned to take it from her hand. And afterwards, when I insisted on looking at his scratches, he did not snarl when she joined me, though she was wise enough not to attempt to touch him. As I had suspected, he had licked most of the unguent away. The scratches were scabbed closed and the flesh beside them did not look too angry. I decided against putting more ointment on them. As I put the unused pot away, Laurel nodded her head in quiet agreement. ‘Better dry and closed than greased too well and the scab softened too much.’

Lord Golden had already stretched out on his blanket. I surmised that neither his head nor his belly were yet calm. He had spoken little throughout our camp-making and sparse meal. In the gathering dark, I could not tell if his eyes were closed or if he stared up at the sky.

‘Well, I suppose he has the right of it,’ I said, gesturing at him. ‘Early to bed, and an early start tomorrow. Perhaps, with luck, we’ll overtake them.’

I think Laurel assumed Lord Golden was already asleep. She lowered her voice. ‘It will take some hard riding, as well as a measure of luck. They ride assuredly, knowing where they are bound, while we must go carefully lest we lose them.’ Laurel cocked her head and studied me across the small fire. ‘How did you know when to leave the road to find their trail?’

I took a breath and chose a lie at random. ‘Luck,’ I replied quietly. ‘I had a feeling they would be going in this direction, and when I struck their trail, we followed it.’

‘And your dog had the same feeling, which is why he had gone ahead of you?’

I just looked at her. The words rose to my tongue without my volition. ‘Maybe I’m Witted.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she replied sarcastically. ‘And that is why the Queen trusts you to go after her son. Because you are one of those she most fears. You are not Witted, Tom Badgerlock. I’ve known Witted folk before; I’ve endured their disdain and snubs for folks who do not share their magic. Where I grew up, there were plenty of them, and in that place and time, they did little to conceal it. You are no more Witted than I am, though you are one of the best trackers I’ve ever ridden with.’

I did not thank her for the compliment. ‘Tell me about the Witted folk you grew up with,’ I suggested. I smoothed a wrinkle out of my blanket and lay back on top of it. I closed my eyes almost all the way, as if I were only mildly interested in her words. The moon, a paring less than full, looked down at us through the trees. At the edge of the fire’s light, Nighteyes was diligently licking himself. Laurel fussed for a moment with her own blanket, tossing small stones out from under it. Then she smoothed it to the earth and lay back on it. She was silent for a moment or two and I did not think she was going to answer me.

Then, ‘Oh, they were not so bad. Not like the tales folk tell. They did not turn into bears or deer or seals at the light of the full moon, nor did they eat raw meat and steal children. Still, they were bad enough.’

‘How?’

‘Oh,’ she hesitated. ‘It just was not fair,’ she said at last, with a sigh. ‘Imagine never being sure that you were alone, for some little bird or lurking fox might carry the eyes and ears of your neighbour. They took full advantage of their Wit, for their animal partners forever told them where the hunting was best or the berries first ripened.’

‘Were they that open that they were Witted? Never have I heard of such a village.’

‘It was not that they were open about what they were, so much as that I was excluded for what I was not. Children are not subtle.’

The bitterness of her words shocked me. I recalled, abruptly, how the rest of Galen’s coterie had treated me with disdain when I could not seem to master the Skill. I tried to imagine growing up amidst such snubbing. Then a thought intruded. ‘I thought your father was Huntsman for Lord Sitswell. Did not you grow up on his estate, then?’ I wanted to know where this place was, where Witted ones were so common their children had come to expect it of their playmates.

‘Oh. Well, but that came later, you see.’

I was not sure if she lied then, or if she had lied earlier, only that the untruth hung almost palpably between us. It made an uncomfortable silence. My mind darted amongst the possibilities. That she was Witted, that she was an unWitted child in a family with Witted siblings or parents, that she had made the whole tale up, that all of Lord Sitswell’s manor was riddled with Witted servants. Perhaps Lord Sitswell himself was of the Old Blood. Such speculation was not entirely useless. It prepared the mind to sort whatever other information she might toss my way into the appropriate possibilities. I harked back to an earlier conversation we had had, and found a chance remark that put a chill down my back. She had said she would know these hills well, having spent time not far from Galeton, amongst her mother’s folk. Chade, too, had mentioned something of that. I tried to find a way to renew the conversation.

‘So. You sound as if you do not share the currently fashionable hatred of the Witted. That perhaps you do not wish to see them all burned and cut up.’

‘It’s a filthy habit,’ she said, and the way she said it made me feel as if fire and blade were too small a cure for it. ‘I think that parents who teach their children to indulge it should be whipped. Those that choose to practise it should not marry nor have children. They already have a beast to share their homes and lives. Why should they cheat a woman or a man by taking a spouse? Those who are Witted should have to choose, early in their lives, which they will bind to, an animal or another human. That’s all.’

Her voice had risen on the vehemence of her reply. At her last words, it dropped away, as if she suddenly recalled that Lord Golden was sleeping. ‘Good night, Tom Badgerlock,’ she added belatedly. She tried to soften her tone, perhaps, but it still plainly told me that our talk was over. As if to emphasize it, she rolled on her blanket to put her back to me.

Nighteyes rose with a groan and came stiffly to me. He lay down beside me with a sigh. I let my hand come to rest on his ruff. Our shared thoughts flowed as secretly as our blood.

She knows.

Then you think she is Witted? I asked him.

I think she knows that you are Witted, and I don’t think she likes it much.

For a time, I lay silently mulling that. But she fed you.

Oh, well, I think she likes me. It’s you she’s not sure about.

Go to sleep.

Are you going to reach after them tonight?

I didn’t want to. If I succeeded, it would give me a terrible headache. The mere thought of the pain made me nauseous. Yet if I could touch the Prince, I might gain information that could help us catch up sooner. I should try.

I felt his resignation. Go ahead, then. I’ll be right here.

Nighteyes. When I Skill and afterwards … do you share the pain?

Not exactly. Though it is hard for me to remain apart from it, I can. It just feels cowardly when I do.

It’s not cowardly at all. What is the point of both of us suffering?

He made no answer to me, but I sensed that he reserved some thought on that for himself. Something about my question almost amused him. I lifted my hand from his fur and set it on my chest. Then I closed my eyes, centred myself, and tried for a Skill-trance. Dread of pain kept intruding on my thoughts, pushing awry my carefully-constructed peace. Finally, I managed to find a balancing point and held myself there, somewhere between dreaming and waking. I reached forth into the night.

That night I felt, as I had not in years, the sweetness of the pure connection of the Skill. I reached out and it was as if someone reached back and clasped both my hands in welcome. It was a simple, sweet joining, as comforting as homecoming after a long journey. There was the linking of the Skill, and someone drowsing in a soft bed in a loft under the eaves of a thatched roof. The homely smells of a cottage surrounded me, the lingering smell of a good stew cooked that night, and the honey-tang of a beeswax candle burning late somewhere below. I could hear a man and a woman talking, their voices muted as if they did not want to disturb my rest. I could not make out their words, but I knew I was home and safe and that nothing could harm me there. As our Skill-link faded, I sank deeply into the most peaceful sleep I had known in many a year.