Читать книгу The Tawny Man Series Books 2 and 3 - Робин Хобб - Страница 13

On the night that the dastardly Witted bastard murdered King Shrewd in his room, King-in-Waiting Verity’s Mountain-born queen chose to flee the safety of Buckkeep Castle. Alone and gravid with child, she fled into the cold and inhospitable night. Some say that King Shrewd’s jester, fearing for his own life, begged her protection and accompanied her, but this may be but castle legend to account for his disappearance that night. With the clandestine aid of those sympathetic to her cause, Queen Kettricken crossed the Six Duchies and returned to her childhood home in the Mountain Kingdom. There, she made efforts of her own to discover what had become of her husband, King-in-Waiting Verity. For if he lived, she reasoned, he was now the rightful King of the Six Duchies and their last hope against the depredations of the Red Ships.

She reached the Mountain Kingdom, but her king was not there. She was told that he had left Jhaampe and pressed on in his quest. Nothing had been heard from him since then. Only some few of his men had returned, their wits scattered and some injured as from battle. Her heart knew despair. For a time, she sheltered amongst her native people. One of the tragedies of her arduous journey was the stillbirth of the heir to the Six Duchies throne. It is said that this blow hardened her heart to the necessity of finding her king, for if she did not, his line would die with him and the throne pass to Regal the Pretender. Possessed of a copy of the same map that King Verity had hoped would take him to the land of the Elderlings, Queen Kettricken set out to follow him. Accompanied by the faithful minstrel Starling Birdsong and several servants, the Queen led her band ever deeper into the Mountain fastness. Trolls, pecksies and the mysterious magic of those forbidding lands were but a few of the obstacles she faced. Nevertheless, eventually she won through to the land of the Elderlings.

It was an arduous search, but eventually she came to the hidden castle of the Elderlings, a vast hall built all of black and silver stone. There she found that her king had persuaded the Dragon-King of the Elderlings to come to the aid of the Six Duchies. This same Dragon-King, recalling the ancient Elderling oath of alliance with the Six Duchies, bent his knee to Queen Kettricken and King Verity. On his back he carried home not only King Verity and Queen Kettricken but the loyal minstrel Starling Birdsong. King Verity saw his queen and her minstrel safely delivered to Buckkeep. Before his loyal subjects could greet him, before his people even knew he had returned, he left them again. Sword blazing in the sun, he bestrode the Elderling Dragon-King as together they rose into the sky to do battle against the Red Ships.

For the rest of that long and triumphantly bloody season, King Verity led his Elderling allies against the Red Ships. Whenever his folk saw the jewel-bright wings of the dragons in the sky, they knew their king was with them. As the King’s forces struck the Red Ship strongholds and fleet, his loyal dukes rallied to his example. The few Red Ships that were not destroyed fled our shores to carry word of the Farseer wrath back to the Outislands. When our shores were cleared of marauding invaders and peace restored to the Six Duchies, King Verity kept his pledge to the Elderlings. The price of their aid was that he would reside with them in their distant land, never to return to the Six Duchies. Some say that our king took a deadly injury in the last days of the Red Ship War, and that it was but his body the Elderlings bore away. It is said by those ones that the body of King Verity lies in a vault of ebony and gleaming gold in a vast cave in their mountain keep. There the Elderlings honour forever the valiant man who sacrificed all to seek aid for his people. But others say that King Verity lives still, well-feasted and highly acclaimed in the Elderling kingdom, and that if ever again the Six Duchies is in need, he will return with his heroic allies to aid his people.

‘The Brief Reign of Verity Farseer’, Nolus the Scribe

I returned to the stuffy darkness of my little cell. Once I had closed the access to the secret passage, I opened the door to the Fool’s chambers in the hopes of gaining at least some natural light. It didn’t help much, but there was little I needed to do. I tidied my bedding and looked around my austere room. Safely anonymous. Anyone might live here. Or no one, I thought sarcastically. I buckled on my ugly sword, and made sure of the knife at my belt before I left the room.

The Fool had left a generous share of the food for me. Cold, it was not especially appetizing, but my hunger made up for it. I finished his breakfast and then, recalling his instructions to Tom Badgerlock, took the dishes down to the kitchen. On my return trip, I hauled wood for the hearth and water for the pitchers. I dumped and wiped the washing basins and did the other small and necessary chores of the room. I opened the window shutters wide to air the chamber. The view from his window showed me that we would have a fine if chill day. I closed them again before I left.

I had the hours until our afternoon ride to myself, I decided. I thought of going down to Buckkeep Town but swiftly decided against it. I needed to put my thoughts about Jinna in order before I saw her again and I wished to ponder her worries about young Hap. Nor would I risk that Piebalds might be spying on me. The less interest I took in Jinna or my son, the safer they were.

So I took myself down to the practice courts. Weaponsmaster Cresswell greeted me by name and asked if Delleree had been sufficient challenge to my skills. Even as I groaned appreciatively, I was somewhat surprised to be so well recalled. It was both welcoming and disconcerting. I had to remind myself that perhaps the best way to ensure I was never recognized as the FitzChivalry that had lived in Buckkeep Castle sixteen years ago was to make solid my recognition as Badgerlock. So I deliberately paused to talk with the man, and humbly admitted that Delleree had indeed been more than a match for me. I asked him to recommend a partner for this day’s challenge, and he yelled across the courts to a man who moved with the centred ease of a veteran fighter.

Wim’s beard was shot with streaks of grey and his waist thickened with his years. I guessed his age at forty-five, a good ten years older than my true age, yet he proved a good match for me. Both his wind and endurance were better than mine, but I knew a few tricks with a blade that made up for some of that. Even so, he was kind enough, after he had beaten me three times, to assure me that my proficiency and stamina would return with repeated practice. It was small solace. A man likes to think that he has kept his body in good trim, and in truth mine was hardened to the tasks of a small farm as well as to the skills of a frequent hunter. But the muscles and wind of a fighter are a different matter, and I would have to rebuild mine. I hoped I would not need those abilities, but sourly resigned myself to daily practice. Despite the chill day, my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat when I left the courts.

I knew they were the territory of the guards and stablehands, yet I made my way to the steams behind the barracks anyway. I reasoned that at this time of day, they would be little occupied, and that using them would be more in keeping with Tom Badgerlock’s character than hauling water for a midday bath. The castle steams were in an old building of rough stone, built low and long. I shed my sweaty clothes in the outer chamber that fronted the steam and washing rooms, folding them onto a bench. I lifted Jinna’s goodwill charm necklace from around my neck and tucked it under my shirt. Naked, I went through the heavy wooden door that led to the steams. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The room was lined with tiered benches surrounding the squat stone firebox. The only light came from the deep red glow of the fire leaking from its stone dungeon. It had been well stoked. As I had suspected, the steams were mostly deserted, but there were three Outislanders there, guards from the Narcheska’s contingent. They kept to themselves at one end of the clouded room, conversing low in their own hard-edged language. They gave me a single glance, then dismissed me. I was more than willing to yield them their privacy.

I took water from the cask in the corner and splashed it liberally onto the hot stones. A fresh curtain of mist went up, and I breathed it deeply. I stood as close to the steaming stones as I could stand until I felt my sweat break and run freely over my skin. It stung in the healing scratches on my neck and back. There was a box of coarse salt and some sea sponges, just as there had been when I was a boy. I scrubbed my body with the salt, wincing at the necessary pain, and then dashed it clean with the sponges. I had nearly finished when the door opened and a dozen guardsmen crowded in. The veterans in the group looked weary, while the younger men-at-arms were shouting and elbowing one another in good-natured horseplay, energized by returning home from the long patrol they had just finished. Two young men proceeded to stuff more wood into the firebox while another slopped more water on the stones. Steam rose in a wall, and the roar of competing conversations suddenly filled the room.

Two old men followed them into the room, moving more slowly, obviously not a part of the first group. Their scarred and gnarled bodies were testimony to their long years of service. They were deep in talk, some complaint about the beer in the guardroom. They greeted me and I grunted a reply before turning aside. I kept my head down and my face turned away from them. One of the older men had known me when I was just a lad. Blade was his name, and the old guardsman had been a true friend to me. I listened to his familiar oaths as he roundly cursed his stiff back. I would have given much to greet him honestly and share talk with him. Instead I smiled to myself to hear his abuse of the beer and wished him well with all my heart.

I watched surreptitiously to see how our Buckkeep guards would mingle with the Outislanders. Oddly, it was the young men who avoided them and gave them suspicious glances. The guards old enough to have fought in the Red Ship War seemed more at ease. Perhaps when one is a man-at-arms for long enough, war becomes a job and it is easier to recognize another man as a fellow warrior rather than a former enemy. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that the Outislanders were more reluctant to socialize than the Buck guards. But perhaps that was only the natural caution of soldiers disarmed and surrounded by a group of strangers. Staying to watch for longer would have been interesting, but also dangerous. Blade had always had a sharp eye. I would not invite his recognition by lingering in his company.

But as I rose to go, a young guardsman shouldered into me. It was not an accident, or even a well-feigned one. It was but his excuse to loudly exclaim, ‘Watch yourself, man! Who are you, anyway? Which guard company?’ He was a sandy-haired fellow, perhaps of Farrow stock, well-muscled and belligerent with youth. He looked about sixteen to me, a boy aching to prove himself before his more experienced fellows.

I gave him a glare of tolerant disgust, veteran to green soldier. To be too passive would only invite attack. I simply wanted to leave as swiftly as possible, attracting no more attention than necessary. ‘Watch your own step, lad,’ I warned him genially. I moved past him, only to have him shove me from behind. I turned to confront him, loose but not yet aggressive. He had his fists up ready to defend himself. I shook my head tolerantly at that, and several of his companions snickered. ‘Let it be, lad,’ I warned him.

‘I asked you a question,’ he snarled.

‘So you did,’ I agreed benignly. ‘If you’d cared to favour me with your name before you demanded mine, I might have answered. That used to be the custom at Buckkeep.’

He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Charl of Bright’s Guard. I’ve no need to be ashamed of my name or company.’

‘Nor I,’ I assured him. ‘Tom Badgerlock, man to Lord Golden. Who expects me shortly. Good day.’

‘Lord Golden’s serving-man. I might have known.’ He gave a snort of disgust and turned to his fellows to confirm his superiority. ‘You don’t belong in here. This place is for the guardsmen. Not pages and lackeys and “special servants”.’

‘Is it?’ I let a smile crook the corner of my mouth as I ran my gaze over him insultingly. ‘No pages or lackeys. That surprises me.’ All eyes on us now. Hopeless to avoid notice. I’d have to establish myself as Tom Badgerlock. He reddened to my insult, and then swung.

I leaned aside to let his blow go past, then took a step forward. He was ready for my fists, but instead I kicked his feet out from under him. It was a move more befitting a brawler than a noble’s guardsman, and it obviously shocked him. I kicked him again as he went down, driving the air out of him. He fell gasping, to sprawl perilously near the firebox, and I stepped forward to place my foot on his bare chest, pinning him close by the firebox. I snarled down at him. ‘Let it go, lad. Before it gets ugly.’

Two of his companions stepped forward, but ‘Hold!’ shouted Blade, and they halted. The old guardsman stepped forward, one hand pressed to the small of his back. ‘Enough! I won’t have it in here.’ He glared at the man that was likely the guards’ commander. ‘Rufous, get that pup of yours under control. I came here to ease my back, not to be annoyed by an ill-trained braggart. Get that boy out of here. You, Badgerlock, take your foot off him.’

Despite his years, or perhaps because of them, old Blade still commanded universal respect from the guardsmen. As I stepped back, the boy came to his feet. He had both murder and chagrin in his eyes, but his commander barked, ‘Out, Charl. We’ve all had enough of you today. And Fletch and Lowk, you can both go with him, for being fools enough to step forward for a fool.’

So the three of them went hulking past me, sauntering as if they didn’t care. There was a surge of muttering among the guardsmen, but most of it seemed to be agreement that the young man was more churl than Charl. I sat back down, deciding that I’d give them the time to get dressed and be clear of the steams before I left. To my dismay, Blade walked stiffly over and sat down beside me. He offered me his hand, and when I gripped it, it was still the callused hand of a swordsman. ‘Blade Havershawk,’ he introduced himself gravely. ‘And I know the scars of a man-at-arms when I see one, even if that pup didn’t. You’re welcome to use the steams; ignore the boy’s wrangling. He’s new to his company and still trying to overcome the fact that Rufous took him on as a favour to his mother.’

‘Tom Badgerlock,’ I replied. ‘And many thanks to you. I could see he was trying to curry favour with his fellows by it, but I’ve no idea why he chose me. I’d no wish to fight the boy.’

‘That much was plain, as plain as that it was lucky for him you did not. As for why, well, he’s young and listens too much to gossip. It’s no basis for judging a man. Do you hail from about here, Badgerlock?’

I gave a short laugh. ‘Buck in general is where I hail from, I suppose.’

He gestured at the scratches on my throat and asked, ‘And how did you come by those marks?’

‘A she-cat,’ I heard myself say, and he took it for a bawdy jest and laughed. And so for a time, we chatted, the old guardsman and myself. I looked into his seamed face, nodded and smiled at his old man’s gossip, and saw no spark of recognition at all. I should have felt reassured, I suppose, that even an old friend like Blade did not recognize FitzChivalry Farseer. Instead, it unleashed a welling of gloom in me. Had I been that forgettable, that unremarkable to him? I found it hard to keep my mind on his words, and when I finally excused myself from his company, it was almost a relief to leave him, before I could give in to the irrational impulse to betray myself, to drop a word or a phrase that would hint to him that he had once known me before. It was a boy’s impulse, a hunger to be recognized as significant, close kin to the impulse that had made young Charl attempt to spark a fight with me.

I left the steam room and walked through to the washing chamber, where I sluiced the last of the salt from my skin and towelled myself dry. Then I went back into the first room, dressed, and headed out, feeling clean but not renewed. A glance at the sun told me it was nearly time for Lord Golden’s afternoon ride. I headed for the stables, but as I started to go in, I met a stablehand leading Myblack, Malta and an unfamiliar grey gelding. All the mounts were groomed to gleaming and already saddled. I explained to him I was Lord Golden’s man, but he regarded me with suspicion until a woman’s voice greeted me, with, ‘Ho, Badgerlock? Do you ride with Lord Golden and our prince today?’

‘Such is my good fortune, Mistress Laurel,’ I greeted the Queen’s Huntswoman. She was dressed in forest green, in the tunic and leggings of a hunter, but her figure gave them an entirely different air. Her hair was bundled out of the way in a most unfeminine way that somehow only made her more womanly. The stableman abruptly offered me a short bow and let me take the horses from him. When he was out of earshot, Laurel smiled at me and asked quietly, ‘And how is our prince?’

‘In good health, I am sure, Mistress Laurel.’ I apologized with my eyes, and she did not seem to take my careful words amiss. Her glance flickered over the goodwill charm at my throat. Jinna had used her hedge-witch magic to make it for me. It was supposed to make folk regard me kindly. Laurel’s smile grew warmer. I casually turned up my collar to conceal more of the charm.

She glanced aside from me and then spoke with more formality, huntswoman to serving-man. ‘Well. I hope you enjoy your ride today. Please pass on my greetings to Lord Golden.’

‘That I shall, mistress. A good day to you as well.’ As she walked away, I grumbled to myself over the role that I must wear as a shirt to my back. I would have liked more talk with her, but in the middle of the stableyard was not the place for private conversation.

I led the horses around to the great front door of the hall and waited there.

And waited there.

The Prince’s gelding seemed accustomed to such delays, but Malta was plainly put out, and Myblack tested my patience with tactics from a quick tug on her reins to a steady even pull. I’d need to put in more hours with her if I expected to make a good mount of her. I wondered where I would find those hours, cursed the time that was being wasted now, and then dismissed the thought. A servant’s time belonged to his master; I had to behave as if I believed that. I was beginning to feel chilled as well as annoyed before a commotion alerted me to stand straight and put an obliging expression on my face.

A moment later, both the Prince and Lord Golden emerged, surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on. I did not see Dutiful’s intended or any Outislanders among this party. I wondered if that was odd. There were several young women, including one pouting with disappointment. Doubtless she had hoped the Prince would invite her along for the ride. Several of his male companions also looked a bit disgruntled. Dutiful wore a pleasant expression, but the pinch at the corners of his mouth and eyes let me know that he held it in place with an effort. Civil Bresinga was there, on the outskirts of the circle of admirers. Chade had said he was expected to arrive today. He gave me one dark glance, and I perceived that he manoeuvred to stand closer to the Prince, but on the side away from Lord Golden. His presence sent a prickle of both irritation and fear up my spine. Would he leave this farewell and hasten to let others know that I had ridden out with the Prince? Did he spy for the Piebalds, or was he as innocent as had been claimed?

It was obvious to me that the Prince wished to make a swift departure, but even so we lingered some time longer, as he made individual farewells and promised his later time and attention to many of them. All of this he managed graciously and well. It came to me that it was the thread of Skill between us that made me aware of his impatience and irritation with all the finely-dressed nobility that surrounded him. As if he were a restive horse, I found myself sending thoughts of calm and patience to him. He glanced at me, but I could not be sure he was aware of my reaching towards him.

One of his companions took his horse’s head from me, and held the animal while the Prince mounted. I held Malta for Lord Golden, and then at a nod from him mounted my own horse. There was yet another round of farewells and good wishes, as if we were setting off on a long journey rather than merely an afternoon ride. Finally, the Prince firmly reined his gelding to one side and touched heels to him. Lord Golden followed him and then I let Myblack go. A chorus of goodbyes rained down behind us.

Despite Chade’s advice, I had little chance to suggest any route for our afternoon ride. The Prince led and we followed to the gates of Buckkeep, where again we had to pause to allow the guards formally to salute and then pass their young prince through the gate. The moment we cleared the gate, Dutiful put his heels to his horse. The pace he set precluded any conversation. He soon turned off the road onto a lesser-travelled trail, and then kicked his grey to a canter. We followed, and I felt Myblack’s satisfaction in the chance to stretch her muscles. She was not so pleased that I held her back, for she knew that she could easily outdistance both Malta and the grey if given her head.

The Prince’s route led us out onto the sunny hillsides. Once there had been forest here, and Verity had hunted deer and pheasant. Now sheep grudgingly ambled out of our way as we crossed open pasturage, and then ventured into the wilder hills beyond. And all this time, we rode in silence. When we left the flocks behind, Dutiful gave his grey a free head and we galloped through the hills as if fleeing an enemy. Myblack had lost a little of her edginess by the time the Prince finally pulled in his mount. Lord Golden moved up to ride behind him as the walking horses snorted and blew. I kept my place behind them until the Prince turned in his saddle and irritably waved me up beside him. I let Myblack advance and the Prince greeted me coldly with, ‘Where have you been? You promised me that you would teach me, and I haven’t even seen you since we returned to Buckkeep Castle.’

I bit back my first response, reminding myself that he spoke as a prince speaks to a servant, not as a boy would address his father. Yet that brief moment of silence seemed to rebuke him as much as words would have done. Not that he looked chastened, but I recognized the stubborn flex of his lips. I took a breath. ‘My prince, it has been scarcely two days since we returned. I had assumed that you would be very busy with the tasks of your reign. In the meantime, I resumed the chores of my own life. If it please my prince, I thought that you would summon me when you required me.’

‘Why do you speak to me like this?’ the Prince demanded angrily. ‘My prince this and my prince that! You didn’t address me in this fashion on our way home. What happened to our friendship?’

I saw the Fool’s warning in Lord Golden’s quick glance, but I ignored it. I kept my voice low and even as I answered. ‘If you rebuke me as you would a servant, my prince, then I assume that I am to respond in a style appropriate to my station.’

‘Stop that!’ Dutiful hissed at me, as if I had mocked him. I suppose in truth that I had. The result was awful. For a moment, his face tightened as if he were on the verge of tears. He spurred ahead of us, and we let him go. Lord Golden gave me a minuscule shake of his head, and then nodded that I should catch up with the lad. I debated making the Prince pull in and wait for us, then decided that perhaps he could not bend so far. A boy’s pride can be very stiff.

I let Myblack move alongside the trotting grey as she wished, but before I could speak to Dutiful, he addressed me. ‘I’ve started this all wrong. I’m beleaguered and frustrated. These last two days have been horrible … just horrible. I’ve had to behave with perfect courtesy even when I wanted to shout, and smilingly accept flowery compliments on a situation I wish to flee. Everyone expects me to be happy and excited. I’ve heard enough ribald tales about wedding nights to gag a goat. No one knows or cares about my loss. No one even noticed my cat was gone. I have no one that I can speak to about it.’ He suddenly choked. He pulled his horse abruptly to a halt and turned in his saddle to face me. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I apologize, Tom Badgerlock.’

The bluntness of his words and the honest offering of his hand were so like Verity that I knew it was truly his spirit that had fathered this boy. I felt humbled. I gripped the offered hand gravely, then pulled him close enough that I could set a hand upon his shoulder. ‘It’s too late to apologize,’ I told him seriously. ‘I’ve already forgiven you.’ I took a breath as I released him. ‘And I have felt as badgered, my lord, and it has shortened my own temper. So many tasks have fallen to me lately that I’ve scarcely had time to see my own boy. I’m sorry I did not seek you out sooner. I am not sure how we can arrange our meetings without making others aware that I teach you, but you are right. It must be done, and putting it off will not make it easier.’

The Prince’s face had gone very still at my words. I sensed a sudden distancing in him but could not perceive the cause until he asked quietly, ‘Your “own boy”?’

His inflection puzzled me. ‘My foster son. Hap. He is apprenticed to a woodworker in Buckkeep Town.’

‘Oh.’ The single word seemed to fade into silence. Then, ‘I did not know you had a son.’

The jealousy was courteously masked but it rang green against my sense of him. I did not know how to react to it. I gave him the truth. ‘I’ve had him since he was eight or so. His mother abandoned him and he had no other folk willing to take him in. He’s a good lad.’

‘But he is not truly your son,’ the Prince pointed out.

I took a breath and replied firmly, ‘In every way that matters, he is a son to me.’

Lord Golden sat his horse at the outskirts of our circle but I dared not glance to him for advice. After a time of silence, the Prince tightened his knees and his horse moved forward at a walk. I let Myblack pace him, the Fool dawdling along behind us. Just when I thought I must break the silence before it became a wall between us, Dutiful blurted out, ‘Then what need have you of me, if you already have a son of your own?’

The hunger in his voice shocked me. I think he startled himself, for he suddenly kicked his horse into a trot and rode ahead of me again. I made no effort to catch up with him until the Fool at my side whispered, ‘Go after him. Don’t let him close himself off from you. You should know by now how easy it is to lose a person just by letting someone walk away from you.’ Even so, I think it was more the prompting of my own heart that made me set my heels to Myblack and catch up with the boy. For boy he very much looked now, chin held firm, eyes straight ahead as he trotted along. He did not look at me as I came alongside him, but I knew he listened when I spoke.

‘What need do I have of you? What need do you have of me? Friendship is not always based on need, Dutiful. But I will tell you plainly that I need you in my life. Because of who your father was to me, and because you are your mother’s son. But mostly because you are you, and we have too much in common for me to walk away from you. I would not see you grow up as ignorant of your magics as I did. If I can save you that torment, then perhaps in some way I will have saved myself as well.’

I suddenly ran dry of words. Perhaps, like Prince Dutiful, I was surprised by my own thoughts. Truth can well out of a man like blood from a wound, and it can be just as disconcerting to look at.

‘Tell me about my father.’

Perhaps for him the request logically followed what I had said, but it jolted me. I walked a line here. I felt I owed him whatever I could give him of Verity. Yet how could I tell him stories of his father without revealing my own identity? I had firmly resolved that he would know nothing of my true bloodlines. Now was not the time to reveal to him that I was FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, nor that my body had fathered his. To explain that Verity’s spirit, by strength of his Skill-magic, had occupied my flesh for those hours was far too complicated an explanation for the boy. In truth, I could barely accept it myself.

So, much as Chade once had with me, I hedged, asking him, ‘What would you know of him?’

‘Anything. Everything.’ He cleared his throat. ‘No one has spoken to me much of him. Chade sometimes tells me stories of what he was like as a boy. I’ve read the official accounts of his reign, which become amazingly vague after he leaves on his quest. I’ve heard minstrels sing of him, but in those songs he is a legend, and none of them seem to agree on exactly how he saved the Six Duchies. When I ask about that, or what it was like to know him, everyone falls silent. As if they do not know. Or as if there were a shameful secret that everyone knows but me.’

‘There is no shameful secret of any kind attached to your father. He was a good and honourable man. I cannot believe that you know so little of him. Not even your mother has told you of him?’ I asked incredulously.

He took a breath and slowed his horse to a walk. Myblack tugged at her bit but I held her pace to match the Prince’s mount. ‘My mother speaks of her king. Occasionally, of her husband. When she does talk of him, I know that she still grieves for him. It makes me reluctant to pester her with questions. But I want to know about my father. Who he was as a person. As a man among men.’

‘Ah.’ Again, it rang in me, the similarities we shared. I had hungered for the same truths about my own father. All I had ever heard of was Chivalry the Abdicator, the King-in-Waiting who had been tumbled from his throne before he ever truly occupied it. He had been a brilliant tactician, a skilled negotiator. He had given it up to quiet the scandal of my existence. Not only had the noble prince sired a bastard, he had got me on a nameless Mountain woman. It only made his childless marriage the more stinging to an heirless kingdom. That was what I knew of my father. Not what foods he liked, or whether he laughed easily. I knew none of the things a son would know if he had grown up seeing his father daily.

‘Tom?’ Dutiful prodded me.

‘I was thinking,’ I replied honestly. I tried to think what I would like to know about my own father. Even as I pondered this, I scanned the hillside around us. We were following a game-path through a brushy meadow. I examined the trees that marked the beginning of the foothills, but saw and felt no sign of humans there. ‘Verity. Well. He was a big man, near as tall as I am, but bull-chested with wide shoulders. In battle harness, he looked as much soldier as prince, and sometimes I think he would have preferred that more active life. Not that he loved battle, but because he was a man who liked to be outdoors, moving and doing things. He loved to hunt. He had a wolfhound named Leon that shadowed him from room to room, and …’

‘Was he Witted, then?’ the Prince asked eagerly.

‘No!’ The question shocked me. ‘He simply had a great fondness for his dog. And …’

‘Then why am I Witted? They say it runs in families.’

I gave a half-hearted shrug. To me, it seemed the lad’s mind leapt from topic to topic as a flea hops from dog to dog. I tried to follow it. ‘I suppose the Wit is like the Skill. That is supposed to be the Farseer magic, yet a child born in a fisherman’s cot may suddenly show the potential for it. No one knows why a child is born with or without magic.’

‘Civil Bresinga says the Wit winds through the Farseer line. He says that perhaps the Piebald Prince got his Wit as much from his royal mother as his baseborn father. He says that sometimes it runs weak in two family lines, but when they cross, the magic shows itself. Like one kitten with a crooked tail when the rest of the litter is sound.’

‘When did Civil say these things to you?’ I demanded sharply.

The Prince gave me an odd look but answered. ‘Early this morning, when he arrived from Galekeep.’

‘In public?’ I was horrified. I noticed that Lord Golden had edged his horse closer to us.

‘No, of course not! It was very early this morning, before I had breakfasted. He came to the door of my bedchamber himself, urgently begging audience with me.’

‘And you just let him in?’

Dutiful stared at me in silence for a moment. Then he said stiffly, ‘He has been a friend to me. He gave me my cat, Tom. You know what she meant to me.’

‘I know how that gift was intended, as do you! Civil Bresinga may be a dangerous traitor, my prince, one who has already conspired with the Piebalds to snatch you away from your throne and eventually from your own flesh. You must learn more caution!’

The Prince had gone pink about the ears at my rebuke. Yet he still managed to keep his voice level. ‘He says he is not. And that they didn’t. Conspire, that is. Do you think he would have come to me to explain if he had? He and his mother did not know about … the cat. They were not even aware I was Witted when they gave her to me. Oh, my little cat.’ His voice suddenly faltered on his last words, and I knew how all his thoughts had diverted to the loss of his Wit-partner.

The chill grief of his loss blew through his words. It stirred my own loss of Nighteyes to a sharper ache. I felt as if I were probing a wound as I asked relentlessly, ‘Then why did they do it? It must have seemed a strange request. Someone comes to them and gives them a hunting cat and says, “Here, give this to the Prince”. And they’ve never said who gave it.’

The Prince took a breath, then stopped. ‘Civil spoke to me in confidence. I don’t know if I should break that trust.’

‘Did you promise not to tell?’ I demanded, dreading the answer. I needed to know what Civil had told him, but I would not ask him to break his promise.

An incredulous look came over Dutiful’s face. ‘Tom Badgerlock. A noble does not ask his prince to “promise not to tell”. It would not be appropriate to our station.’

‘And this conversation is,’ the Fool observed wryly. His comment made the Prince laugh, easily dispersing a building tension between us that I had not been aware of until the Fool disarmed it. Strange, suddenly to recognize his gift for doing that, after all the years I had known him.

‘I see your point,’ the Prince conceded easily, and now the conversation included all of us as we rode three abreast. For a short time, the steady clopping of the horses’ hooves and the whispering of the cool wind were the only sounds. Dutiful took a breath. ‘He did not ask me to promise. But … Civil humbled himself to me. He knelt at my feet to offer his apology. And I think any man who does that has a right to expect it will be kept from the public gossip.’

‘It would not become public gossip through me, my prince. Nor through the Fool. I promise. Please tell me what passed between you.’

‘The fool?’ Dutiful turned a delighted grin on Lord Golden.

Lord Golden snorted contemptuously. ‘An old joke between old friends. One that is becoming far too worn to be humorous any more, Tom Badgerlock,’ he added warningly to me. I ducked my head to his rebuke, but smirked also, hoping the Prince would accept the hasty explanation. Inside my chest, my heart sank down to the pit of my belly as I castigated myself for my carelessness. Did some part of me long to reveal myself to the Prince? I felt an old familiar twist in my gut. Guilt. Secrets withheld from ones who trusted me. Had not I once promised myself never to do that again? But what choice did I have? I guarded my own secret even as Lord Golden worked at prying the Prince’s secret loose from him.

‘But if you would tell us, I promise that my tongue will wag it no further. Like Tom, I am dubious of Civil Bresinga’s loyalty to you, as friend or subject. I fear you may be in danger, my prince.’

‘Civil is my friend,’ the Prince announced in a voice that brooked no argument. His boyish confidence in his own judgement cut me. ‘I know that in my heart. However,’ and here a strange look flickered over Dutiful’s face, ‘he warned me to be wary of you, Lord Golden. He seems to regard you with … extreme distaste.’

‘A small misunderstanding between us when I guested at his home,’ Lord Golden demurred casually. ‘I am sure we will soon resolve it.’

I rather doubted that myself but the Prince seemed to accept it. He pondered for a time, turning his horse to the west and skirting the edges of the forest. I manoeuvred Myblack to put myself between Dutiful and possible ambushers hiding amongst the trees. I tried to keep one eye on the woods and one on the Prince. When I spotted a crow in a nearby treetop, I wondered sourly if it were a Piebald spy. Little I could do if it were, I told myself. Neither of the others seemed to take notice of the bird. The Prince’s words broke from him just as the bird rose cawing from the trees and flew away.

Dutiful’s words came reluctantly. ‘The Bresingas were threatened. By the Piebalds. Civil would not say how, only that it was very oblique. The cat was delivered to his mother with a note, directing her to give the cat to me as a gift. If she did not, well, reprisal was threatened, but Civil didn’t tell me exactly what.’

‘I can guess,’ I said bluntly. The crow had disappeared from sight. It did not make me feel any more secure. ‘If they didn’t give the cat to you, one of them would be betrayed as Witted. Probably Civil.’

‘I think that is likely,’ Dutiful conceded.

‘That doesn’t excuse it. She had a duty to her prince.’ Privately I resolved to find a way to spy on Bresinga’s room. A quiet visit to it and a search through his possessions might also be a good idea. I wondered if he had brought his cat with him.

Dutiful gave me a very direct look and he seemed to speak with Verity’s bluntness as he asked me, ‘Could you put your duty to your monarch ahead of protecting a member of your own family? That is what I asked myself. If my mother were threatened, what could I be forced to do? Would I betray the Six Duchies for the sake of her life?’

Lord Golden shot me a Fool’s glance, one that was well pleased with this boy. I nodded to it, but felt distracted. Dutiful’s words itched at me. I suddenly felt as if there were something important I needed to remember but could not trace the thought any further. I could not think of an answer to Dutiful’s question either, so the silence lengthened. At last I said, ‘Be careful, my prince. I caution you against taking Civil Bresinga into your confidence, or making his friends your own.’

‘There is little to fear there, Badgerlock. I’ve no time for friends right now; all is duty. It was hard for me to wrench this hour out of my schedule and say that I would go riding with only the two of you. I have been warned that it will look odd to the Dukes, whose support I must court. Far better had I ridden out with some of their sons accompanying me. But I needed this time with you. I’ve something important to ask you, Badgerlock.’ He paused, then asked bluntly, ‘Will you come to my betrothal ceremony tonight? If I must endure this, I’d like to have a true friend nearby.’

I immediately knew the answer, but I tried to look as if I were pondering it. ‘I cannot, my prince. It would not be fitting to one of my station. It would look even odder than this riding out together.’

‘Could not you be there as Lord Golden’s bodyguard?’

Here Lord Golden himself intervened for me. ‘That would appear as if I did not trust my prince’s hospitality to protect me.’

The Prince pulled in his horse, a stubborn look coming over his face. ‘I want you to be there. Find a way.’

This direct command set my teeth on edge. ‘I’ll consider it,’ I replied stiffly. I was still not completely confident of my anonymity at Buckkeep. I wanted to settle more firmly into my role as Tom Badgerlock before I had any more chance confrontations with folk who might recall me from the past. There would be many of them at the betrothal ceremony tonight. ‘But I wish to point out to my prince that even if I am present, conversing with you will be out of the question. Nor should you take any sort of an interest in me that might call undue attention to our connection.’

‘I’m not a fool!’ he retorted, very close to anger at my indirect refusal. ‘I simply would like to have you there. To know I had one friend in the crowd of those watching me being sacrificed.’

‘I think you are being overly dramatic,’ I said quietly. I tried not to let it sound like an insult. ‘Recall that your mother will be there. And Chade. And Lord Golden. All people with your best interests at heart.’

He reddened a bit as he glanced at Lord Golden. ‘I do not discount your value as a friend, Lord Golden. Forgive me if my words were ill considered. As for my mother and Lord Chade, they are, like me, obliged to duty before love. They want what is best for me, that is true, but the largest facet of that is always what is best for my reign. They see the well-being of the Six Duchies as intrinsic to my own well-being.’ He looked suddenly weary. ‘And when I disagree, they say that when I have been King for a time, I will understand that what they obliged me to do was actually in my own best interests as well. That ruling a country that is prosperous and at peace will bring me far more satisfaction over the years than the choosing of my own bride.’

We rode for a time in silence. When Lord Golden broke the quiet, his voice was reluctant. ‘My prince, I fear the sun does not wait for us. It is time to turn back towards Buckkeep Castle.’

‘I know,’ Dutiful replied dully. ‘I know.’

I knew they were the wrong words to offer as comfort even as I said them, but the customs of society dictate strongly to all of us. I tried to make him content with what he must face. ‘Elliania does not seem such a terrible choice for a bride. Young as she is, she is still lovely, with the potential for true beauty as she matures. Chade speaks of her as a queen in the bud and seems well pleased with the match the Outislanders have offered us.’

‘Oh, she is that,’ Dutiful agreed as he turned his grey. Myblack snorted as the other horse cut her path and seemed reluctant to turn and follow him. The hills and a longer gallop enticed her. ‘She is a queen before she is a child or a woman. She has not said one incorrect word to me. Nor one word that might betray what goes on behind those bright black eyes. She offered me her gift quite correctly, a chain of silver fitted with the yellow diamonds of her land. I must wear it tonight. To her I gave the gift my mother and Chade had selected, a coronet of silver set with one hundred sapphires. The stones are small, but my mother favoured their intricate patterning over larger gems. The Narcheska curtseyed as she took it and told me in measured words how lovely she found it. Yet I could not help but notice how general her thanks were. She spoke of “my generous gift”, never once saying a word of the designs or that she liked sapphires. It was as if she had memorized a speech that would suffice for any gift we gave her, and then recited it faultlessly.’

I was almost certain that was exactly what she had done. Yet I did not feel it was right to fault her for that. She was, after all, only eleven years old, with as little say in these proceedings as our prince had. I said as much to the Prince.

‘I know, I know,’ he conceded tiredly. ‘Yet I tried to meet her eyes, and to let her see something of who I am. When first she stood beside me, Badgerlock, my heart truly went out to her. She seemed so young and small, and such a foreigner in our court. I felt for her as I would for any child snatched away from her home and forced to serve a purpose not her own. I had chosen a gift to give her that was from me, not the Six Duchies. It was in her room, awaiting her, when she first arrived. She has made no mention of it, not even a word.’

‘What was it?’ I asked.

‘Something I would have liked, when I was eleven,’ the young man replied. ‘A set of puppets carved by Bluntner. They were dressed as if to tell the tale of the Girl and the Snow Steed. I was told it is a well-known tale in the Outislands as well as the Six Duchies.’

Lord Golden’s voice was neutral as he observed, ‘Bluntner is a skilful carver. Is that the tale where the girl is borne far away from a cruel stepfather by her magic steed, and carried off to a rich land where she weds a handsome prince?’

‘Perhaps not the best tale in these circumstances,’ I muttered.

The Prince looked startled. ‘I never considered it in that light. Do you think I insulted her? Should I apologize?’

‘The less said, the better,’ Lord Golden suggested. ‘Perhaps when you know her better you can discuss it with her.’

‘Perhaps when ten years have passed,’ the Prince conceded lightly, but I felt the thrumming of his anxiety across our Skill-bond. For the first time, I understood that one aspect of his dissatisfaction was that he did not feel he was doing well with the Narcheska. His next words echoed that knowledge.

‘She makes me feel like a clumsy barbarian. She is the one from a log village near an ice shelf, but she makes me feel uncultured and awkward. She looks at me and her eyes are like mirrors. I see nothing of her in them, only how stupid and doltish I appear to her. I have been raised well, I am of good blood, but she makes me feel as if I am a grubby peasant that might soil her with my touch. I do not understand it!’

‘There will be many differences you must resolve as you come to know one another. Understanding that each of you comes from a different, but no less valuable culture may be the first one,’ Lord Golden suggested smoothly. ‘Several years ago, I pursued my own interest in the Outislanders and studied them. They are matriarchal, you know, with their mother-clans indicated by the tattoos they wear. As I understand it, she has already done you great honour by coming to you rather than demanding that her suitor present himself at her motherhouse. It must feel awkward for her to face this courtship without the guidance of her mothers, sisters and aunts to sustain her.’

Dutiful nodded thoughtfully to Lord Golden’s words, but my glimpse of the Narcheska made me suspect the Prince had measured her feelings for him accurately. I did not utter that thought. ‘She has obviously studied our Six Duchies’ ways. Have you given any consideration to learning about her land, and who her family is there?’

Dutiful cast me a sidelong glance, a student who had skimmed his lesson but knew he had not studied it well. ‘Chade gave me what scrolls we have, but he warned me that they are old and possibly outdated. The Outislands do not commit their history to writing, but entrust it to the memories of their bards. All we have is written from the view of the Six Duchies folk who have visited there. It betrays a certain intolerance for their differences. Most of the scrolls are traveller’s accounts, expressing distaste for the food, for honey and grease seem to be the prized ingredients for any guest dish, and dismay at the housing, which is cold and draughty. The folk there do not offer hospitality to weary strangers, but seem to despise anyone foolish enough to get themselves into circumstances where they must ask for shelter or food rather than barter for it. The weak and the foolish deserve to die; that seems to be the main credo of the Outislands. Even the god they have chosen is a harsh and unforgiving one. El of the sea they prefer, over the bountiful Eda of the fields.’ The Prince heaved a sigh as he finished.

‘Have you listened to any of their bards?’ Lord Golden asked quietly.

‘I’ve listened, but not understood. Chade urged me to learn the basics of their language, and I have tried. It shares many roots with our own. I can speak it well enough to make myself understood, though the Narcheska has already told me that she would rather speak to me in my own tongue than hear hers so twisted.’ For an instant, he clenched his teeth to that insulting reproof. Then he went on, ‘The bards are more difficult to understand. Evidently the rules of their language change for their poetry, and syllables can be stretched or shortened to make them fit a measure. Bard’s Tongue, they call it, but add their windy music blasting past the words and it is difficult for me to get more than the basics of every tale. All seem to be about chopping down enemies and taking bits of their bodies as trophies. Like Echet Hairbed, who slept under a coverlet woven from the scalps of his enemies. Or Sixfinger, who fed his dogs from skull bowls of those he had defeated.’

‘Nice folks,’ I observed wryly. Lord Golden scowled at me.

‘Our songs must sound as strange to her, especially the romantic tragedies of maidens who die for love of a man they cannot possess and such,’ Lord Golden gently pointed out. ‘These are barriers you must overcome together, my prince. Such misunderstandings yield most easily to casual conversation.’

‘Ah, yes,’ the Prince conceded sourly. ‘Ten years from now, perhaps we’ll have a casual conversation. For now, we are so ringed by her hangers-on and my well-wishers, that we speak to one another through a throng, in raised voices to reach one another. Every word we exchange is overheard and discussed. Not to mention dear Uncle Peottre, standing over her like a dog over a bone. Yesterday afternoon, when I attempted to stroll through the gardens with her, I felt more as if we were leading a horde to war. There were over a dozen people chattering and trampling along behind us. And when I did pluck a late flower to offer to her, her uncle stepped between us to take it from my hand and examine it before he passed it on to her. As if perhaps I were offering her something poisonous.’

I grinned in spite of myself, recalling the noxious herbs that Kettricken herself had once offered to me when she considered me a threat to her brother. ‘Such treachery is not unknown, my prince, even in the best of families. Her uncle is doing no more than his duty. It has not been long since our lands warred against one another. Give time for old wounds to close and heal. It will happen.’

‘But for now, my prince, I fear we must put our heels to our horses. Did not I hear you say that you had an afternoon appointment with your mother? I think we had best put a little haste into our pace.’

‘I suppose,’ the Prince replied listlessly to Lord Golden’s words. Then he turned a commanding stare on me. ‘So then, Tom Badgerlock. When will we next meet? I am most anxious to begin my lessons with you.’

I nodded, wishing I shared his enthusiasm. I felt obliged to add, ‘The Skill is not always a kindly magic to deal with, my prince. You may find these lessons less than pleasant after we begin them.’

‘I expect that to be so. My experiences of it to date have been both unsettling and confusing.’ His gaze became clouded and distant as he said, ‘When you took me … I know it had something to do with a pillar. We went to … somewhere. A beach. But now when I try to recall that passage, or the events that occurred there or immediately afterwards, it is like trying to recall a dream from childhood. The ends of it don’t meet somehow, if you know what I mean. I thought I understood all that had happened to me. Then, when I tried to discuss it with Chade and my mother, it all fell to tatters. I felt like an idiot.’ He lifted one hand to rub his wrinkled brow. ‘I cannot make the pieces go in order to make a complete memory.’ Then he fixed me with a direct stare and said, ‘I cannot live with that, Tom Badgerlock. I have to resolve it. If this magic must be a part of me, then I must control it.’

His words were far more sensible than my reluctance to deal with it. I sighed. ‘Tomorrow, dawn. In Verity’s tower room,’ I offered, expecting him to refuse me.

‘Very well,’ he replied easily. An odd smile curved his mouth. ‘I thought only Chade called the Seawatch tower “Verity’s tower”. Interesting. You might have at least referred to my father as King Verity.’

‘Your pardon, my prince,’ was the best reply I could think of, and he merely snorted at it. Then he fixed me with a truly royal look and added, ‘And you will make every attempt to be at my ceremony tonight, Tom Badgerlock.’

Before I could reply, he set his heels to his grey and rode back to Buckkeep like a man pursued by demons. We had little choice but to follow. He did not slow until we reached the gate, where we paused to be formally recognized and admitted. From there we walked our horses, but Dutiful was silent and I could think of nothing to say. When we arrived at the tall doors of the main hall, courtiers were already gathered to meet him. A groom hurried up to take his horse’s head, and a stableboy took Malta’s reins. I was left to fend for myself, for which I was grateful. Lord Golden thanked the Prince formally for the extreme pleasure of his exclusive company and the Prince courteously replied. We sat our mounts, watching Dutiful as he was engulfed by his nobles and carried off. I swung off Myblack and stood awaiting my master.

‘Well. A pleasant ride,’ Lord Golden observed, and dismounted. As his boot lightly touched the ground, his foot seemed to fly out from under him and he fell badly. I had never seen the Fool so ungraceful. He sat up, lips pinched tight, then with a groan leaned forward to clutch at his booted ankle.

‘Such a wrench!’ he cried, and then, imperiously, ‘No, no, stay back, see to my horse,’ as he waved the stableboy away. Then, quite sharply to me, ‘Well, don’t stand there, you dolt! Give the stableboy your horse and help me up. Or do you propose that I shall hop up to my chambers?’

The Prince had already been borne away on a wave of chattering ladies and lords. I doubted that he was aware of Lord Golden’s mishap. Some of the Prince’s attendants looked our way, but most were intent on Dutiful. So I crouched and as Lord Golden put his arm across my shoulders, I asked quietly, ‘How bad is it?’

‘Bad enough!’ he snapped sharply. ‘I shall not be dancing tonight, and my new dancing slippers were just delivered yesterday. Oh, this is intolerable! Help me to my rooms, man.’ At his irritated scolding, several lesser nobles hastened towards us. His manner changed instantly as he replied to their anxious queries with assurances that he was sure he would be fine, and that nothing could keep him from the betrothal festivities tonight. He leaned most of his weight on me, but one sympathetic young man took his arm, and a lady sent her maid scuttling off to order hot water and soaking herbs immediately taken to Lord Golden’s chambers, and to fetch a healer as well. No less than two young men and three very lovely young ladies trailed us as we made our way into Buckkeep.

By the time we had lurched and hobbled our way up the stairs and corridors to Golden’s chambers, he had sharply rebuked me for clumsiness a dozen times. We found the healer and the hot water awaiting us outside the door. The healer took Lord Golden out of my hands, and I was almost immediately sent off to fetch brandy to steady his shaken nerves and something from the kitchens to settle his stomach. As I left, I cringed in sympathy for his sharp cries of pain as the healer carefully freed his foot from his boot. By the time I returned with a tray of pastries and fruit from the kitchen, the healer had departed and Lord Golden was ensconced in his chair with his well-propped foot stretched out before him while his sympathizers filled the other chairs. I set out the food upon the table and carried brandy to him. Lady Calendula was sympathizing with him over the heartless and incompetent healer. What kind of a bumbler was he, to cause Lord Golden such pain and then declare that he could find very little indication of an injury? Young Lord Oaks told a long, detailed and plaintive story of how the healer at his father’s house had nearly let him die of a stomach ailment under similar circumstances. When he was finally finished with his tale, Lord Golden begged their understanding that he needed to rest after his disaster. I concealed my relief as I bowed them all out the door.

I waited until the door was well closed behind them and the sound of their chattering voices and tapping feet had died away before I approached the Fool. He leaned back in his chair, a rose-scented kerchief draped over his eyes.

‘How bad is it?’ I asked in a low voice.

‘As bad as you wish it to be,’ he replied, not taking the fabric from his face.

‘What?’

He lifted the cloth and smiled up at me beatifically. ‘Such a display, and all for your benefit. You might at least show your gratitude.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He lowered his bound foot to the floor, stood up and strolled casually to the table where he picked through the leftover food there. He didn’t even limp. ‘Now Lord Golden has an excuse to have his man Tom Badgerlock at his side tonight. I shall lean on your arm when I walk, and you shall carry my little footstool and cushion about for me. And fetch for me and run my greetings and messages about the room for me. You’ll be there for Dutiful to see, and I don’t doubt that you’ll find it a better vantage point for your spying than sneaking about through the walls.’ He looked at me critically as I gaped. ‘Luckily for us both, the new clothing I ordered for you was delivered this morning. Come. Sit down and I’ll trim your hair now. You can’t go to the ball looking like that.’