The Farseer Series Books 2 and 3: Royal Assassin, Assassin’s Quest. Robin Hobb
had not moved. Suddenly neither of us could look at the other. ‘Come here,’ he repeated gruffly. ‘Sit down here with me. Look into the flames.’
And in the space of an hour, he gave me an exercise to practise, one that would keep my dreams to myself, or more likely, ensure that I had no dreams at all. With a sinking heart I realized I would lose even the Molly of my imagination as surely as I’d lost the real one. He sensed my glumness.
‘Come, Fitz, it will pass. Keep a rein on yourself and endure. It can be done. May come a day when you will wish your life to be as empty of women as it is now. As I do.’
‘She didn’t mean to get lost, sir.’
Verity shot me a baleful glance. ‘Intentions cannot be exchanged for results. She is Queen-in-Waiting, boy. She must always think, not once, but thrice, before she takes action.’
‘She told me that Softstep followed Regal’s horse, and would not respond to the rein. You can fault Burrich and I for that; we’re supposed to have trained that horse.’
He sighed suddenly. ‘I suppose so. Consider yourself rebuked, and tell Burrich to find my lady a less spirited horse to ride until she is a better horsewoman.’ He sighed again, deeply. ‘I suppose she will consider that a punishment from me. She will look at me sadly with those great blue eyes, but speak not a word against it. Ah, well. It cannot be helped. But did she have to kill, and then to speak of it so blithely? What will my people think of her?’
‘She scarcely had a choice, sir. Would it have been better for her to die? As to what folk will think … well. The soldiers who first found us thought her plucky. And capable. Not bad qualities for a queen, sir. The women, especially, in your guard spoke warmly of her as we returned. They see her as their queen now, much more than if she were a weeping, quailing thing. They will follow her without question. In times like these, perhaps a queen with a knife will give us more heart than a woman who drapes herself in jewels and hides behind walls.’
‘Perhaps,’ Verity said quietly. I sensed he did not agree. ‘But now all shall know, most vividly, of the Forged ones who are gathering about Buckkeep.’
‘They shall know, too, that a determined person can defend herself from them. And from the talk of your guard as we came back, I think there shall be far fewer Forged ones a week hence.’
‘I know that. Some will be slaying their own kin. Forged or not, it is Six Duchies blood we are shedding. I had sought to avoid having my guard kill my own people.’
A small silence fell between us, as we both reflected he had not scrupled to set me to that same task. Assassin. That was the word for what I was. I had no honour to preserve, I realized.
‘Not true, Fitz.’ He answered my thought. ‘You preserve my honour. And I honour you for that, for doing what must be done. The ugly work, the hidden work. Do not be shamed that you work to preserve the Six Duchies. Do not think I do not appreciate such work simply because it must remain secret. Tonight, you saved my queen. I do not forget that either.’
‘She needed little saving, sir. I believe that even alone, she would have survived.’
‘Well. We won’t wonder about that.’ He paused, then said awkwardly, ‘I must reward you, you know.’
When I opened my mouth to protest, he held up a forbidding hand. ‘I know you require nothing. I know, too, that there is already so much between us that nothing I could give you would be sufficient for my gratitude. But most folk know nothing of that. Will you have it said in Buckkeep Town that you saved the Queen’s life, and the King-in-Waiting acknowledged you not at all? But I am at a loss to know what to gift you with … it should be something visible, and you must carry it about with you for a while. That much I know of statecraft, at least. A sword? Something better than the piece of iron you were carrying tonight?’
‘It’s an old blade Hod told me to take to practise with,’ I defended myself. ‘It works.’
‘Obviously. I shall have her select a better one for you, and do a bit of fancywork on the hilt and scabbard. Would that do it?’
‘I think so,’ I said awkwardly.
‘Well. Let’s back to bed, shall we? And I shall be able to sleep now, won’t I?’ There was no mistaking the amusement in his voice now. My cheeks burned anew.
‘Sir. I have to ask …’ I fumbled the hard words out. ‘Do you know who I was dreaming about?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Do not fear you have compromised her honour. I know only that she wears blue skirts, but you see them as red. And that you love her with an ardency that is appropriate to youth. Do not struggle to stop loving her. Only to stop Skilling it about at night. I am not the only one open to such Skilling, though I believe I am the only one who would recognize your signature on the dream so plain. Still, be cautious. Galen’s coterie is not without Skill, even if they use it clumsily and with little strength. A man can be undone when his enemies learn what is dearest to him from his Skill dreams. Keep your guard up.’ He gave an inadvertent chuckle. ‘And hope your Lady Red Skirts has no Skill in her blood, for if she does at all, she must have heard you all these many nights.’
And having put that unsettling thought into my head, he dismissed me back to my chambers and bed. I did not sleep again that night.
Oh, some folk ride to the wild boar hunt
Or for elk they nock their arrows.
But my love rode with the Vixen Queen
To lay to rest our sorrows.
She did not dream of fame that day
Nor fear what pain might find her.
She rode to heal her people’s hearts
And my love rode behind her.
The Vixen Queen’s Hunt
The whole keep was astir early the next day. There was a fevered, almost festival air in the courtyard as Verity’s personal guard and every warrior who had no scheduled duties that day massed for a hunt. Tracking hounds bayed restively, while the pull-down dogs with their massive jaws and barrel chests huffed excitedly and tested their restraints. Bets were already being set on who would hunt most successfully. Horses pawed the earth, bow-strings were checked, while pages ran helter-skelter everywhere. Inside the kitchen, half the cooking staff was busy putting up packages of food for the hunters to take with them. Soldiers young and old, male and female strutted and laughed aloud, bragging of past confrontations, comparing weapons, building spirit for the hunt. I had seen this a hundred times, before a winter hunt for elk, or bear. But now there was an edge to it, a rank smell of bloodlust on the air. I heard snatches of conversations, words that made me queasy: ‘… no mercy for that dung …’, ‘… cowards and traitors, to dare to attack the Queen …’, ‘… shall pay dearly. They don’t deserve a swift death …’ I ducked hastily back into the kitchen, threaded my way through an area busy as a stirred ant-hill. Here, too, I heard the same sorts of sentiments voiced, the same craving for revenge.
I found Verity in his map-room. I could tell he had washed and dressed himself afresh this day, but he wore last night as plainly as a dirty robe. He was attired for a day inside, amongst his papers. I tapped lightly at the door, although it stood ajar. He sat in a chair before the fire, his back to me. He nodded, but did not look up at me as I entered. For all his stillness, there was a charged air to the room, the gathering of a storm. A tray of breakfast rested on a table beside his chair, untouched. I came and stood quietly beside him, almost certain I had been Skilled here. As the silence grew longer, I wondered if Verity himself knew why. At length I decided