Assassin 3 - Royal Assassin (19 page)

I pondered this while I unsaddled Sooty and
rubbed her down. I had bent down to check her hooves when I felt
Burrich watching me over the wall of the stall. I asked him, For
how long?

He knew what I was asking.

He began a few days after you left. He brought
her down here one day, and spoke me fair, saying he thought it
quite a shame that the Queen was spending all her days shut up in
the Keep. She was used to such an open and hearty life up in the
Mountains. He claimed he had allowed her to persuade him to teach
her to ride as we rode here in the lower lands. Then he had me
saddle Softstep with the saddle Verity had made for his queen, and
off they went. Well, what was I to do or say? he asked me fiercely
as I turned to look at him questioningly. It is as you have said
before. We are King's Men. Sworn. And Regal is a Prince of the
Farseer house. Even if I were faithless enough to refuse him, there
was my queen-in-waiting, expecting me to fetch her horse for her
and saddle her.

A slight motion of my hand reminded Burrich that
his words sounded close to treason. He stepped into the stall
beside me, to scratch behind Sooty's ears pensively as I finished
with her.

You could do nothing else, I conceded. But I
must wonder what his real intent is. And why she suffers
him.

His intent? Perhaps just to wriggle his way back
into favor with her. It is no secret that she pines in the castle.
Oh, she is fair-spoken to all. But there is too much honesty in her
for her to make others believe she is happy when she is
not.

Perhaps, I conceded grudgingly. I lifted my head
as suddenly as a dog does when his master whistles. I have to go.
King-in-Waiting Verity ... I let the words trail away. I did not
have to let Burrich know I had been summoned by the Skill. I slung
my saddlebags with the arduously copied scrolls inside to my
shoulder and headed up to the castle.

I did not pause to change my clothes, or even to
warm myself at the kitchen fires, but went straight to Verity's map
room. The door was ajar, and I tapped once and then
entered.

Verity leaned over a map secured to his table.
He scarcely glanced up to acknowledge me. Steaming mulled wine
already awaited me, and a generous platter of cold meats and bread
stood on a table near the hearth. After a bit he straightened
up.

You block too well, Verity said by way of a
greeting. I have been trying to get you to hurry for the past three
days, and when do you finally know you are Skilled? When you are
standing in my own stables. I tell you, Fitz, we must find time to
teach you some sort of control over your Skill.

But I knew even as he spoke that there would
never be that time. Too many other things demanded his attention.
As always, he immediately plunged into his concern. Forged ones, he
said. I felt a chill of foreboding run up my spine.

The Red-Ships have struck again? This deep in
winter? I asked incredulously.

No. At least we are still spared that. But it
seems that the Red-Ships can leave us and go home to their hearths,
and still leave their poison among us. He paused. Well, go on. Warm
yourself and eat. You can chew and listen at the same
time.

As I helped myself to the mulled wine and food,
Verity lectured me. It is the same problem as before. Reports of
Forged ones, robbing and despoiling, not just travelers, but
isolated farms and houses. I have investigated, and must give
credence to the reports. Yet the attacks are happening far from the
sites of any raids; and in every case the folk claim there are not
one or two Forged ones, but groups of them, acting in
concert.

I considered for a moment, swallowed, then
spoke. I don't think Forged ones are capable of acting in bands or
even as partners. When one encounters them, one finds they have no
sense of ... community. Of shared humanity. They can speak, and
reason, but only selfishly. They are as wolverines would be if
given human tongues. They care for nothing but their own survival.
They see each other only as rivals for food or comfort of any kind.
I refilled my mug, grateful for the spreading warmth of the wine.
At least it pushed aside the physical cold. The chill thought of
the bleak isolation of the Forged ones it could not
touch.

It was the Wit that had let me discover this
about Forged ones. So deadened were they to all sense of kinship
with the world that I could scarcely sense them at all. The Wit
gave me a certain access to that web that bound all creatures
together, but the Forged ones were separate from that net, as
isolated as stones, as hungry and merciless as an unthinking storm
or a river in flood. To encounter one unexpectedly was as startling
to me as if a stone rose up to attack me.

But Verity only nodded thoughtfully. Yet even
wolves, animals as they are, attack as a pack. As do tearfish on a
whale. If these animals can band together to bring down food, why
not the Forged ones?

I set down the bread I had picked up. Wolves and
tearfish do as they do by their nature, and share the flesh with
their young. They do not kill, each for his own meat, but for meat
for the pack. I have seen Forged ones in groups, but they do not
act together. The time I was attacked by more than one Forged one,
the only thing that saved me was that I was able to turn them
against each other. I dropped the cloak they desired, and they
fought over it. And when they came after me again, they more got in
one another's way than helped one another. I fought to keep my
voice steady as the memory of that night rose up in me. Smithy had
died that night, and I had first killed. But they do not fight
together. That is what is beyond the Forged ones; the idea of
cooperating so that all might benefit.

I looked up to find Verity's dark eyes full of
sympathy. I had forgotten that you had had some experience fighting
them. Forgive me. I don't dismiss it. There is just so much
besieging me lately. His voice dwindled away and he seemed to be
listening to something far away. After a moment he came back to
himself. So. You believe they cannot cooperate. And yet it seems to
be happening. See, here, and he brushed his hand lightly over a map
spread out on his table. I have been marking the places of the
complaints, and keeping track of how many are said to be there.
What do you think of this?

I went to stand beside him. Standing next to
Verity was now like standing next to a different sort of hearth.
The strength of the Skill radiated from him. I wondered if he
strove to hold it in check, if it always threatened to spill out of
him and spread his consciousness over the whole kingdom.

The map, Fitz, he recalled me, and I wondered
how much he knew of my thoughts. I forced myself to concentrate on
the task at hand. The map showed Buck, done in wondrous detail.
Shallows and tide flats were marked along the coast, as well as
inland landmarks and lesser roads. It was a map made lovingly, by a
man who had walked and ridden and sailed the area. Verity had used
bits of red wax as markers. I studied them, trying to see what his
real concern was.

Seven different incidents. He reached to touch
his markers. Some within a day's ride of Buckkeep. But we have had
no raids that close, so where would these Forged ones be coming
from? They might be driven away from their home villages, true, but
why would they converge upon Buckkeep?

Perhaps these are desperate people pretending to
be Forged ones when they go out to steal from their
neighbors?

Perhaps. But it is troubling that the incidents
are happening closer and closer to Buckkeep. There are three
different groups, from what the victims say. But each time there is
a report of a robbery or a barn broken into or a cow butchered in
the field, the group responsible seems to have moved closer to
Buckkeep. I can think of no reason for Forged ones to do such a
thing. And
–
he
halted me as
I began to speak
–
the
 
descriptions of one group
match those of another attack, reported over a month ago. If these
are the same Forged ones, they have come a long way in that
time.

It does not seem like Forged ones, I said, and
then carefully, I asked, Do you suspect a conspiracy of some
kind?

Verity snorted bitterly. Of course. When do I
not suspect conspiracies anymore? But for this, at least, I think I
can look further afield than Buckkeep to find the source. He halted
abruptly, as if hearing how bluntly he had spoken. Look into it for
me, Fitz, will you? Ride out and about a bit, and listen. Tell me
what they say in the taverns, and tell me what sign you find on the
roads. Gather gossip of other attacks, and keep track of the
detail. Quietly. Can you do that for me?

Of course. But why quietly? It seems to me that
if we alerted folk, we would hear more swiftly of what goes
on.

We would hear more, that's true. More of rumors,
and much more of complaint. So far these are individual complaints.
I am the only one, I think, who has put together a pattern from
them. I do not want Buckkeep itself up in arms, complaining that
the King cannot even protect his capital city. No. Quietly, Fitz.
Quietly.

Just look into it quietly. I did not voice it as
a question.

Verity gave his broad shoulders a small shrug.
But it was more like a man shifting a burden than dislodging a
load. Put a stop to it where you can. His voice was small and he
looked into the fire. Quietly, Fitz. Very quietly.

I nodded slowly. I had had these kinds of
assignments before also. Killing Forged ones did not bother me as
much as killing a man did. Sometimes I tried to pretend I was
laying a restless soul to peace, putting a family's anguish to a
final end. I hoped I would not become too adept at lying to myself.
It was a luxury an assassin could not afford. Chade had warned me
that I must always remember what I truly was. Not an angel of
mercy, but a killer who worked for the good of the King. Or the
King-in-Waiting. It was my duty to keep the throne secure. My duty.
I hesitated, then spoke.

My prince. As I was coming back I saw our
Queen-in-Waiting Kettricken. She was riding out with Prince
Regal.

They make a handsome pair, do they not? And does
she sit her horse well? Verity could not entirely keep bitterness
from his voice.

Aye. But in the Mountain style still.

She came to me, saying she wished to learn to
ride our tall lowland horses better. I commended the idea. I did
not
know she would choose Regal as a riding master.
Verity leaned over his map, studying detail that was not
there.

Perhaps she hoped you would teach her. I spoke
thoughtlessly, to the man, not the Prince.

Perhaps. He sighed suddenly. Oh, I know she did.
Kettricken is lonely, sometimes. Often. He shook his head. She
should have been married to a younger son, to a man with time on
his hands. Or to a King whose kingdom was not on the verge of war
and disaster. I do not do her justice, Fitz. I know this. But she
is so ... young. Sometimes. And when she is not being so young, she
is so fanatically patriotic. She burns to sacrifice herself for the
Six Duchies. Always I have to hold her back, to tell her that is
not what the Six Duchies need. She is like a gadfly. There is no
peace in her for me, Fitz. Either she wants to be romped like a
child, or she is quizzing me on the very details of some crisis I
am trying to set aside for a few moments.

I thought suddenly of Chivalry's single-minded
pursuit of the frivolous Patience, and caught a glimpse of his
motives. A woman who was an escape for him. Who would Verity have
chosen, had he been allowed to choose for himself? Probably someone
older, a placid woman possessed of inner self-worth and
peace.

I grow so tired, Verity said softly. He poured
himself more mulled wine and stepped to the hearth to sip at it. Do
you know what I wish?

It wasn't really a question. I didn't even
bother to reply.

I wish your father were alive, and
king-in-waiting. And I his right-hand man still. He would be
telling me what tasks I must tackle, and I would be doing as he
asked. I would be at peace with myself, no matter how hard my work,
for I would be sure he knew best. Do you know how easy it is, Fitz,
to follow a man you believe in?

He looked up at last to meet my eyes.

My prince, I said quietly. I believe I
do.

For a moment Verity was very still. Then: Ah, he
said. He held my eyes with his, and I did not need the warmth of
his Skilling to feel the gratitude he sent me. He stepped away from
the hearth, drew himself up straighter. My king-in-waiting stood
before me once more. He dismissed me with a tiny motion, and I
went. As I climbed the stairs to my room, for the first time in my
life I wondered if I should not be grateful to have been born a
bastard.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Encounters

IT HAD ALWAYS been the custom and the
expectancy that when a King or Queen of Buckkeep wed, the royal
spouse would bring an entourage of his or her own as attendants.
Such had been the case with both of Shrewd's queens. But when Queen
Kettricken of the Mountains came to Buckkeep, she came as
Sacrifice, as was her country's custom. She came alone, with no
women or men to attend her, not even a maid to be a confidante. No
person in Buckkeep was there to give the comfort of familiarity to
her in her new home. She began her reign surrounded completely by
strangers, not just at her own social level, but extending down to
servants and guards as well. As time progressed she gathered
friends to her, and found servants as well who suited her, though
at first the Idea of having a person whose lifework was to wait on
her was a foreign and distressing concept to her.