Fool's Quest (21 page)

“It's ink!” I objected.

“As if that matters,” the boy muttered.

The Fool interrupted. “The buttons. How recent a fashion are they here?”

“A few folk were wearing them last summer, but now everyone—”

“Fitz, come here. Stand before me.”

I did as he told me, amazed to see that he almost looked animated. I wondered when anyone had last demanded his help. When he felt me standing before him, he lifted his hands and ran them over my garments as if I were a horse he was considering buying. He felt the fabrics, touched the rows of buttons, tugged at my collar, and then touched my chin.

“Don't shave,” he instructed me abruptly, as if I had been poised with razor in hand. “Ash. Can you cut the buttons from the trousers and leave no trace they were ever there?”

“I think so.” The boy sounded a bit sullen.

“Come, Ash,” the Fool cajoled him. “You grew up in a bawdyhouse, where daily, women presented themselves to be what men fancied. This is the same thing. We must give them what they want to see. Not a fashionable gentlemen dressed to impress, but a hero returned from the outskirts of society. He has been hidden amongst us since he returned from the Elderlings, living as a humble rural landholder. Slice the buttons off the trousers! We must make him look as if he has not mingled in court society for close to twoscore years. Yet we must also make it appear that he has tried to dress to the style. I know that Chade knows well how to play this sort of a game. We will need powder and paint, to emphasize the old break in his nose and the scar on his face. Some jewelry, but nothing too fine. Silver suits him better than gold.”

“My fox pin,” I said quietly.

“Perfect,” the Fool agreed. “Ash?”

“A hat. Almost no one goes bareheaded anymore. But simpler. Without feathers, perhaps.”

“Excellent. Go fetch. I think you've the head for this game. Indulge yourself.”

As easily as that, he had stroked the boy's pride smooth. The lad flashed a smile at me as he rose and then vanished, headed toward the crawlway that would exit into Lady Thyme's chamber.

“The fox pin,” the Fool demanded of me.

“And there is now a silver narwhal button that the queen gave me last night,” I remembered.

I took the button from my pocket and the fox pin from inside my shirt, where habit had placed it when I dressed. His crippled hands worked awkwardly at the collar of my shirt, folding the fabric and then securing it with the pin so that it suddenly looked and felt like a different garment to me. By the time he had finished and I had scrubbed the last of the ink spots from my face, Ash was back with a full armload of belts, vests, paint, powder, and a very sharp knife. The lad sheared the buttons from my trousers and then plucked the loose threads away. He was good with face paint; I almost asked if he had applied it for his mother, and then bit back the question. He traded my belt for a heavier one, and my belt-knife for a more substantial blade, one that verged on being a short sword. The hat that he produced for me had undoubtedly been made for a lady, sixty or seventy years ago. Ruthlessly, he stripped the feathers from it before handing it over to the Fool, who felt it carefully, and then commanded the boy to restore two small feathers and add a leather strap with a showy buckle to the crown. The silver button they threaded with heavy twine and fastened to my wrist. “We should order a fine silver chain for that,” the Fool suggested and the boy grinned, dug in a small box, and produced one.

“Excellent choice!” the Fool praised him as he fingered the fish-scale links, and in a trice they had redone the narwhal.

By the time they finished, they were both chortling and congratulating each other. Ash seemed to have lost all uneasiness around the Fool; indeed, they seemed to have established a swift camaraderie. “The final touch for the Witted Bastard,” the Fool exclaimed. “Motley. Will you ride on his shoulder and be his Wit-beast for the evening?”

“No,” I said, appalled, even as the bird cocked her head at me and responded, “Fitz—Chivalry!”

“She can't, Fool. She's not my companion. It will offend Web if I pretend she is. And I have no way to reassure her that she is safe in such a crowded and noisy space.”

“Ah, well.” The Fool understood immediately, even if he could not conceal his disappointment.

Ash had tilted his head and was looking at me speculatively. “What?” I asked, thinking that he'd found something awry in my garments.

He glanced away from the Fool but tipped a nod toward him. “He says he was there. With you, in the Mountains, when you woke the dragons and sent them to aid King Verity.”

I was startled both by the lad being brave enough to ask such a question and by the idea that the Fool would have spoken so freely to him of our time together. “It's true,” I managed to say.

“But the minstrel didn't mention him at all last night.”

The Fool gave an abrupt caw of laughter, and the crow immediately mimicked him.

“And that is true also,” I agreed.

“But Lady Starling said she sang true.”

“Everything she sang was true. I will leave it to you as to whether the truth can exist with details omitted, or if those lacks make a lie of it.”

“He told me that he rode a dragon behind a girl who had been carved from the same stone as the dragon and that they flew up into the sky and saw some of the battles.” The lad was getting bolder. The Fool gave me a sightless glance.

“I myself saw him fly away on the back of a dragon. Girl-on-a-Dragon we called her. And if he has favored you with an account of battles he saw, well, then you know more of it now than I've ever heard.”

A slow smile spread over the boy's face. “Then he's a hero, too.”

I nodded. “Without him, Queen Kettricken would never have reached the Mountains alive. And I would have died of an arrow wound before ever we went on our quest to seek King Verity. So, yes, he is a hero, too.” I glanced over at the Fool. His face was very still, his fingers perched on the table's edge.

“She left out a lot.”

“She did.”

“Why?”

Before I could respond, the Fool intervened. “Perhaps someday you should ask her that.” I did not miss the lilt of amusement in his voice as he imagined such an encounter.

“I have to go.” A thought came to me and I dared it. “Fool, you should dress and come with me. I think you are strong enough to manage it, at least for an hour or so.”

“No.” His response was swift and strong.

I regretted my words instantly. The old light that had shone so briefly in his face, his pleasure in helping me and telling Ash stories, had vanished as if it had never been. The fear was back and he cringed back in his chair. I looked at him and wondered how he had ever managed to muster his courage to travel so far to find me, alone, hurt, and blind. Had he expended the last of his spirit to do so, and would he never recover to be once more the Fool I had known?

“You don't have to,” I said quietly.

He spoke swiftly, his words tumbling out. “I'm still in danger, Fitz. I know you think I'm foolish. I know you can't possibly believe that here, in Buckkeep Castle, they could not only come after me but take me back. But they could. I know this as clearly as I know … as I know that you are my friend. There are very few things I know anymore, Fitz. Few things I am certain about, but you are one of them. And the other is that the danger to me is real.” His voice had become softer and softer as he spoke. On his last words, he folded his hands and looked down at them as if he could see them. Folded, they no longer resembled hands. There were knots of white and lumps of red and speckles of scars. I looked away from them.

“I'll stay with him, sir,” Ash said quietly. I hadn't asked him to, and wouldn't have thought of it, but the moment he volunteered, I was grateful.

“I know you have to go,” the Fool said. Quiet desperation was in his voice.

“I do.” I'd felt several nudges from Chade, and Nettle was now pressing against my thoughts. It was important that I appear. Dutiful and Elliania were delaying their entrance until I could walk in with them. Much longer and it would appear that we slighted our nobles.

I'm coming now,
I Skilled back to them and then closed my thoughts to them. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” I assured the Fool, and “Soon!” the crow echoed. She hopped closer to the Fool and tilted her head.

“Motley's worried about you,” Ash said as gently as if he were coaxing a child. “She's trying to look into your face.”

I did not think it would work. I was not sure what I felt as the Fool's clenched hands slowly opened. He beckoned to the bird and she hopped closer. “Here's a bit of bread for her,” Ash whispered, and dropped a torn crust into the Fool's hand. He closed his fingers on it, forcing the bird to stand near and take it in chunks as he held it.

“Soon,” I promised the Fool, and rose and left the table. I was halfway down the steps when Ash caught up with me.

“Sir, sir,” he called in a carrying whisper. “Let me adjust your collar.” But when he was closer to me, he spoke other words by my ear, for me alone to hear. “He is not as strong as he tries to show himself to you. Earlier today, I found him on the floor near the hearth, trying to rise. It was hard for him to make himself take my hand. Harder for him to endure the pain as I helped him back to his feet. You see him walk, and he can rise from a bedside or a chair. But once on the floor, he could not lift himself.” And again in his whisper, he added, “There, that's much better.”

“Thank you,” I told him, letting my voice carry as he did. I caught his hand and gripped it briefly; I knew he understood my unvoiced gratitude. Hard news for me to hear, and harder to know that my friend concealed his infirmity from me. I went the rest of the way down the stairs to my old room with a heavy heart.

No sooner had I closed the hidden door behind me than I heard a forceful rap at the chamber door. “A moment,” I called, and Riddle spoke through the door, saying, “That's a moment more than I'm to give you.” As I opened the door, he told me, “I've been sent to fetch you and bring you down to dinner regardless of objections or appearance. But actually, I think you've done very well with yourself.”

“And you,” I returned his barbed compliment, for truly Riddle looked little like his normal self. His white shirt was cuffed and collared in purple. Kettricken's Mountain colors. His trousers were black. He was allowed to wear simple boots. I felt envy.

He lifted his chin and showed me his profile. “You don't think I look more noble-blooded already? It's Kesir Riddle now, which Kettricken explains would translate more as ‘servant' than ‘lord,' given the Mountain Kingdom philosophy on the duties of rulers. But tonight they will call me Kesir Riddle and I will sit at the high table.”

“Were you sent to escort me there, lest I fail to arrive on time? Or am I to be seen with you to impart my paternal approval of your marriage to my daughter?”

“Both, perhaps. Though I will admit it seems a bit odd that you should be in that role when you actually appear to be younger than I am.”

I had just shut the door behind me and locked it, or I think I would have insisted he stand beside me before the looking-glass. I turned my gaze on him and studied him in silence. Riddle was Riddle, and so I had seen him through the years. While he was scarcely a graybeard, when I surveyed him I noted the lines that now framed his mouth and that his hair was retreating from his brow. He grinned suddenly.

“You've missed your moment to charitably disagree with me, Tom. Oh. It's time to abandon that, too, isn't it? Come, Prince FitzChivalry Farseer. It's time to descend and face the hordes of well-wishers.” He linked his arm through mine and marched me off with him as if he were escorting me to the gallows. As we walked the corridor and descended the stair, I pulled my awareness in. Prince FitzChivalry Farseer. Hero. Humble hero, coming out of a long exile in Withywoods after spending decades amongst the mythical Elderlings. I was the son of Chivalry Farseer, nephew to Verity. Cousin to King Dutiful. Defender of the crown. What would the folk, common and noble, want to see in this handcrafted hero?

By the time we were striding past folk in the halls, I knew that I was taciturn, but not too grave. I would be as interested in people as Web was, and whenever possible I would turn the conversation to who they were and what they had done. I would talk little and listen well. Modesty about my exploits would serve me until Chade and I could take counsel and decide exactly which ones were for public discussion.

Ah, that evening. I had made us all tardy, and I realized belatedly that I had significantly heightened Nettle's anxiety by doing so. I walked at her left side and Riddle on her right, and as we processed through the corridors to the Great Hall, she whispered to me that I must come to the dawn meetings in Verity's tower if I was to understand what was happening in Buckkeep Castle. For tonight, follow Chade's lead and if in doubt, Skill to her for direction. I successfully concealed my amusement at her dictatorial tone by watching Riddle endeavoring to master his nervousness.

The Great Hall had been rearranged for the occasion. There was the high table, on its dais so all might watch the king and queen dine. A second, lower dais had been erected before it for chosen favorites and the dukes and duchesses in attendance. I found it reassuring, as it might act as a sort of barricade for any lesser assassin who might try to eliminate me. In the center of the hall, there was a third dais, bedecked with evergreen and holly thick with berries, as if we were just now commencing to celebrate Winterfest. Starling was seated there, before her harp, in the most extravagant minstrel's garb that I had ever seen. As we entered, she struck a series of chords connected by stair steps of notes. She continued to play as we were seated, softening her volume when a page announced each of us as we took our places on the dais. I was introduced after Nettle and before Riddle, so the ripple of talk at my name muffled any astonishment there might have been to hear him named as not only a landed noble but wed to Lady Nettle.