Assassin's Quest (31 page)

They were just beginning to stir when a bulky little man appeared, to call shrilly that he would hire a man to help move his sheep from one pen to another. It was only a morning’s work, if that, and most of the men shook their heads, wishing to remain where they might be hired for a drover’s trip to Blue Lake. He almost pleaded, saying he must move the sheep through the city streets, hence he needed to get it done before the day’s common traffic began. Finally, he offered to include breakfast, and I really think that was why I nodded to him and followed him. His name was Damon and he talked the whole time we walked, fluttering his hands about, explaining needlessly to me just how he wanted these sheep handled. They were good stock, very good stock, and he didn’t want them injured or even flustered. Calmly, slowly, that was the best way to move sheep. I nodded wordlessly to his worrying and followed him to a pen far down the slaughter street.

It soon became apparent why he was so anxious to move his sheep. The next pen must have belonged to the luckless Hencil. A few sheep still baaed in that pen, but most of them were down, dead or dying of flux. The stench of their sickness added a new foul note to the other smells in the air. Some men were there, taking the skins off the dead animals to salvage what they could from the flock. They were making bloody, messy work of it, leaving the skinned dead animals right there in the pen with the dying ones. It reminded me in some gruesome way of a battlefield, with looters moving among the fallen. I turned my eyes from the sight and helped Damon bunch up his sheep.

Trying to use the Wit on sheep is almost a waste of time. They are flighty of thought. Even those ones who appear most placid are so because they have forgotten what they were thinking about. The worst of them are capable of an inordinate amount of wariness, becoming suspicious of the simplest act. The only way to deal with them is much as herd dogs do. Convince them they have had a good idea about where they wish to go, and encourage them in it. I amused myself briefly by considering how Nighteyes would have bunched up and moved these woolly fools, but my even thinking of a wolf caused a few of them to halt in their tracks suddenly and glance about wildly. I suggested to them they should follow the others before they were lost, and they started as if surprised at the notion, then crowded in amongst the rest of the sheep.

Damon had given me a general idea of where we were going, and a long stick. I worked the back and sides of the flock, running and soon panting like a dog, while he led the way and kept the flock from scattering at every intersection. He took us to an area on the outskirts of town, and we put the sheep into one of the ramshackle pens there. Another pen held a very fine red bull, while there were six horses in yet another. After we had caught our breath, he explained that tomorrow a caravan would be forming up here to travel to Blue Lake. He had bought these sheep just yesterday, and intended to take them to his home there to add to his flocks. I asked him if he might want another hand to herd the sheep to Blue Lake, and he gave me a considering look but no answer.

He was as good as his word about breakfast. We had porridge and milk, plain fare that tasted wonderfully good to me. It was served to us by a woman who lived in a house near the holding pens and made her living keeping watch over the animals penned there and providing meals and sometimes beds for those in charge of them. After we had eaten, Damon laboriously explained to me that yes, he was in need of an extra hand, possibly two, for the trip, but that he judged by the cut of my clothes that I knew little of the type of work I was seeking. He’d taken me on this morning because I was the only one who looked really awake and eager for the work. I told him my story of my heartless sister, and assured him that I was familiar with handling sheep, horses, or cattle. After much dithering and druthering, he hired me. His terms were that he would provide my food for the journey, and at the end of it would pay me ten silver bits. He told me to run and fetch my things and say my goodbyes, but to be certain to be back here by the evening, or he would hire another to take my place.

“I have nothing to fetch, and no one to bid goodbye to,” I told him. It would not be wise to go back to town, not after what I’d heard last night. I wished the caravan were leaving right now.

For an instant he looked shocked, but then decided he was well pleased. “Well, I have both to attend to, so I shall leave you here to watch over the sheep. They’ll need water hauled to them; that was one reason I was leaving them in the town pens, they’ve a pump there. But I didn’t like to have them so near sick sheep. You haul them water, and I’ll send a man out with a cart of hay for them. See you give them a good feed. Now, mind, I’ll judge how we are to go on together by how you begin with me. . . .” And so on and so on he went, telling me to the last detail how he wished the animals watered, and how many separate piles of feed to make to be sure each animal got a share. I suppose it was to be expected; I did not look like a shepherd. It made me miss Burrich, and his calm assumption that I would know my business and do it. As he was turning to go, he suddenly turned back. “And your name, lad?” he called to me.

“Tom,” I said after an instant’s hesitation. Patience had thought once to call me that, before I had accepted the name FitzChivalry. The reflection called to mind something Regal had once flung at me. “You have to but scratch yourself to find Nameless the dog-boy,” he’d sneered. I doubted he would think Tom the shepherd much above that.

There was a dug well, not very near the pens, with a very long rope to its bucket. By working constantly, I finally managed to get the water trough filled. Actually, I filled it several times before the sheep allowed it to remain filled. About then, a cart with hay arrived, and I carefully created four separate piles of feed in the corners of the pen. It was another exercise in frustration, as the sheep bunched and fed off each pile as I created it. It was only after all but the weakest were satiated that I could finally establish a pile in each corner.

I whiled away the afternoon with drawing more water. The woman gave me the use of a large kettle to heat it, and a private place where I could wash the worst of the road from my body. My arm was healing well. Not bad for a deadly injury, I told myself, and hoped Chade would never hear of my blundering. How he would laugh at me. When I was clean, I fetched more water to heat, this for washing out the clothes I’d bought from the rag woman. I discovered the cloak was actually a much lighter gray than I had thought it. I could not get all the smell out of it, but by the time I hung it to dry, it smelled more of wet wool and less of its previous owner.

Damon had left me no provision for food, but the woman offered to feed me if I would haul the water for the bull and the horses, as it was a chore she’d grown much weary of doing for the last four days. So I did, and earned myself a dinner of stew and biscuits and a mug of ale to wash it all down. Afterward I checked on my sheep. Finding them all placid, habit made me turn to the bull and the horses. I stood leaning on the fence, watching the animals, wondering how it would be if this were all there was to my life. It made me realize that it would not have been bad, not if there’d been a woman like Molly waiting for me to come home at night. A rangy white mare came over to rub her nose up my shirt and beg to be scratched. I petted her and found her missing a freckled farmgirl who had brought her carrots and called her Princess.

I wondered if anyone, anywhere, got to live the life he’d wanted. Perhaps Nighteyes finally had. I truly hoped so. I wished him well, but was selfish enough to hope that sometimes he’d miss me. Sullenly I wondered if perhaps that was why Verity had not come back. Maybe he’d just got sick of the whole business of crowns and thrones and kicked over all his traces. But even as I thought it, I knew it was not so. Not that one. He’d gone to the Mountains to rally the Elderlings to our aid. And if he’d failed at that task, then he’d think of another way. And whatever it was, he’d called me to help him do it.

11

Shepherd

C
HADE FALLSTAR, ADVISER
to King Shrewd, was a loyal servant of the Farseer throne. Few knew of his services during the years he served King Shrewd. This did not displease him, for he was not a man who sought glory. Rather he was devoted to the Farseer reign with a loyalty that surpassed his loyalty to himself or any other consideration most men have. He took most seriously his vow to the royal family. With the passing of King Shrewd, he pursued his vow to see that the crown followed the true line of succession. For this reason alone, he was sought after as an outlaw, for he openly challenged Regal’s claim to be King of the Six Duchies. In missives he sent to each of the dukes as well as to Prince Regal, he revealed himself after years of silence, declaring himself a loyal follower of King Verity and vowing he would follow no other until he was shown proof of the King’s death. Prince Regal declared him a rebel and a traitor and offered reward for his capture and death. Chade Fallstar evaded him by many clever artifices and continued to rally the Coastal Dukes to the belief that their King was not dead and would return to lead them to victory over the Red Ships. Bereft of any hope of aid from “King” Regal, many of the lesser nobles clung to these rumors. Songs began to be sung, and even the common folk spoke with hope that their Skilled King would return to save them, with the legendary Elderlings riding at his back.

By late afternoon, folk began to gather for the caravan. One woman owned the bull and horses. She and her husband arrived in a wagon drawn by a brace of oxen. They built their own fire, cooked their own food, and seemed content with their own company. My new master returned later, a bit tipsy, and goggled at the sheep to be sure I’d fed and watered them. He arrived in a high-wheeled cart drawn by a sturdy pony, one he immediately entrusted to my care. He’d hired another man, he told me, one Creece. I should watch for him to come and show him where the sheep were. He then disappeared into a room to sleep. I sighed to myself to think of a long journey with Creece’s tongue and abrasive way to speed it, but did not complain. Instead I busied myself caring for the pony, a willing little mare named Drum.

Next to arrive was company of a merrier sort. They were a troupe of puppeteers with a gaily painted wagon drawn by a team of dappled horses. There was a window in one side of the wagon that could be let down for puppet shows, and an awning that could be unrolled from the side to roof a stage when they were using the larger marionettes. The master puppeteer was named Dell. He had three apprentices and one journey puppeteer, as well as a minstrel who had joined them for the trip. They did not make their own fire, but proceeded to liven up the woman’s little house with song and the clacking of marionettes and a number of mugs of ale.

Two teamsters came next, with two wagons full of carefully packed crockery, and then finally the caravan master and her four helpers. These were the ones who would do more than guide us. The very look of their leader inspired confidence. Madge was a stoutly built woman, her slate-gray hair constrained from her face by a band of beaded leather. Two of her help seemed to be a daughter and a son. They knew the waterholes, clean and foul, would defend us from bandits, carried extra food and water, and had agreements with nomads whose pasturing territory we’d be passing through. That last was as important as any of the rest, for the nomads did not welcome folk who passed through their lands with grazing animals to eat the feed their own flocks needed. Madge called us together that evening to inform us of this, and to remind us that they would keep order within our group as well. No theft or troublemaking would be tolerated, the pace set would be one all could sustain, the caravan master would handle all dealings at the watering places and with the nomads and all must agree to abide by the decisions of the caravan master as law. I murmured my assent along with the others. Madge and her help then checked the wagons to be sure each was fit for travel, that the teams were sound, and that there were adequate water and food supplies for emergencies. We would travel a zigzag course from watering place to watering place. Madge’s wagon carried several oak casks for water, but she insisted every private wagon and team carry some for their own needs.

Creece arrived with the setting sun, after Damon had already gone back to his room and bed. I dutifully showed him the sheep, and then listened to his grumbling that Damon had not provided us with a room to sleep in. It was a clear, warm night with only a bit of wind, so I saw little to complain about. I did not say so, but let him mutter and complain until he was weary of it. I slept just outside the sheep pen, on guard lest any predators come near, but Creece wandered off to annoy the puppeteers with his dour nature and extensive opinions.

I don’t know how long I truly slept. My dreams parted like curtains blown by a wind. I came alert to a voice whispering my name. It seemed to come from far away, but as I listened, I was compelled inexorably to it as if summoned by a charm. Like an errant moth, I became aware of candle flames and was drawn toward them. Four candles burned brightly on a rough wooden table and their mingling scents sweetened the air. The two tall tapers gave off the scent of bayberry. Two smaller ones burned before them, giving off a sweet spring scent. Violets, I thought, and something else. A woman leaned forward over them, breathing deeply of the rising perfume. Her eyes were closed, her face misted with sweat. Molly. She spoke my name again.

“Fitz, Fitz. How could you die and leave me like this? It wasn’t supposed to be this way, you were supposed to come after me, you were supposed to find me so I could forgive you. You should have lit these candles for me. I wasn’t supposed to be alone for this.”

The words were interrupted by a great gasp, as of a wrenching pain, and with it a wave of fear, frantically fought down. “It’s going to be all right,” Molly whispered to herself. “It’s going to be all right. It’s supposed to be like this. I think.”

Even within the Skill dream, my heart stood still. I looked down at Molly as she stood near the hearth in a small hut. Outside, an autumn storm was raging. She grasped the edge of a table and half crouched, half leaned over it. She wore only a nightrobe, and her hair was slick with sweat. As I watched aghast, she took another great gulping breath, and then cried out, not a scream, but a thin caw of a sound as if that were all she had strength for. After a minute she straightened a bit and put her hands softly on the top of her belly. I felt dizzied at the size of it. It was so distended, she looked pregnant.

She was pregnant.

If it were possible to lose consciousness when one is asleep, I think I would have done so. Instead my mind reeled suddenly, reordering every word she had said to me when we had parted, recalling the day when she had asked me what I would do if she had been carrying my child. The baby was the one she had spoken of, the one she had left me for, the one she would put ahead of every other in her life. Not another man. Our child. She’d left to protect our child. And she hadn’t told me because she was afraid I wouldn’t go with her. Better not to ask than to ask and be refused.

And she had been right. I wouldn’t have gone. There had been too much happening at Buckkeep, too pressing the duties to my king. She’d been right to abandon me. It was so like Molly to make the leaving and the facing this alone her own choice. Stupid, but so like her I wanted to hug her. I wanted to shake her.

She clutched the table again suddenly, her eyes going wide, voiceless now with the force that moved through her.

She was alone. She believed I was dead. And she was having the child alone, in that tiny windswept hut somewhere.

I reached for her, crying,
Molly, Molly,
but she was focused inward on herself now, listening only to her own body. I suddenly knew Verity’s frustration those times when he could not make me hear him and most desperately needed to reach me.

The door gusted open suddenly, admitting blowing storm wind into the hut and a blast of cold rain with it. She lifted her eyes, panting, to stare at it. “Burrich?” she called breathlessly. Her voice was full of hope.

Again I felt a wave of astonishment, but it was drowned by her gratitude and relief when his dark face peered suddenly around the door frame. “It’s only me, soaked through. I couldn’t get you any dried apples, no matter what I offered. The town stores are bare. I hope the flour didn’t get wet. I’d have been back sooner, but this storm . . .” He was coming in as he spoke, a man coming home from town, a carry-sack over his shoulder. Water streamed down his face and dripped from his cloak.

“It’s time, it’s now,” Molly told him frantically.

Burrich dropped his sack as he dragged the door shut and latched it. “What?” he asked her as he wiped rain from his eyes and pushed the wet hair back from his face.

“The baby’s coming.” She sounded oddly calm now.

He looked at her blankly for an instant. Then he spoke firmly. “No. We counted, you counted. It can’t be coming now.” Abruptly he sounded almost angry, he was so desperate to be right. “Another fifteen days, maybe longer. The midwife, I talked to her today and arranged everything, she said she’d come to see you in a few days. . . .”

His words died away as Molly gripped the table’s edge again. Her lips drew back from her teeth as she strained. Burrich stood like a man transfixed. He went as pale as I’d ever seen him. “Shall I go back to the village and get her?” he asked in a small voice.

There was the sound of water pattering on the rough floorboards. After an eternity, Molly caught a breath. “I don’t think there’s time.”

Still he stood as if frozen, his cloak dripping water onto the floor. He came no farther into the room, stood still as if she were an unpredictable animal. “Shouldn’t you be lying down?” he asked uncertainly.

“I tried that. It really hurts if I’m lying down and a pain comes. It made me scream.”

He was nodding like a puppet. “Then you should stand up, I suppose. Of course.” He didn’t move.

She looked up at him pleadingly. “It can’t be that different,” she panted. “From a foal or a calf . . .”

His eyes went so wide I could see the whites all round them. He shook his head fiercely, mutely.

“But Burrich . . . there’s no one else to help me. And I’m . . .” Her words were suddenly torn away from her in a sort of cry. She leaned forward on the table, her legs folding so her forehead rested on the edge of it. She made a low sound, full of fear as well as pain.

Her fear broke through to him. He gave his head a tiny quick shake, a man awakening. “No. You’re right, it can’t be that different. Can’t be. I’ve done this hundreds of times. Just the same, I’m sure of it. All right. Now. Let’s see. It’s going to be all right, let me just . . . uh.” He tore off his cloak and let it drop to the floor. He hastily pushed his wet hair back from his face, then came to kneel beside her. “I’m going to touch you,” he warned her, and I saw her bowed head give a small bob of agreement.

Then his sure hands were on her belly, stroking down gently but firmly as I’d seen him do when a mare was having a bad time and he wished to hasten things for her. “Not long now, not much more,” he told her. “It’s really dropped.” He was suddenly confident, and I felt Molly take heart from his tone. He kept his hands on her as another contraction took her. “That’s good, that’s right.” I’d heard him say those same comforting words a hundred times in the stalls of Buckkeep. Between pains, he steadied her with his hands, talking all the while softly, calling her his good girl, his steady girl, his fine girl that was going to drop a fine baby. I doubt either of them heard the sense of what he said. It was all the tone of his voice. He rose once to get a blanket and folded it on the floor beside him. He said no awkward words as he lifted Molly’s nightdress out of the way, but only spoke softly, encouragingly as Molly clenched the table’s edge. I could see the ripple of muscle, and then she cried out suddenly and Burrich was saying, “Keep going, keep going, here we are, here we are, keep going, that’s fine, and what do we have here, who’s this?”

Then the child was in his grasp, head in one cupped, callused hand, his other supporting the tiny, curled body, and Burrich sat down suddenly on the floor, looking as amazed as if he had never seen anything born before. The women’s talk I had overheard had made me expect hours of screaming and pools of blood. But there was little blood on the babe that looked up at Burrich with calm blue eyes. The grayish cord coiling from the belly looked large and thick compared to the tiny hands and feet. All was silence save for Molly’s panting.

Then, “Is he all right?” Molly demanded. Her voice shook. “Is something wrong? Why doesn’t he cry?”

“She’s fine,” Burrich said softly. “She’s fine. And as beautiful as she is, what would she have to cry about?” He was silent for a long time, a man transfixed. Finally he reluctantly set her gently aside on the blanket, turned a corner of it up to cover her. “You’ve a bit more work to do here, girl, before we’re done,” he told Molly gruffly.

But it was not long before he had Molly seated in a chair by the fire, a blanket about her to keep her from taking a chill. He hesitated a moment, then cut the cord with his belt knife before wrapping the child in a clean cloth and taking her to Molly. Molly immediately unwrapped her. While Burrich was tidying the room, Molly examined every inch of her, exclaiming over her sleek black hair, the tiny fingers and toes with their perfect nails, the delicacy of her ears. Then Burrich did the same while he held the baby and turned his back so that Molly might change into a nightgown that wasn’t soaked through with sweat. He studied her with an intentness I’d never seen him give to a foal or a pup. “You’re going to have Chivalry’s brow,” he told the babe softly. He smiled at her and touched her cheek with one finger. She turned her head toward the touch.

When Molly came back to her seat by the fire, he handed the child back to her, but crouched on the floor beside her chair as Molly put the babe to her breast. It took the baby a few tries to find and hold the nipple, but when she finally suckled, Burrich heaved such a sigh that I knew he had been holding his breath for fear she would not nurse. Molly had eyes only for the child, but I marked how Burrich lifted his hands to rub at his face and eyes, and that those hands trembled. He smiled as I had never seen him do before.