Fool's Errand (32 page)

She looked down into my face as she tugged my collar more open about the charm. I looked up at her and felt a sudden blush heat my face. Our eyes locked.

“It works very well, indeed,” she observed, and unabashedly lowered her face to offer me her mouth. Not to kiss her was unthinkable. She pressed her mouth to mine. Her lips were warm.

We sprang apart guiltily as the door handle rattled. The door scraped open, and a woman’s silhouette was outlined against the day’s brightness. Then she came inside, pushing the door shut behind her. “Whew. It’s cooler in here, thank Eda. Oh. Beg pardon. Were you doing a reading?”

She had the same scattering of freckles on her nose and forearms. Clearly, this was Jinna’s niece. She looked about twenty or so, and carried a basketful of fresh fish on her arm.

Fennel ran to greet her, wrapping around her ankles.
You love me best. You know you do. Pick me up.

“Not a reading. Testing a charm. It seems to work.” Jinna’s voice invited me to share her amusement. Her niece glanced from Jinna to me, knowing she had been excluded from some joke, but taking it genially. She picked up Fennel and he rubbed his face against her, marking his possession.

“And I should be going. I’m afraid I have several other errands to do before I am required back at the keep.” I wasn’t sure that I wanted to leave. But how interested I was in staying did not fit in at all with what I was supposed to be doing in Buckkeep. Most of all, I felt I needed a bit of time alone to decide what had just happened, and what it meant to me.

“Must you go so right away?” Jinna’s niece asked me. She seemed genuinely disappointed at seeing me rise from my chair. “There’s plenty of fish, if you’d care to stay and eat with us.”

Her impromptu invitation took me aback, as did the interest in her eyes.

My fish. I’ll eat it soon.
Fennel leaned down to look at the food fondly.

“The charm seems to work very well, indeed,” Jinna observed in an aside. I found myself tugging my collar near closed.

“I really must go, I’m afraid. I’ve work to do, and I’m expected back at the keep. But thank you for the invitation.”

“Perhaps another time, then,” the niece offered, and Jinna added, “Certainly another time, my dear. Before he leaves, let me introduce Tom Badgerlock. He has asked me to keep watch for his son, a young friend of mine named Hap. When Hap arrives, he may stay with us for a day or so. And Tom will certainly have supper with us then. Tom Badgerlock, my niece, Miskya.”

“Miskya, a pleasure,” I assured her. I lingered long enough to exchange parting pleasantries, and then hurried out into the sunlight and noise of the city. As I hastened back to Buckkeep, I watched the reactions of folk whom I met. It did seem that more smiled at me than usually did, but I realized that might simply be their reaction to my meeting their eyes. I usually looked aside from strangers on the street. A man unnoticed is a man unremembered, and that is the best that an assassin can hope for. Then I reminded myself that I was no longer an assassin. Nonetheless, I decided that I would remove the necklace as soon as I got home. I found that having strangers regard me benevolently for no reason was more unnerving than having them distrust me on sight.

I made my steep way up to the keep gate and was admitted by the guardsmen there. The sun was high, the sky blue and clear, and if any of the passing folk were aware that the sole heir to the Farseer crown had vanished, they showed no sign of it. They moved about their ordinary tasks with no more than the concerns of a working day to vex them. By the stable, several tall boys had converged on a plump young man. I knew him for a dullard by his flat face and small ears and the way his tongue peeped out of his mouth. Slow fear showed in his small eyes as the boys spread to encircle him. One of the older stablehands looked toward them irritably.

No, no, no.

I turned, seeking the source of the floating thought, but of course that availed me nothing. A faint snatch of music distracted me. A stableboy, sent hurrying about his tasks, jolted into me, then, at my startled look, begged my pardon most abjectly. Without thinking, I had allowed my hand to ride my sword hilt. “No harm done,” I assured him, and added, “Tell me, where would I find the Weaponsmaster this time of day?”

The boy stopped suddenly, looked more closely at me, and smiled. “Down at the practice courts, man. They’re just past the new granary.” He pointed the way.

I thanked him, and as I turned away, I tugged my collar closed.

chapter
XIII

BARGAINS

Hunting cats are not entirely unknown within Buck Duchy, but they have remained for years an anomaly. Not only is the terrain of Buck more suited to hound-hunting, but also hounds are more suited to the larger game that is usually the prey of mounted hunters. A lively pack of hounds, boiling and baying, is a fine accompaniment for a royal hunt. The cat, when it is employed, is usually seen as more fittingly the dainty hunting companion of a lady, suitable for the taking of rabbits or birds. King Shrewd’s first queen, Queen Constance, kept a little hunting cat, but more for pleasure and companionship than sport. Her name was Hisspit.

— SULINGA
’
S
“
A HISTORY OF COURSING BEASTS
”

“The Queen wishes to see you.”

“When?” I asked, startled. It was hardly the greeting I had expected from Chade. I had opened the panel that admitted me to his tower to find him sitting in his chair before the hearth, waiting for me. He immediately stood.

“Now, of course. She wants to know what progress we have made, and is naturally anxious to hear from you as soon as possible.”

“But I haven’t made any progress,” I protested. I had not even reported my day’s work to Chade yet. I probably stank of sweat from the weapons court.

“Then she’ll want to hear that,” he replied relentlessly. “Come. Follow me.” He triggered the door and we left the tower chamber.

It was evening. I had spent my afternoon doing as the Fool had advised me, playing the role of a servant learning his way about a new place. As such, I’d talked to quite a number of my fellow servitors, introduced myself to Weaponsmaster Cresswell, and successfully arranged it that he would suggest I freshen my blade skills against Delleree. She proved to be a formidable swordswoman, nearly as tall as I was, and both energetic and light-footed. I was pleased she could not get past my guard, but I was soon panting with the effort of maintaining it. Trying to penetrate her defenses was not yet an option for me. The weapons training Hod had enforced on me long ago stood me in good stead, but my body simply could not react as swiftly as my mind. Knowing what to do under an attack is not the same thing as being able to do it.

Twice I begged leave for breathing space and she granted it to me with the satisfaction of the insufferably young. Yet my leading questions about the Prince availed me little, until at my third rest interlude I loosened my collar and opened my shirt wide to the cool air. I almost felt guilty doing it, yet I will not deny that I wanted to test if the charm would coax her to be more loquacious with me.

It worked. Leaning on the wall in the shade of the weapons shed, I caught my breath, and then looked up into her face. As our gazes met, her brown eyes widened, in the way that a person’s eyes widen at the sight of something pleasantly anticipated. Like a rapier rushing to its target, I thrust my question past her guard. “Tell me, do you press Prince Dutiful so hard when he practices with you?”

She smiled. “No, I fear I do not, for I am usually more occupied with maintaining my own defenses against him. He is a skilled swordsman, creative and unpredictable in his tactics. No sooner do I devise a new trick to use against him than he learns it and tries it against me.”

“Then he loves his blade-work, as good fighters usually do.”

She paused. “No. I do not think that is it. He is a youth who makes no half-measures in anything he does. He strives to be perfect in all he attempts.”

“Competitive, is he?” I tried to make my query casual. I busied my hands in smoothing my wayward hair back into its tail.

Again she considered. “No. Not in the usual sense. There are some I practice with who think only of beating their opponents. That preoccupation can be used against them. But I do not think the Prince cares if he wins our matches, only that he fights each one perfectly. It is not the same thing as competing with my skills . . .” Her voice trailed away as she pondered it.

“He competes with himself, against an ideal he imagines.”

My prompting seemed to startle her for an instant. Then, grinning, “That is it, exactly. You’ve met him, then?”

“Not yet,” I assured her. “But I’ve heard a great deal about him, and look forward to meeting him.”

“Oh, that won’t be soon,” she informed me guilelessly. “He has his mother’s Mountain ways in some things. Often he goes apart from the whole court for a time, to spend time just thinking. He isolates himself in a tower. Some say he fasts, but I have never seen signs of it when he returns to his routine.”

“So what does he do?” I asked in hearty puzzlement.

“I’ve no idea.”

“You’ve never asked him?”

She gave me an odd look, and when she spoke, her voice had cooled. “I am only his training partner, not his confidante. I am a guardsman and he is a prince. I would not presume to question my Prince on his private time alone. He is, as all know, a private person, with a great need for solitude.”

Necklace or not, I knew I had pushed her too hard. I smiled, I hoped disarmingly, and straightened up with a groan. “Well, as a training partner, you’re the equal of any I’ve ever had. The Prince is fortunate to have someone such as you to sharpen his skills against. As am I.”

“You are welcome. And I hope we can measure ourselves against one another again.”

I left it at that. I had as much success with the other servants. My queries, whether direct or indirect, yielded little information. It was not that the servants refused to gossip; they were as willing to chatter about Lord Golden or Lady Elegance as one could wish, but on the topic of the Prince, they simply seemed to know nothing. The picture I formed of Dutiful was of a boy who was not disliked, but was isolated not only by his rank but by his nature. It did not encourage me. I feared that if he had run, he had divulged his plans to no one. His solitary habits would have left him singularly vulnerable to kidnappers, as well.

My mind went back to the note the Queen had received. It had told her that the Prince was Witted and demanded she take suitable action. What had the writer intended as “suitable action”? Revealing his Wit and proclaiming that the Witted must be accepted? Or purifying the Farseer line with his demise? Had the writer contacted the Prince, too?

Chade’s old workbench had yielded me the lock-picks I needed for my dinner-hour adventure. The Prince had Prince Regal’s former grand chambers. That lock and I were old friends and I anticipated that I could slip it easily. While the rest of the keep was at table, I approached the Prince’s rooms. Here again I saw his mother’s influence, for there was not only no guard at his door, but it was not locked. I slipped silently within, closing it softly behind me. Then I stared about me in perplexity. I had expected the same clutter and disorder that Hap tended to leave in his wake. Instead the Prince’s sparse possessions were all stored in such an orderly fashion that the spacious room looked nearly empty. Perhaps he had a fanatical valet, I mused. Then, recalling Kettricken’s upbringing, I wondered if the Prince had any body servants at all. Personal servants were not a Mountain custom.

It took me very little time to explore his rooms. I found a modest assortment of clothing in his chests. I could not determine if any were missing. His riding boots were still there, but Chade had already told me that the Prince’s horse was still in his stall. He possessed a neat array of brush, comb, washbasin, and looking glass, all precisely aligned in a row. In the room where he pursued his studies, the ink was tightly stoppered and the tabletop had never suffered any blots or spills. No scrolls had been left out. His sword was on the wall, but there were empty pegs where other weapons might have hung. There were no personal papers, no ribbons or locks of hair tucked into the corner of his clothing chest, not even a sticky wineglass or an idly tossed shirt under his bed. In short, it did not strike me as a boy’s bedchamber at all.

There was a large cushion in a sturdy basket near the hearth. The hair that clung to it was short, yet fine. The stoutly woven basket bore the marks of errant claws. I did not need the wolf’s nose to smell cat in the room. I lifted the cushion, and found playthings beneath it: a rabbitskin tied to a length of heavy twine, and a canvas toy stuffed with catmint. I raised my eyebrows to that, wondering if hunting cats were affected by it as mousing cats were.

The room yielded me little else: no hidden journal of princely thoughts, no defiant runaway’s final note to his mother, nothing to suggest that the Prince had been spirited away against his will. I retreated quietly from his rooms, leaving all as I had found it.

My route took me past the door of my old boyhood room. I paused, tempted. Who stayed there now? The hallway was empty and I yielded to the impulse. The lock on the door was the one I had devised, and it demanded my rusty skills to get past it. It was so stiff I was persuaded it had not turned in some time. I shut the door behind me and stood still, smelling dust.

The tall window was shuttered, but the shutters were, as they had always been, a poor fit. Daylight leaked past them, and after a few moments, my eyes adjusted to the dusky light. I looked around. There, my bedstead, with cobwebs embroidering the familiar hangings. The cedar clothing chest at the foot of it was thick with dust. The hearth, empty, black, and cold. And above it, the faded tapestry of King Wisdom treating with the Elderlings. I stared at it. When I was a boy of nine, it had given me nightmares. Time had not changed my opinion of the oddly elongated forms. The golden Elderlings stared down on the lifeless and empty room.

I suddenly felt as if I had disturbed a grave. As silently as I had entered the chamber, I left it, locking the door behind me.

I had thought to find Lord Golden in his chambers, but he was not there. “Lord Golden?” I inquired, and then advanced to tap lightly at the door of his private chamber. I swear I did not touch the catch, but it swung open at my touch.

Light flooded out. The small chamber had a window, and the setting sun filled it with gold. It was a pleasant, open room that smelled of wood shavings and paint. In the corner, a plant in a tub climbed a trellis. Hanging on the walls, I recognized charms such as Jinna made. On the worktable in the middle of the room, amongst the scattered tools and paint pots, there were pieces of rod, string, and beads, as if he had disassembled a charm. I found I had taken a step into the room. There was a scroll weighted flat on the table, with several charms drawn on it. They were unlike anything I had seen in Jinna’s shop. Even at a glance, the sketches were oddly unsettling. I remember that, I thought, and then, when I looked closer, I was absolutely certain I had never seen the like before. A shiver ran down my back. The little beads had faces; the rods were carved with spinning spirals. The longer I stared, the more they disturbed me. I felt as if I could not quite get my breath, as if they were pulling me into them. “Come away.” The Fool spoke softly from behind me. I could not reply.

I felt his hand on my shoulder and it broke the spell. I turned at his touch. “I’m sorry,” I said instantly. “The door was ajar and I—”

“I did not expect you back so soon, or it would have been latched.”

That was all he said, and then he drew me from the room and shut the door firmly behind us.

I felt as if he had pulled me back from a precipice. I drew a shaky breath. “What were those?”

“An experiment. What you told me of Jinna’s charms made me curious, so when I reached Buckkeep Town, I resolved to see them for myself. Once I had, I wanted to know how they worked. I wanted to know if the charm could only be made by a hedge-witch, or if the magic was in the way they were assembled. And I wanted to know if I could make them work better.” His voice was neutral.

“How can you stand to be around them?” I demanded. Even now, the hair on the back of my neck was standing.

“They are tuned to humans. You forget that I am a White.”

The statement left me as speechless as the insidious little sketches had. I looked at the Fool and for one blink I could see him as if for the first time. As attractive as his coloring was, I had never seen any other person with it. There were other differences, the way his wrists attached his hands to his arms, the airiness of his hair . . . but when our eyes met, I was looking at my old friend again. It was like jolting back to the earth after a fall. I suddenly recalled what I had done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to . . . I know you need your privacy—” I felt shamed and hot blood rushed to my face.

He was silent for a moment. Then he said justly, “When I came to your home, you hid nothing from me.” I sensed that the statement reflected his idea of what was fair rather than his emotions on the topic.

“I won’t go in there again,” I promised fervently.

That brought a small smile to his face. “I doubt that you would.”

I suddenly wanted to change the subject, but the only thought that came to me was, “I saw Jinna today. She made this for me.” I opened the collar of my shirt.

He stared, first at the charm, then up at my face. He seemed struck dumb. Then a wide and fatuous grin spread over his face.

“It’s supposed to make people feel kindly toward me,” I explained. “To counteract my grim appearance, I think, though she was not so unkind as to say that directly.”

He took a breath. “Cover it,” he begged, laughing, and as I did so, he turned away from it. He walked almost hastily to the chamber window and looked out. “They are not tuned to my bloodlines, but that does not mean I am completely impervious against them. You often remind me that in some ways I am still very human.”

I unfastened it from my throat and held it out to him. “You can take it and study it if you like. I’m not entirely sure I like wearing it. I think I’d rather know what people honestly think of me.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” he muttered, but he returned to take the charm from my hand. He held it out in the air between us, studied it, and then glanced at me. “Tuned to you?” he guessed.

I nodded.

“Intriguing. I would like to keep it, for a day or so. I promise not to take it apart. But after that, I think you should wear it. Always.”