Assassin 3 - Royal Assassin (18 page)

I, too, know what I am. I am a King's
Man.

You are no kind of a man at all, she asserted
calmly. She smiled up at me. Someday everyone will know
that.

Fear feels remarkably like fear, regardless of
the source. I stood, making no response. Eventually, she stepped
aside to allow me to pass. I made a small victory of that, though
in retrospect there was little else she could have done. I went to
ready things for my trip to Bea
rn
s, suddenly glad to leave the Keep for a
few days.

I have no good memories of that errand. I met
Virago, for she was herself a guest at Ripplekeep while I was there
doing my scribe tasks. She was as Shrewd had described her, a
handsome woman, well muscled, who moved lithe as a little hunting
cat. She wore the vitality of her health like a glamour. All eyes
followed her when she was in a room. Her chastity challenged every
male who followed her. Even I felt myself drawn to her, and
agonized about my task.

Our very first evening at table together, she
was seated across from me. Duke Brawndy had made me very welcome
indeed, even to having his cook prepare a certain spicy meat dish I
was fond of. His libraries were at my disposal, and the services of
his lesser scribe. His youngest daughter had even extended her shy
companionship to me. I was discussing my scroll errand with
Celerity, who surprised me with her soft-spoken intelligence.
Midway through the meal, Virago remarked quite clearly to her
dining companion that at one time bastards were drowned at birth.
The old ways of El demanded it, she said. I could have ignored the
remark, had she not leaned across the table to smilingly ask me,
Have you never heard of that custom, bastard?

I looked up to Duke Brawndy's seat at the head
of the table, but he was engaged in a lively discussion with his
eldest daughter. He didn't even glance my way. I believe it is as
old as the custom of one guest's courtesy to another at their
host's table, I replied. I tried to keep my eyes and voice steady.
Bait. Brawndy had seated me across the table from her as bait.
Never before had I been so blatantly used. I steeled myself to it,
tried to set personal feelings aside. At least I was
ready.

Some would say it was a sign of the degeneracy
of the Farseer line, that your father came unchaste to his wedding
bed. I, of course, would not speak against my king's family. But
tell me. How did your mother's people accept her
whoredom?

I smiled pleasantly. I suddenly had fewer qualms
about my task. I do not recall much of my mother or her kin, I
offered conversationally. But I imagine they believed as I do.
Better to be a whore, or the child of a whore, than a traitor to
one's king.

I lifted my wineglass and turned my eyes back to
Celerity. Her dark blue eyes widened and she gasped as Virago's
belt knife plunged into Brawndy's table but inches from my elbow. I
had expected it and did not flinch. Instead, I turned to meet her
eyes. Virago stood in her table place, eyes blazing and nostrils
flared. Her heightened color enflamed her beauty.

I spoke mildly. Tell me. You teach the old ways,
do you not? Do you not then hold to the one that forbids the
shedding of blood in a house where you are a guest?

Are you not unbloodied? she asked by way of
reply.

As are you. I would not shame my duke's table by
letting it be said that he had allowed guests to kill one another
over his bread. Or do you care as little for your courtesy to your
duke as you do your loyalty to your king?

I have sworn no loyalty to your soft Farseer
king, she hissed.

Folk shifted, some uncomfortably, some for a
better vantage. So some had come to witness her challenge me, at
Brawndy's table. All of this had been as carefully planned as any
battle campaign. Would she know how well I had planned also? Did
she suspect the tiny package in my cuff? I spoke boldly, pitching
my voice to carry. I have heard of you. I think that those you
tempt to follow you into treachery would be wiser to go to
Buckkeep. King-in-Waiting Verity has issued a call for those
skilled in arms to come and man his new warships and bear those
arms against the Outislanders, who are enemy to us all. That, I
think, would be a better measure of a warrior's skill. Is not that
more honorable a pursuit than to turn against leaders one has sworn
to, or to waste bull's blood down a cliffside by moonlight, when
the same meat might go to feed our kin despoiled by
Red-Ships?

I spoke passionately, and my voice grew in
volume as she stared at how much I knew. I found myself caught up
in my own words, for I believed them. I leaned across the table,
over Virago's plate and cup, to thrust my face close to hers as I
asked, Tell me, brave one. Have you ever lifted arms against one
who was not your own countryman? Against a Red-Ship crew? I thought
not. Far easier to insult a host's hospitality, or maim a
neighbor's son, than to kill one who came to kill our
own.

Words were not Virago's best weapon. Enraged,
she spat at me.

I leaned back, calmly, to wipe my face clean.
Perhaps you would care to challenge me, in a more appropriate time
and place. Perhaps a week hence, on the cliffs where you so boldly
slew the cow's husband? Perhaps I, a scribe, might present you more
of a challenge than your bovine warrior did?

Duke Brawndy suddenly deigned to notice the
disturbance. FitzChivalry! Virago! he rebuked us. But our gazes
remained locked, my hands planted to either side of her place
setting as I leaned to confront her.

I think the man beside her might have challenged
me also, had not Duke Brawndy then slammed his salt bowl against
the table, near shattering it, and reminded us forcefully that this
was his table and his hall and he'd have no blood shed in it. He,
at least, was capable of honoring both King Shrewd and the old ways
at once, and suggested we attempt to do the same. I apologized most
humbly and eloquently, and Virago muttered her sorrys. The meal
resumed, and the minstrels sang, and over the next few days I
copied the scroll for Verity and viewed the Elderling relic, which
looked like nothing to me so much as a glass vial of very fine fish
scales. Celerity seemed more impressed with me than I was
comfortable with. The other side of that coin was facing the cold
animosity in the faces of those who sided with Virago. It was a
long week.

I never had to fight my challenge, for before
the week was out, Virago's tongue and mouth had broken out in the
boils and sores that were the legendary punishment for one who lied
to arms companions and betrayed spoken vows. She scarce was able to
drink, let alone eat, and so disfiguring was her affliction that
all those close to her forsook her company for fear it spread to
them as well. Her pain was such that she could not go forth into
the cold to fight, and there was no one willing to stand her
challenge for her. I waited on the cliffs, for a challenger who
never came. Celerity waited with me, as did perhaps a score of
minor nobles that Duke Brawndy had urged to attend me. We made
casual talk, and drank entirely too much brandy to keep ourselves
warm. As evening fell, a messenger from the keep came to tell us
that Virago had left Ripplekeep, but not to face her challenger.
She had ridden away, inland. Alone. Celerity clasped her hands
together, and then astonished me with a hug. We returned chilled
but merry to enjoy one more meal at Ripplekeep before my departure
for Buckkeep. Brawndy sat me at his left hand, and Celerity beside
me.

You know, he observed to me, toward the end of
the meal. Your likeness to your father becomes more remarkable
every year.

All of the brandy in Bea
rn
s could not have defeated the chill his
words sent through me.

CHAPTER SIX

Forged Ones

THE TWO SONS of Queen Constance and King
Shrewd Were Chivalry and Verity. Only two years separated their
births, and they grew up as close as two brothers can be. Chivalry
was the eldest, and the first to assume the title King-in-Waiting
on his sixteenth birthday. He was almost immediately dispatched by
his father to deal with a border dispute with the Chalced States.
From that time on, he was seldom at Buckkeep for more than a few
months at a time. Even after Chivalry had married, he was seldom
allowed to spend his days at rest. It was not so much that there
were so many border uprisings at that time as that Shrewd seemed
intent on formalizing his boundaries with all his neighbors. Many
of these disputes were settled with the sword, though as time went
on, Chivalry became more astute at employing diplomacy
first.

Some said that assigning Chivalry to this task
was the plot of his stepmother, Queen Desire, who hoped to send him
to his death. Others say it was Shrewd's way of putting his eldest
son out of his new queen's sight and authority. Prince Verity,
condemned by his youth to remain at home, made formal application
to his father every month to be allowed to follow his brother. All
of Shrewd's efforts to interest him in responsibilities of his own
were wasted. Prince Verity performed the tasks given him, but never
let anyone think for a moment that he would not rather be with his
older brother. At last, on Verity's twentieth birthday, after six
years of requesting monthly to be allowed to follow his brother,
Shrewd reluctantly conceded to him.

From then, until the day four years later when
Chivalry abdicated and Verity assumed the title King-in-Waiting,
the two Princes worked as one in formalizing boundaries, treaties,
and trade agreements with the lands bordering the Six Duchies.
Prince Chivalry's talent was for dealing with people, as
individuals or as a folk. Verity's was for the detail of
agreements, the precise maps that delineated agreed borders, and
the supporting of his brother in his authority both as a soldier
and as a prince.

Prince Regal, youngest of Shrewd's sons and his
only child with Queen Desire, spent his youth at home at court,
where his mother made every effort to groom him as a candidate for
the throne.

I traveled home to Buckkeep with a sense of
relief. It was not the first time I had performed such a task for
my king, but I had never developed a relish for my work as an
assassin. I was glad at how Virago had insulted me and baited me,
for it had made my task bearable. And yet, she had been a very
beautiful woman, and a skilled warrior. It was a waste, and I took
no pride in my work, save that I had obeyed my king's command. Such
were my thoughts as Sooty carried me up the last rise toward
home.

I looked up the hill, and scarce could believe
what I saw. Kettricken and Regal on horseback. They rode side by
side. Together. They looked like an illustration from one of
Fedwren's best vellums. Regal was in scarlet and gold with glossy
black boots and black gloves. His riding cloak was flung back from
one shoulder, to display the brilliant contrast of the colors as
they billowed in the morning wind. The wind had brought a redness
of the outdoors to his cheeks, and tousled his black hair from its
precise arrangement of curls. His dark eyes shone. Almost, he
looked a man, I thought, astride the tall black horse that carried
itself so well. He could be this if he chose, rather than the
languid prince with always a glass of wine in hand and a lady
beside him. Another waste.

Ah, but the lady beside him was another matter.
Compared with the entourage that followed them, she showed as a
rare and foreign blossom. She rode astride in loose trousers, and
no Buckkeep dyeing vat had produced that crocus purple. Her
trousers were adorned with intricate embroideries in rich colors,
and tucked securely into her boot tops. Her boots came almost to
her knee; Burrich would have approved that practicality. She wore,
not a cloak, but a short jacket of voluminous white fir, with a
high collar to shield her neck from the wind. A white fox, I
guessed, from the tundra on the far side of the Mountains. Her
hands were gloved in black. The wind had played with her long
yellow hair, streaming it out and tangling it over her shoulders.
Atop her head was a knitted cap of every bright color I could
imagine. She sat her horse high and forward, in the Mountain style,
and it made Softstep think she must prance instead of walk. The
chestnut mare's harness was a jingle with tiny silver bells,
ringing sharp as icicles in the brisk morning. Compared with the
other women in their voluminous skirts and cloaks; she looked agile
as a cat.

She brought to mind an exotic warrior from a
northern clime or an adventurer from some ancient tale. It set her
apart from her ladies, not as a highborn and well-adorned woman
shows her status among those less royal, but almost as a hawk would
appear caged with songbirds. I was not sure she should show herself
so to her subjects. Prince Regal rode at Kettricken's side, smiling
and talking to her. Their conversation was lively, spiced often
with laughter. As I approached closer I let Sooty slow her pace.
Kettricken reined in, smiling, and would have stopped to give me
greeting, but Prince Regal nodded icily and kneed his horse to a
trot. Kettricken's mare, not to be left behind, tugged at her bit
and kept pace with him. I received as brisk a greeting from those
who trailed after the Queen and Prince. I halted to watch them
pass, and then continued up to Buckkeep with an uneasy heart.
Kettricken's face had been animated, her pale cheeks pink with the
cold air, and her smile at Regal had been as genuinely merry as the
occasional smiles she still gave me. Yet I could not believe she
would be so gullible as to trust him.