Assassin's Apprentice (18 page)

He shifted heavily in the bed, then abruptly turned his back to me. “Put out the light, Charim.” And Charim did, so promptly that I was left standing in the dark and had to blunder my way out of the chamber and back to my own pallet. As I lay down I pondered that Verity saw so little of the whole. He could force Kelvar to man the tower, yes. But he couldn’t force him to man it well, or take pride in it. That was a matter for diplomacy. And had he no heed for the roadwork and maintenance on the fortifications and the highwaymen problem? All that needed to be remedied now. And in such a way that Kelvar’s pride was kept intact, and that his position with Lord Shemshy was both corrected and affirmed. And someone had to undertake to teach Lady Grace her responsibilities. So many problems. But as soon as my head touched the pillow, I slept.

9

Fat Suffices

T
HE FOOL CAME TO
Buckkeep in the seventeenth year of King Shrewd’s reign. This is one of the few facts that are known about the Fool. Said to be a gift from the Bingtown traders, the origin of the Fool can only be surmised. Various stories have arisen. One is that the Fool was a captive of the Red-Ship Raiders, and that the Bingtown traders seized the Fool from them. Another is that the Fool was found as a babe, adrift in a small boat, shielded from the sun by a parasol of sharkskin and cushioned from the thwarts by a bed of heather and lavender. This can be dismissed as a creation of fancy. We have no real knowledge of the Fool’s life before his arrival at King Shrewd’s court.

The Fool was almost certainly born of the human race, though not entirely of human parentage. Stories that he was born of the Other Folk are almost certainly false, for his fingers and toes are completely free of webbing and he has never shown the slightest fear of cats. The unusual physical characteristics of the Fool (lack of coloring, for instance) seem to be traits of his other parentage, rather than an individual aberration, though in this I well may be mistaken.

In the matter of the Fool, that which we do not know is almost more significant than that which we do. The age of the
Fool at the time of his arrival at Buckkeep has been a matter for conjecture. From personal experience, I can vouch that the Fool appeared much younger, and in all ways more juvenile than at present. But as the Fool shows little sign of aging, it may be that he was not as young as he initially appeared, but rather was at the end of an extended childhood.

The gender of the Fool has been disputed. When directly questioned on this matter by a younger and more forward person than I am now, the Fool replied that it was no one’s business but his own. So I concede.

In the matter of his prescience and the annoyingly vague forms that it takes, there is no consensus as to whether it is a racial or individual talent being manifested. Some believe he knows all in advance, and even that he will always know if anyone, anywhere, speaks about him. Others say it is only his great love of saying, “I warned you so!” and that he takes his most obscure sayings and twists them to have been prophecies. Perhaps sometimes this has been so, but in many well-witnessed cases, he has predicted, however obscurely, events that later came to pass.

Hunger woke me shortly after midnight. I lay awake, listening to my belly growl. I closed my eyes, but my hunger was enough to make me nauseated. I got up and felt my way to the table where Verity’s tray of pastries had been, but servants had cleared it away. I debated with myself, but my stomach won out over my head.

Easing open the chamber door, I stepped out into the dimly
lit hall. The two men Verity had posted there looked at me questioningly. “Starving,” I told them. “Did you notice where the kitchens were?”

I have never known a soldier who didn’t know where the kitchens were. I thanked them and promised to bring back some of whatever I found. I slipped off down the shadowy hall. As I descended the steps it felt odd to have wood underfoot rather than stone. I walked as Chade had taught me, placing my feet silently, moving within the shadowiest parts of the passageways, walking to the sides where floorboards were less likely to creak. And it all felt as natural.

The rest of the keep seemed well asleep. The few guards I passed were mostly dozing; none challenged me. At the time I put it down to my stealth; now I wonder if they considered a skinny, tousle-headed lad any threat worth bothering with.

I found the kitchens easily. It was a great open room, flagged and walled with stone as a defense against fires. There were three great hearths, fires well banked for the night. Despite the lateness, or earliness, of the hour, the place was well lit. A keep’s kitchen is never completely asleep.

I saw the covered pans and smelled the rising bread. A large pot of stew was being kept warm at the edge of one hearth. When I peeked under the lid, I saw it would not miss a bowl or two. I rummaged about and helped myself. Wrapped loaves on a shelf supplied me with an end crust and in another corner was a tub of butter kept cool inside a large keg of water. Not fancy. Thank all, it was not fancy, but the plain simple food I had been
craving all day.

I was halfway through my second bowl when I heard the light scuff of footsteps. I looked up with my most disarming smile, hoping that this cook would prove as softhearted as Buckkeep’s. But it was a serving girl, a blanket thrown about her shoulders over her night robe and her baby in her arms. She was weeping. I turned my eyes away in discomfort.

She scarcely gave me a glance anyway. She set her bundled baby down atop the table and fetched a bowl and dipped it full of cool water, muttering all the time. She bent over the babe. “Here, my sweet, my lamb. Here, my darling. This will help. Take a little. Oh, sweetie, can’t you even lap? Open your mouth, then. Come now, open your mouth.”

I couldn’t help but watch. She held the bowl awkwardly and tried to maneuver it to the baby’s mouth. She was using her other hand to force the child’s mouth open, and using a deal more force than I’d ever seen any other mother use on a child. She tipped the bowl, and the water slopped. I heard a strangled gurgle and then a gagging sound. As I leaped up to protest, the head of a small dog emerged from the bundle.

“Oh, he’s choking again! He’s dying! My little Feisty is dying and no one but me cares. He just goes on snoring, and I don’t know what to do and my darling is dying.”

She clutched the lapdog to her as it gagged and strangled. It shook its little head wildly and then seemed to grow calmer. If I hadn’t been able to hear its labored breathing, I’d have sworn it had died in her arms. Its dark and bulgy eyes met mine, and I felt the force of the panic and pain in the little beast.

Easy.
“Here, now,” I heard myself saying. “You’re not helping him by holding him that tight. He can scarce breathe. Set him down. Unwrap him. Let him decide how he is most comfortable. All wrapped up like that, he’s too hot, so he’s trying to pant and choke all at once. Set him down.”

She was a head taller than I, and for a moment I thought I was going to have to struggle with her. But she let me take the bundled dog from her arms and unwrap him from several layers of cloth. I set him on the table.

The little beast was in total misery. He stood with his head drooping between his front legs. His muzzle and chest were slick with saliva, his belly distended and hard. He began to retch and gag again. His small jaws opened wide, his lips writhed back from his tiny pointed teeth. The redness of his tongue attested to the violence of his efforts. The girl squeaked and sprang forward, trying to snatch him up again, but I pushed her roughly back. “Don’t grab him,” I told her impatiently. “He’s trying to get something up, and he can’t do it with you squeezing his guts.”

She stopped. “Get something up?”

“He looks and acts like he’s got something lodged in his gullet. Could he have gotten into bones or feathers?”

She looked stricken. “There were bones in the fish. But only tiny ones.”

“Fish? What idiot let him get into fish? Was it fresh or rotten?” I’d seen how sick a dog could get when it got into rotten, spawned-out salmon on a riverbank. If that’s what this
little beast had gobbled, he didn’t have a chance.

“It was fresh, and well cooked. The same trout I had at dinner.”

“Well, at least it’s not likely to be poisonous to him. Right now, it’s just the bone. But if he gets it down, it’s still likely to kill him.”

She gasped. “No, it can’t! He mustn’t die. He’ll be fine. He just has an upset stomach. I just fed him too much. He’ll be fine! What do you know about it anyway, kitchen boy?”

I watched the feist go through another round of almost convulsive retching. Nothing came up but yellow bile. “I’m not a kitchen boy. I’m a dog boy. Verity’s own dog boy, if you must know. And if we don’t help this little mutt, he’s going to die. Very soon.”

She watched, her face a mixture of awe and horror, as I gripped her little pet firmly.
I’m trying to help.
He didn’t believe me. I prized his jaws open and forced my two fingers down his gullet. The feist gagged even more fiercely and pawed at me frantically with his front paws. His claws needed cutting, too. With the tips of my fingers I could feel the bone. I twiddled my fingers against it and felt it move. But it was wedged sideways in the little beast’s throat. The dog gave a strangled howl and struggled frantically in my arms. I let him go. “Well. He’s not going to get rid of that without some help,” I observed.

I left her wailing and sniveling over him. At least she didn’t snatch him up and squeeze him. I got myself a handful of butter from the keg and plopped it into my stew bowl. Now I
needed something hooked, or sharply curved, but not too large. I rattled through bins and finally came up with a curved hook of metal with a handle on it. Possibly it was used to lift hot pots off the fire.

“Sit down,” I told the maid.

She gaped at me, and then sat obediently on the bench I’d pointed to.

“Now hold him firmly, between your knees. And don’t let him go, no matter how he claws and wiggles or yelps. And hold on to his front feet so he doesn’t claw me to ribbons while I’m doing this. Understand?”

She took a deep breath, then gulped and nodded. Tears were streaming down her face. I set the dog on her lap and put her hands on him.

“Hold tight,” I told her. I scooped up a gobbet of butter. “I’m going to use the fat to grease things up. Then I’ve got to force his jaws open, and hook the bone and jerk it out. Are you ready?”

She nodded. The tears had stopped flowing and her lips were set. I was glad to see she had some strength to her. I nodded back.

Getting the butter down was the easy part. It blocked his throat, though, and his panic increased, pounding at my self-control with his waves of terror. I had no time to be gentle as I forced his jaws open and then put the hook down his throat. I hoped I wouldn’t snag his flesh. But if I did, well, he would die anyway. I turned the tool in his throat as he wiggled and
yelped and pissed all over his mistress. The hook caught on the bone and I pulled, evenly and firmly.

It came up in a welter of froth and bile and blood. A nasty little bone, not a fishbone at all, but the partial breastbone of a small bird. I flipped it onto the table. “And he shouldn’t have poultry bones either,” I told her severely.

I don’t think she even heard me. Doggy was wheezing gratefully on her lap. I picked up the dish of water and held it out to him. He sniffed it, lapped a bit, and then curled up, exhausted. She picked him up and cradled him in her arms, her head bent over his.

“There’s something I want from you,” I began.

“Anything.” She spoke into his fur. “Ask, and it’s yours.”

“First, stop giving him your food. Give him only red meat and boiled grain for a while. And for a dog that size, no more than you can cup in your hand. And don’t carry him everywhere. Make him run about, to give him some muscle and wear down his nails. And wash him. He smells foul, coat and breath, from too rich food. Or he won’t live but another year or two.”

She looked up, stricken. Her hand went up to her mouth. And something in her motion, so like her self-conscious touching of her jewelry at dinner, suddenly made me realize who I was scolding. Lady Grace. And I had made her dog piss on her night robe.

Something in my face must have given me away. She smiled delightedly and held her doggy closer. “I’ll do as you suggest, dog boy. But for yourself? Is there nothing you’d ask as reward?”

She thought I’d ask for a coin or ring or even a position with her household. Instead, as steadily as I could, I looked at her and said, “Please, Lady Grace. I ask that you ask your lord to man Watch Island’s tower with the best of his men, to put an end to the strife between Rippon and Shoaks Duchies.”

“What?”

That single-word question told me volumes about her. The accent and inflection hadn’t been learned as Lady Grace.

“Ask your lord to man his towers well. Please.”

“Why does a dog boy care about such things?”

Her question was too blunt. Wherever Kelvar had found her, she hadn’t been highborn, or wealthy before this. Her delight when I recognized her, the way she had brought her dog down to the familiar comfort of a kitchen, by herself, wrapped in her blanket, told of a common girl elevated too quickly and too far above her previous station. She was lonely, and uncertain, and uneducated as to what was expected of her. Worse, she knew that she was ignorant, and that knowledge ate at her and soured her pleasures with fear. If she did not learn how to be a duchess before her youth and beauty faded, only years of loneliness and ridicule could await her. She needed a mentor, someone secret, like Chade. She needed the advice I could give her, right now. But I had to go carefully, for she would not accept advice from a dog boy. Only a common girl might do that, and the only thing she knew about herself right now was that she was no longer a common girl, but a duchess.

“I had a dream,” I said, suddenly inspired. “So clear.
Like a vision. Or a warning. It woke me and I felt I must come to the kitchen.” I let my eyes unfocus. Her eyes went wide. I had her. “I dreamed of a woman, who spoke wise words and turned three strong men into a united wall that the Red-Ship Raiders could not breach. She stood before them, and jewels were in her hands, and she said, “Let the watchtowers shine brighter than the gems in these rings. Let the vigilant soldiers who man them encircle our coast as these pearls used to encircle my neck. Let the keeps be strengthened anew against those who threaten our people. For I would be glad to walk plain in the sight of both King and commoner, and let the defenses that guard our people become the jewels of our land.’ And the King and his dukes were astounded at her wise heart and noble ways. But her people loved her best of all, for they knew she loved them better than gold or silver.”