Assassin's Quest (43 page)

Starling reached one fingertip to touch it. “King-in-Waiting Chivalry once owned it,” she added respectfully.

“Coins are more easily spent,” Nik pointed out.

I shrugged. “If coins to spend are all a man wants, that is true. Sometimes there is pleasure in the owning of something, pleasure greater than coins in the pocket. But when it is yours, you could change it for coins, if you wished. Were I to attempt it now, in haste, I’d get but a fraction of its worth. But a man with your connections, and the time to bargain well, could get well over four golds for it. But if you’d rather, I could go back to town with it and . . .”

Greed had kindled in his eyes. “I’ll take it,” he conceded.

“On the other side of the river,” I told him. I lifted the jewelry and restored it to my ear. Let him look at it each time he looked at me. I made it formal. “You undertake to get us both safely to the other side of the river. And when we get there, the earring is yours.”

“As your sole payment,” Starling added quietly. “Though we will allow you to hold all our coins until then. As a surety.”

“Agreed, and here’s my hand on it,” he acknowledged. We shook hands.

“When do we leave?” I asked him.

“When the weather’s right,” he said.

“Tomorrow would be better,” I told him.

He rose slowly. “Tomorrow, eh? Well, if the weather’s right tomorrow, then is when we’ll leave. Now I’ve a few things I need to attend to. I’ll have to excuse myself, but Pelf can see to you here.”

I had expected to walk back to town for the night, but Starling bargained with Pelf, her songs for a meal for us, and then to prepare us a room for the night. I was a bit ill at ease to sleep among strangers, but reflected it might actually be safer than going back to town. If the food Pelf cooked for us was not as fine as we had enjoyed at Starling’s inn the night before, it was still far better than onion-and-potato soup. There was thick slices of fried ham and applesauce and a cake made with fruits and seeds and spices. Pelf brought us beer to go with it and joined us at table, speaking casually of general topics. After we’d eaten, Starling played a few songs for the girl, but I found I could scarcely keep my eyes open. I asked to be shown to a room, and Starling said she, too, was weary.

Pelf showed us to a chamber above Nik’s elaborate room. It had been a very fine room once, but I doubted it had been regularly used for years. She had started a fire in the hearth there, but the long chill of disuse and the must of neglect still filled the room. There was an immense bed with a feather bed on it and graying hangings. Starling sniffed critically at it, and as soon as Pelf left, she busied herself in draping the blankets from the bed over a bench and setting it by the fire. “They will both air and warm that way,” she told me knowledgeably.

I had been barring the door, and checking the latches on the windows and shutters. They all seemed sound. I was suddenly too weary to reply. I told myself it was the brandy followed by the beer. I dragged one chair to wedge it against the door while Starling watched me with amusement. Then I came back to the fire and sank down onto the blanket-draped bench and stretched my legs to the warmth. I toed my boots off. Well. Tomorrow I’d be on my way to the Mountains.

Starling came to sit beside me. For a time she didn’t speak. Then she lifted a finger and batted at my earring with it. “Was it truly Chivalry’s?” she asked me.

“For a while.”

“And you’d give it up to get to the Mountains. What would he say?”

“Don’t know. Never knew the man.” I suddenly sighed. “By all accounts, he was fond of his little brother. I don’t think he’d begrudge me spending it to get to Verity.”

“Then you do go to seek out your king.”

“Of course.” I tried in vain to stifle a yawn. Somehow it seemed foolish to deny it now. “I’m not sure it was wise to mention Chivalry to Nik. He might make a connection.” I turned to look at her. Her face was too close. I couldn’t bring her features into focus. “But I’m too sleepy to care,” I added.

“You’ve no head for merrybud,” she laughed.

“There was no Smoke tonight.”

“In the cake. She told you it was spiced.”

“Is that what she meant?”

“Yes. That’s what spiced means all over Farrow.”

“Oh. In Buck it means there’s ginger. Or citron.”

“I know that.” She leaned against me and sighed. “You don’t trust these people, do you?”

“Of course not. They don’t trust us. If we trusted them, they’d have no respect for us. They’d think us gullible fools, the sort who get smugglers into trouble by talking too much.”

“But you shook hands with Nik.”

“I did. And I believe he will keep his word. As far as it goes.”

We both fell silent, thinking about that. After a time, I started awake again. Starling sat up beside me. “I’m going to bed,” she announced.

“Me, too,” I replied. I claimed a blanket and started to roll up in it by the fire.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she told me. “That bed’s big enough for four. Sleep in a bed while you can, for I bet we aren’t going to see another one soon.”

I took very little persuading. The feather bed was deep, if a trifle smelly from damp. We each had a share of the blankets. I knew I should retain some caution but the brandy and the merrybud had unloosed the knot of my will. I fell into a very deep sleep.

Toward morning, I awoke once when Starling threw an arm over me. The fire had burned out and the room was cold. In her sleep she had migrated across the bed and was pressed up against my back. I started to ease away from her but it was too warm and companionable. Her breath was against the back of my neck. There was a woman smell to her that was not a perfume but a part of her. I closed my eyes and lay very still. Molly. The sudden desperate longing I felt for her was like a pain. I clenched my teeth to it. I willed myself into sleep again.

It was a mistake.

The baby was crying. Crying and crying. Molly was in her nightrobe with a blanket draped over her shoulders. She looked haggard and weary as she sat by the fire and rocked her endlessly. Molly sang a little song to her, over and over, but the tune had long since gone out of it. She turned her head slowly to the door as Burrich opened it. “May I come in?” he asked quietly.

She nodded him in. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” she asked him tiredly.

“I could hear her crying clear out there. Is she ill?” He went to the fire and poked it up a little. He added another piece of wood, then stooped to look in the baby’s small face.

“I don’t know. She just cries and cries and cries. She doesn’t even want to nurse. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” There was misery in Molly’s voice far past the use of tears.

Burrich turned to her. “Let me take her for a while. You go lie down and try to rest a bit, or you’ll both be ill. You can’t do this night after night.”

Molly looked up at him without comprehension. “You want to take care of her? You’d truly do that?”

“I may as well,” he told her wryly. “I can’t sleep through her crying.”

Molly stood up as if her back ached. “Warm yourself first. I’ll make some tea.”

For answer he took the babe from her arms. “No, you go back to bed for a while. No sense in all of us not sleeping.”

Molly seemed unable to grasp it. “You truly don’t mind if I go back to bed?”

“No, go ahead, we’ll be fine. Go on, now.” He settled the blanket about her and then set the infant to his shoulder. She looked very tiny with his dark hands against her. Molly walked slowly across the room. She looked back at Burrich but he was looking into the baby’s face. “Hush now,” he told her. “Hush.”

Molly clambered into bed and pulled the blankets up over herself. Burrich did not sit down. He stood before the fire, rocking slightly on his feet as he patted the baby’s back slowly.

“Burrich,” Molly called to him quietly.

“Yes?” He did not turn to look at her.

“There’s no sense your sleeping in that shed in this weather. You should move inside for the winter, and sleep by the hearth.”

“Oh. Well. It’s not so very cold out there. It’s all in what you’re used to, you know.”

A small silence fell.

“Burrich. I would feel safer, were you closer.” Molly’s voice was very small.

“Oh. Well. Then I suppose I shall be. But there’s nothing you need fear tonight. Go to sleep, now. Both of you.” He bent his head and I saw his lips brush the top of the baby’s head. Very softly he began singing to her. I tried to make out the words, but his voice was too deep. Nor did I know the language. The baby’s wailing became less determined. He began to pace slowly around the room with her. Back and forth before the fire. I was with Molly as she watched him until she, too, fell asleep to Burrich’s soothing voice. The only dream I had after that was of a lone wolf, running, endlessly running. He was as alone as I was.

15

Kettle

Q
UEEN KETTRICKEN WAS
carrying Verity’s child when she fled King-in-Waiting Regal to return to her Mountains. Some have criticized her, saying if she had remained at Buck and forced Regal’s hand, the child would have been born safely there. Perhaps if she had, Buckkeep Castle would have rallied to her, perhaps all of Buck Duchy would have presented a more unified resistance to the OutIslander Raiders. Perhaps the Coastal Duchies would have fought harder if they had had a queen at Buck. So some say.

The general belief of those who lived in Buckkeep Castle at the time and were well informed of the internal politics of the Farseer Regency is very different. Without exception, they believed that both Kettricken and her unborn child would have met with foul play. It can be substantiated that even after Queen Kettricken had removed herself from Buckkeep, those who supported Regal as king did all that they could to discredit her, even to saying that the child she carried was not Verity’s at all, but had been fathered by his bastard nephew FitzChivalry.

Whatever suppositions might be made about what would have happened if Kettricken had remained at Buckkeep are but useless speculations now. The historical fact is that she believed her child would have the best chance of surviving if born in her beloved Mountain Kingdom. She also returned to the Mountains in the hope of being able to find Verity and restore her husband to power. Her search efforts, however, only yielded her grief. She found the battle site of his companions against unidentified attackers. The unburied remains were little more than scattered bones and draggled bits of clothing after the scavengers had finished with them. Among those remains, however, she found the blue cloak Verity had worn when she had last seen him, and his sheath knife. She returned to the royal residence at Jhaampe and mourned her husband as dead.

More distressing to her was that for months afterward she received reports of sightings of folk in the garb of Verity’s Guard in the mountains beyond Jhaampe. These individual guards were seen wandering alone by Mountain villagers. They seemed reluctant to have conversation with the villagers and despite their ragged condition often refused offers of aid or food. Without exception, they were described by those who saw them as “pathetic” or “piteous.” Some few of these men trickled in to Jhaampe from time to time. They seemed unable to answer her questions about Verity and what had become of him coherently. They could not even recall when they had parted company with him or under what circumstances. Without exception, they seemed almost obsessed with returning to Buckkeep.

In time she came to believe that Verity and his Guard had been attacked, not only physically but by magic. The ambushers who struck at him with arrow and sword, and the false coterie that disheartened and confused his Guard were, she surmised, in the employ of his younger brother, Prince Regal. This is what precipitated her unceasing ill will toward her brother-in-law.

I awoke to a hammering on the door. I shouted something back as I sat up disoriented and cold in the dark. “We leave in an hour!” was the reply.

I fought my way clear of weltering blankets and Starling’s sleepy embrace. I found my boots and pulled them on, and then my cloak. I snugged it around me against the chilly room. Starling’s only move had been to immediately burrow into the warm place where I had lain. I leaned over the bed. “Starling?” When there was no response, I reached down and shook her slightly. “Starling! We leave in less than an hour. Get up!”

She heaved a tremendous sigh. “Go ahead. I’ll be ready.” She shouldered deeper into the blankets. I shrugged my shoulders and left her there.

Downstairs in the kitchen Pelf had stacks of griddle cakes keeping warm by the cooking hearth. She offered me a plate with butter and honey and I was only too glad to accept. The house, so quiet a place the day before, was now thronged with folk. From the strong resemblances, this was a family business. The small boy with the spotted kid was sitting at a stool by the table, feeding the goat bits of griddle cake. From time to time, I caught him staring at me. When I smiled back, the boy’s eyes got wide. With a serious expression he arose and carried his plate off, with the goat skittering after him.

Nik strode through the kitchen, black wool cloak swirling about his calves. It was dotted with fresh snowflakes. He caught my eye in passing. “Ready to go?”

I gave a nod.

“Good.” He gave me a glance on his way out. “Dress warmly. Storm is just beginning.” He grinned. “Perfect traveling weather for you and me.”

I told myself I had not expected to enjoy the trip. I had finished my breakfast before Starling came down the stairs. When she reached the kitchen, she surprised me. I had expected her to be sleepy. Instead she was brightly alert, her cheeks flushed and mouth laughing. As she came into the kitchen she was trading quips with one of the men, and getting the best of it. She did not hesitate when she got to table, but helped herself to a hearty serving of everything. When she looked up from her empty plate, she must have seen the surprise on my face.

“Minstrels learn to eat well when food is offered,” she said, and held her cup out to me. She was drinking beer with her breakfast. I filled her cup from the pitcher on the table. She had just set her mug down with a sigh when Nik came through the kitchen looking like a storm cloud. He caught sight of me and stopped in midstride. “Ah. Tom. Can you drive a horse?”

“Certainly.”

“Well?”

“Well enough,” I said quietly.

“Good, then, we’re ready to go. My cousin Hank was to drive, but he’s breathing like a bellows this morning, took a cough in the night. His wife won’t let him go. But if you can drive a cart . . .”

“He’ll expect you to adjust your fee,” Starling broke in suddenly. “By driving a horse for you, he’s saved you the cost of a horse for himself. And what your cousin would have eaten.”

Nik was taken aback for a moment. He glanced from Starling to me. “Fair is fair,” I observed. I tried not to smile.

“I’ll make it right,” he conceded, and hastened out of the kitchen again. In a short time he was back. “The old woman says she’ll try you. It’s her horse and wagon, you see.”

It was still dark outside. Torches spluttered in the wind and snow. Folk hurried about, hoods up and cloaks well fastened. There were four wagons and teams. One was full of people, about fifteen of them. They huddled together, bags on their laps, heads bowed against the cold. A woman glanced toward me. Her face was full of apprehension. At her side, a child leaned against her. I wondered where they had all come from. Two men loaded a cask into the last wagon, then stretched a canvas over the whole load.

Behind the wagon loaded with passengers was a smaller two-wheeled cart. A little old woman swathed all in black sat erect on the seat. She was well bundled in cloak, hood, and shawl, with a traveling blanket thrown across her knees as well. Her sharp black eyes watched me carefully as I walked around her rig. The horse was a speckled mare. She didn’t like the weather and her harness was binding her. I adjusted it as best as I could, persuading her to trust me. When I was finished, I looked up to find the old woman watching me closely. Her hair was glistening black where it peeped from her hood, but not all of the white in it was snow. She pursed her lips at me but said nothing, even when I stowed my pack under the seat. I gave her “Good day” as I climbed up on the seat beside her and took up the reins. “I think I’m supposed to be driving for you,” I said genially.

“You think. Don’t you know?” She peered at me sharply.

“Hank has been taken ill. Nik asked if I would drive your mare. My name is Tom.”

“I don’t like changes,” she told me. “Especially not at the last minute. Changes say you weren’t really ready in the first place, and now you’re even less ready.”

I suspected I knew why Hank was suddenly feeling poorly. “My name is Tom,” I introduced myself again.

“You already said that,” she informed me. She stared off into the falling snow. “This whole trip was a bad idea,” she said aloud, but not to me. “And no good is going to come of it. I can see that right now.” She kneaded her gloved hands in her lap. “Damn old bones,” she said to the falling snow. “If it weren’t for my old bones, I’d not need a one of you. Not a one.”

I could think of nothing to reply to that, but was saved by Starling. She reined in beside me. “Will you look at what they’ve given me to ride?” she challenged me. Her mount shook her black mane and rolled her eyes at me as if demanding that I look at what she was expected to carry.

“Looks fine to me. She’s Mountain stock. They’re all like that. But she’ll go all day for you, and most of them have sweet tempers.”

Starling scowled. “I told Nik that for what we’re paying, I expected a proper horse.”

Nik rode past us at that moment. His mount was no larger than Starling’s. He looked at her and then away, as if wary of her tongue. “Let’s go,” he said in a quietly carrying voice. “It’s better not to talk, and it’s best to stay close to the wagon in front of you. It’s easier to lose sight of each other in this storm than you might think.”

For all his soft voice, the command was instantly obeyed. There were no shouted commands nor calls of farewell. Instead the wagons in front of us rolled silently away from us. I stirred the reins and clucked to the horse. The mare gave a snort of disapproval, but stepped out to the pace. We moved forward in near silence through a perpetual curtain of falling snow. Starling’s pony tugged restlessly at her bit until Starling gave her her head. Then she trotted swiftly up to join the other horses at the front of the group. I was left sitting by the silent old woman.

I soon found the truth to Nik’s warning. The sun came up, but the snow continued to fall so thickly the light seemed milky. There was a mother-of-pearl quality to the swirling snow that both dazzled and wearied the eye. It seemed an endless tunnel of white that we traveled through with only the tail of the other wagon to guide us.

Nik did not take us by the road. We went crunching off across the frozen fields. The thickly falling snow soon filled in the tracks we left. In no time, there would be no trace of our passage. We traveled cross-country until past noon, with the riders dismounting to take down fence railings and then restoring them in our wake. I glimpsed another farmhouse once through the swirling storm, but its windows were dark. Shortly after midday a final fence was opened for us. With a creak and a jolt, we came out of the field onto what had once been a road but was now little more than a trail. The only tracks on it were those we made ourselves, and the snow swiftly erased those.

And all that way, my companion had been as chilly and silent as the falling snow itself. From time to time, I watched her from the corner of my eye. She stared straight ahead, her body swaying to the motion of the wagon. She kneaded her hands restlessly in her lap as if they pained her. With little else to amuse myself, I spied upon her. Buck stock, obviously. The accent of my home was on her tongue still, though faded by many years of travel in other places. Her headscarf was the work of Chalced weavers, but the embroidery along the edges of her cloak, done black on black, was totally unfamiliar to me.

“You’re a long way from Buck, boy,” she observed abruptly. She stared straight ahead as she said it. Something about her tone set my back up.

“As are you, old woman,” I replied.

She turned her whole face to look at me. I was not sure if I glimpsed amusement or annoyance in her bright crow eyes. “That I am. Years and distance alike, a long way.” She paused, then asked abruptly, “Why are you bound for the Mountains?”

“I want to see my uncle,” I replied truthfully.

She gave a snort of disdain. “A Buck boy has an uncle in the Mountains? And you want to see him enough to put your head at risk?”

I looked over at her. “He’s my favorite uncle. You, I understand, go to Eda’s shrine?”

“The others do,” she corrected me. “I’m too old to pray for fertility. I seek a prophet.” Before I could speak, she added, “He’s my favorite prophet.” Almost, she smiled at me.

“Why don’t you travel with the others in the wagon?” I asked her.

She gave me a chill look. “They ask too many questions,” she replied.

“Ah!” I said, and grinned at her, accepting the rebuke.

After a few moments, she spoke again. “I’ve been a long time on my own, Tom. I like to go my own way and keep my own counsel and decide for myself what I’ll eat for my supper. Those ones, they’re nice enough folk, but they scratch and peck like a flock of chickens. Left to themselves, not a one of them would make this journey alone. They all need the others to say, Yes, yes, this is what we should be doing, it’s worth the risk. And now that they’ve decided it, the decision is bigger than all of them. Not a one of them could turn back on their own.”

She shook her head at that, and I nodded thoughtfully. She said nothing more for a long time. Our trail had found the river. We followed it upstream, through a scanty cover of brush and very young trees. I could scarcely see it through the steadily falling snow, but I could smell it and hear the rush of its passage. I wondered how far we’d go before we tried to cross it. Then I grinned to myself. I was certain Starling would know when I saw her this evening. I wondered if Nik was enjoying her company.

“What are you smirking about?” the old woman demanded suddenly.

“I was thinking on my friend the minstrel. Starling.”

“And she makes you smile like that?”

“Sometimes.”

“She’s a minstrel, you say. And you? Are you a minstrel?”

“No. Just a shepherd. Most of the time.”

“I see.”

Our talk died off again. Then as evening began to fall, she told me, “You may call me Kettle.”

“I’m Tom,” I replied.

“And that’s the third time you’ve told me,” she reminded me.

I had expected we would camp at nightfall, but Nik kept us moving. We halted briefly while he took out two lanterns and hung them from a couple of the wagons. “Just follow the light,” he told me tersely as he rode past us. Our mare did just that.