Fool's Fate (41 page)

    As we neared the docks, people grew more numerous, until we realized a crowd had gathered to watch our departure. The Tusker had been loaded since yesterday, and awaited only our boarding and the morning turn of tide to depart. There was a strange mood amongst the Outislanders. It was as if they had turned out to watch a competition of champions, and we were not the favored ones. No one hurled rotten vegetables or insults, but the knowing silence was almost as hard a pelting. Closer to the ship, our own nobles had gathered to wish us farewell and good luck. They clustered about the Prince, wishing him well, and as I waited obediently behind him, it struck me how little they realized of his quest and what it might mean. There was good-natured joking with him, and hearty wishes for good fortune, but none of his nobles looked particularly worried for him.

    As we boarded, with still no sign of Thick, my heart sank and my belly knotted with fear. We could not leave him here alone, no matter how annoyed Dutiful might be with him. There was not just the fear of what he might do in our absence, but my worry over what might be done to him, stripped of the Prince's protection. Would the Six Duchies nobles care much what became of a half-wit lackey in Dutiful's absence? I leaned on the railing, and stared over the head of the crowd milling on the docks, up to the stronghouse. Web came to lean beside me. “Well. Looking forward to the voyage?”

    I smiled bitterly. “The only voyage I'm looking forward to is the one that takes us home.”

    “I haven't seen Thick come aboard yet.”

    “I know. We're still waiting for him. He was reluctant to get on another boat, but we're hoping he'll come on his own.”

    Web nodded slowly and sagely to that, and then wandered off. I stood, fretting and chewing the side of my thumb.

    Thick? Are you coming? The ship will leave soon.

    Leave me alone, Dogstink!

    He flung the name with intense anger, so that I almost smelled the image he hurled at me. On the edges of his fury, I could feel his fear and hurt that we would so abandon him. Our departure had agitated and worried him, but I still suspected his stubbornness would win out.

    Time and tide wait for no man, Thick. Decide soon. Because when the waters are right, the ship has to leave. And after that, even if you let us know you've changed your mind and want to come, it will be too late. We won't be able to come back for you.

    Don't care. And with that, he slammed his walls so tight that it felt like a physical slap. I was left feeling that I'd made the situation worse.

    Too soon, I saw the final preparations for our departure begin. A late arrival of cargo from the Maiden's Chance came on board. There were a number of small casks, and I smiled, wondering if Chade had recalled a stash of brandy on the other ship. Weaponry and tools came aboard as well, as we filled up the odd corners of the hold with anything Chade thought might be helpful. But finally, it was time to depart. Well-wishers who had followed the Prince on board were leaving. The Hetgurd representatives arrived with their gear. All the last-minute cargo was stowed out of the way and the small boats that would tow us out of the harbor and into open water were manned and waiting. Web came to stand anxiously beside me at the railing.

    “I don't think he's coming,” I said quietly. I felt ill. “I'll go and speak to the Prince. We'll have to send someone after him.”

    “I already have,” Web replied grimly.

    “You did? What did Prince Dutiful say?” I hadn't seen any of our guardsmen depart from the ship.

    “Oh. No, not spoken to him,” Web replied distractedly. “I sent someone. Swift.” More to himself, he muttered, “I hope this isn't an unfair test. I think he can do it. But perhaps I should have gone myself.”

    “Swift?” Mentally I measured the growing lad against Thick, and shook my head. “He'll never be able to do it. Thick is awkward, but he's surprisingly strong when he's roused. He might do the boy harm. I'd best go after them.”

    Web seized me by the arm. “No! Don't go! Look. He's done it. They're coming now!”

    The relief in his voice was as if Swift had conquered some monumental task. Perhaps, in all justice, he had. I watched them come, the short man trudging along by the slight boy. Swift carried Thick's pack and held his hand protectively. That shocked me, but even at this distance, the boy's attitude was visible. His head was up and wary, and he met the eyes of every man they passed, as if challenging him to mock the half-wit or delay their progress. It was as great a display of courage as I'd ever seen, and my evaluation of the boy soared. It would have taxed my will to lead Thick by the hand through that throng, yet on they came. As they got closer and I could see the expression on Thick's face, I realized that more was at work here than simply sending a boy to bid him come.

    “What is it?” I asked Web in a low voice.

    “It's the Old Blood. As well you know.” He spoke softly, not turning to look at me. “It works best Wit to Wit as you would say. But even on those who have no Wit, one can exert a drawing closer. I've had Swift practicing. Today was a sterner test than I wished to set him. But he's done well.”

    “Yes. I can see that he has.” There was a look of trust on Thick's face as the boy led him toward the boarding plank. He hesitated there, halting. Then Swift spoke softly to him and, still holding the little man's hand, led him up the gangway. I debated before next I spoke, but curiosity dragged the words from me. “I know how to push someone away from me with the Wit. I think I've always known how to do that. But how do you draw someone closer with it?”

    “Ah. Well. The pushing-away might come by instinct. Usually the drawing-close does, too. I would have thought you knew it; now I understand why you've never used it with Thick.” He cocked his head and looked at me appraisingly. “Sometimes, the things you don't know baffle me. As if you'd forgotten or somehow lost some part of yourself.” I think he saw the uneasiness that his words woke in me, for he suddenly changed his tone and spoke in generality. “I think all creatures use that drawing force, to some extent, with their young or when they wish to attract a mate. Perhaps you've used it without realizing it. But, you see, that is why a man given this magic should make an effort to learn about it. To be aware of how he's using it.” He let a silence fall, then added, “I'll offer again to teach you what you need to know.”

    “I have to go and see to Thick and get him settled.” I turned hastily to go.

    “Yes. I know that you do. You've many tasks and duties, and I won't claim to know all that you do for our prince. I'm sure that at any moment of the day, you can find some reason to be too busy for this. But a man makes time for what is important in his life. So. I'll be hoping that you'll come to me. This is the last time I'll make the offer. Now it's up to you to accept it.”

    And before I could hurry away, he turned and quietly left me there. Overhead, Risk lifted off from our mast with a lonely cry that rode down the wind. Lines were tossed, the planks were pulled in, and in the little boats men leaned to their oars to pull us away from the docks and out to where the wind could catch us. I promised myself that I'd find the time, today, to speak to Web about privately learning about my magic. I hoped I didn't lie.

    But nothing is ever simple. With the Narcheska, her father Arkon Bloodblade, and her uncle Peottre on board, most of Dutiful's and Chade's social time was taken up with one or another of them. I had little private conversation with either of them. Instead, as before, I was confined to Thick's companionship. As he was miserable, he saw no reason why I shouldn't be also. The minor bruises and scrapes he had given me on the previous voyage were renewed, and there was little I could do about it. Putting up walls against his subtle Skill-influence would have reduced my awareness of Chade and Dutiful. So I endured.

    To make it worse, the water we crossed was nasty. We battled currents and tides that always seemed to oppose us. For two days of our journey, our ship rocked badly and Thick was genuinely seasick, as were Cockle, Swift, and Civil. The rest of us ate little and moved from one handhold to another. I glimpsed a very pale Narcheska taking a walk on the deck on Peottre's arm. Neither of them looked as if they were enjoying themselves. The slow days crawled by.

    I did not find an opportunity to discuss the Wit with Web. From time to time, I would recall my intention, but it always seemed to come to me at a moment when a dozen other things wanted my attention. I tried to pretend it was circumstance that kept me from approaching him. In reality, I could not name what held me back.

    Our destination finally appeared on the horizon. Even from a distance, Aslevjal looked a dismal place. It is among the northernmost of the Out Islands, a toothy isle of grim visage. Summer never really triumphs there. The milder days of summer's brief visit are not sufficient to melt the snow of the previous winter on its mountains. Most of the island is locked under the glacier that squats within the pronged hold of its peaks. Some say it is actually two islands, bridged by the ice of the glacier, but I do not know the basis for that belief. Low tide bares black sand beaches around it like a dreary skirt. A barren and stony stretch of beach and a bit of cliff are permanently exposed at one end of it. In other places, rocky stretches thrust up through the glacier's pale coat. I could not tell if the cloudiness around the island was the ice smoking in the sunlight or snow blown by the continuous north wind we were encountering.

    Our approach was slow as both wind and water seemed to oppose us. We tacked painfully toward the island. I was at the railing when Dutiful and the Narcheska, accompanied by Chade and Peottre, came out to look at the island. Dutiful scowled at it. “It does not look like a place where any creature would willingly reside, let alone something the size of a dragon. Why would a dragon be there?”

    The Narcheska shook her head and spoke softly. “I do not know. I only know that our legends say that he is there. So, thither we must go.” She pulled her wool cloak more closely around her. The wind seemed to carry the island's icy bite to us.

    In the afternoon, we rounded a headland and turned back toward Aslevjal's sole bay. Our spies' reports had told us it was a deserted place, with the remnants of a dock and a few stone structures tumbling into disrepair. Yet I glimpsed a patch of bright color on the exposed cliff above the beach. Even as I stared at it, trying to resolve what it was, a figure emerged from it. I decided it was a tent or some sort of shelter. A man came to stand on the tip of the cliff. His black-and-white hooded cloak struggled and flapped around him. He lifted no hand in greeting, but only stood there and awaited us.

    “Who is that?” Chade demanded of Peottre when the lookout's cries to the captain had brought them back onto the deck.

    “I do not know,” the man replied. Dread was heavy in his voice.

    “Perhaps it is the legendary Black Man of the island,” Bloodblade suggested. He leaned forward avidly, studying the solitary figure on the bluffs. “I've always wondered if the tales were true.”

    “I don't want to find out,” the Narcheska commented quietly. Her eyes were huge. As we drew closer to the bay, the railing became crowded as we all stared toward our destination and the solitary ominous figure that awaited us there. It was only when we dropped anchor in the bay and our small boats prepared to ferry us and our supplies to shore that he moved. He came down to the beach, and stood at the high-tide line. Even before he threw back his hood, something in my heart turned over. I felt sick with dread.

    The Fool awaited me.

ASLEVJAL

    “Forging” was perhaps the most effective weapon that the Outislanders turned against us during the Red Ship War. The technique for “Forging” is still unknown to us, but the dreadful results are all too familiar to many. The name comes from the village of Forge, an iron-mining town that first suffered this horrendous attack. Red Ship raiders attacked in the night, killing or taking hostage most of the population. A “ransom note” to Buckkeep Castle demanded gold, under the threat of releasing the hostages. This made no sense to then King Shrewd, who declined to pay. The Red Ship raiders lived up to their threat, releasing their apparently unharmed hostages and sailing off into the night.

    But it swiftly became apparent that, by some arcane magic, the villagers were no longer themselves. Although they knew who they were and what families they belonged to, they no longer seemed to care. Morality and ethics had been stolen from them. They thought only of satisfying their own immediate wants, and did not hesitate to steal, murder, and rape to do so. Some were “captured” by their families and vain efforts were made to restore them to themselves. None ever recovered.

    Forging was a tactic used repeatedly during the war. It had the effect of leaving a resident, hostile army on our soil, made up of our own loved ones, at no emotional or financial cost to Kebal Rawbread and his raiders. Killing the Forged ones was a demoralizing and dehumanizing task that fell to our own folk. The scars remain to this day. The town of Forge has never been rebuilt.

    --FEDWREN'S “HISTORY OF THE RED SHIP WAR”

    I was in the first small boat that touched the shore of Aslevjal, along with the other guardsmen. Moments later, the boat carrying Chade and Dutiful, the Narcheska, Peottre, and Arkon Bloodblade nosed into the sand. We stepped into the shallow water to seize the boat's gunwales, and on the next rising wave, we ran it up onto the shore so that its passengers could step out onto dry sand. The whole time, I was aware of the Fool standing on the lip of the land that overlooked the beach, watching us. He was still, but the cold wind seemed to speak for him. It whipped his cloak and long golden hair with a snapping, muttering sound. He had abandoned the face powder that had lightened his skin, as well as the Jamaillian cosmetic touches that had branded him a foreigner. The rich brown of his skin over the sculpted bones of his face and his tawny mane made him a creature out of a tale. The stark black-and-white of his garb erased every trace of indolent Lord Golden. I wondered if anyone besides Chade and myself had identified him yet. I tried to exchange a look with him, but he stared through me. He spoke only when the Prince stepped out of the boat onto the shore. He swept him a bow.