Royal Assassin (77 page)

“Oh. That one.” Cook Sara’s dismissal quashed my hopes of an easy victory. “Well, not to offend, Fitz, but she can be a bit daft on occasion. Lacey, though, Lacey is solid. But she don’t say much, and don’t want to listen to what others have to say either.”

“Well”—I smiled and tipped her a wink—“that was where I heard it from. And I heard it well before we left for
Neatbay.” I leaned in closer. “Ask about. I bet you’ll find Queen Kettricken’s been drinking raspberry-leaf tea for her morning sickness. You check, and see if I’m right. I’ll wager a silver bit I am.”

“A silver bit? Ohe. As if I’ve such to spare. But I’ll ask, Fitz, that I will. And shame on you for not sharing such a rich bit of gossip with me before. And all I tell you!”

“Well, here’s something for you, then. Queen Kettricken’s not the only one with child!”

“Oh? Who else?”

I smiled. “Can’t tell you just yet. But you’ll be among the first to know, from what I’ve heard.” I had no idea who might be pregnant, but it was safe to say that someone in the Keep was, or would be, in time to substantiate my rumor. I needed to keep Cook pleased with me if I were to count on her for court talk. She nodded sagely at me, and I winked.

She finished her venison leg. “Here, Dod, come take this and put it on the meat hooks over the big fire. Highest hooks, I want it cooked, not scorched. Go on with you, now. Kettle? Where’s that milk I asked you to fetch?”

I snagged bread and apples before I left for my room. Plain fare, but welcome to one as hungry as I. I went straight to my room, washed up, ate, and lay down to rest. I might have small chance at the King tonight, but I still wanted to be as alert as possible during the feast. I thought of going to Kettricken to ask her not to mourn Verity just yet. But I knew I would never get past her ladies for a quiet word with her. And what if I were wrong? No. When I could prove Verity was still alive would be soon enough to tell her.

I awoke later to a tap on my door. I lay still for a moment, not sure if I had heard anything, then rose to undo my latches and open the door a crack. The Fool stood outside my door. I do not know if I was more surprised that he had knocked instead of slipping the latches, or at the way he was attired. I stood gaping at him. He bowed genteelly, then pushed his way into my room, closing the door behind him. He fastened a couple of latches, then stepped to the center of the room and extended his arms. He turned in a slow circle for me to admire him. “Well?”

“You don’t look like you,” I said bluntly.

“I am not intended to.” He tugged his overjerkin straight, then plucked at his sleeves to display better not only the embroidery on them, but the slashes that showed off the rich fabric of the sleeves beneath them. He fluffed his plumed hat, set it once more atop his colorless hair. From deepest indigo to palest azure went the colors, and the Fool’s white face, like a peeled egg, peeping out of them. “Fools are no longer in fashion.”

I sat down slowly on my bed. “Regal has dressed you like this,” I said faintly.

“Hardly. He supplied the clothing, of course, but I dressed myself. If Fools are no longer in fashion, consider how lowly would be the valet of a Fool.”

“How about King Shrewd? Is he no longer in fashion?” I asked acidly.

“It is no longer in fashion to be overly concerned with King Shrewd,” he replied. He cut a caper, then stopped, drew himself up with dignity as befitted his new clothes, and took a turn about the room. “I am to sit at the Prince’s table tonight, and be full of merriment and wit. Do you think I shall do well at it?”

“Better far than I,” I said sourly. “Care you not at all that Verity is dead?”

“Care you not at all that the flowers are blooming beneath the summer sun?”

“Fool, it is winter outside.”

“The one is as true as the other. Believe me.” The Fool stood suddenly still. “I have come to ask a favor of you, if you can believe that.”

“The second as easily as the first. What is it?”

“Do not slay my king with your ambitions for your own.”

I looked at him in horror. “I would never slay my king! How dare you say it!”

“Oh, I dare much, these days.” He put his hands behind him and paced about the room. With his elegant clothes and unaccustomed postures, he frightened me. It was as if another being inhabited his body, one I knew not at all.

“Not even if the King had killed your mother?”

A terrible sick feeling rose in me. “What are you trying to tell me?” I whispered.

The Fool whirled at the pain in my voice. “No. No! You mistake me entirely!” There was sincerity in his voice, and for an instant I could see my friend again. “But,” he continued in a softer, almost sly tone, “if you believed the King had killed your mother, your much-cherished, loving, indulgent mother, had killed her and snatched her forever away from you. Do you think you might then kill him?”

I had been blind for so long that it took me a moment to understand him. I knew Regal believed his mother had been poisoned. I knew it was one source of his hatred for me, and for “Lady Thyme.” He believed we had carried out the killing. At the behest of the King. I knew it all to be false. Queen Desire had poisoned herself. Regal’s mother had been overly fond of both drink and those herbs that bring surcease from worry. When she had not been able to rise to the power she believed was her right, she had taken refuge in those pleasures. Shrewd had tried several times to stop her, had even applied to Chade for herbs and potions that would end her cravings. Nothing had worked. Queen Desire had been poisoned, it was true, but it was her own self-indulgent hand that had administered it. I had always known that. And knowing it, I had discounted the hate that would breed in the heart of a coddled son, suddenly bereft of his mother.

Could Regal kill over such a thing? Of course he could. Would he be willing to bring the Six Duchies to the teetering edge of ruin as an act of vengeance? Why not? He had never cared for the Coastal Duchies. The Inland Duchies, always more loyal to his inland mother, were where his heart was. If Queen Desire had not wed King Shrewd, she would have remained Duchess of Farrow. Sometimes, when in her cups and heady with herbal intoxicants, she would ruthlessly suggest that if she had remained as Duchess, she would have been able to wield more power, enough to persuade Farrow and Tilth to unite under her as queen and shrug off their allegiance to the Six Duchies. Galen, the Skill Master, Queen Desire’s own bastard son, had nurtured Regal’s hatred along with his own. Had he hated enough to subvert his coterie to Regal’s revenge?
To me it seemed a staggering treason, but I found myself accepting it. He would. Hundreds of folk slain, scores Forged, women raped, children orphaned, entire villages destroyed for the sake of a Princeling’s vengeance over an imagined wrong. It staggered me. But it fit. It fit as snug as a coffin lid.

“I think perhaps the present Duke of Farrow should have a care for his health,” I mused.

“He shares his older sister’s fondness for fine wine and intoxicants. Well supplied with these, and careless of all else, I suspect he will live a long life.”

“As perhaps King Shrewd might?” I ventured carefully.

A spasm of pain twitched across the Fool’s face. “I doubt that a long life is left to him,” he said quietly. “But what is left might be an easy one, rather than one of bloodshed and violence.”

“You think it will come to that?”

“Who knows what will swirl up from the bottom of a stirred kettle?” He went suddenly to my door, and set his hand to the latch. “That is what I ask you,” he said quietly. “To forgo your twirling, Sir Spoon. To let things settle.”

“I cannot.”

He pressed his forehead to the door, a most un-Fool-like gesture. “Then you shall be the death of kings.” Grieved words in a low voice. “You know … what I am. I have told you. I have told you why I am here. This is one thing of which I am sure. The end of the Farseer line was one of the turning points. Kettricken carries an heir. The line will continue. That is what was needed. Cannot an old man be left to die in peace?”

“Regal will not let that heir be born,” I said bluntly. Even the Fool widened his eyes to hear me speak so plain. “That child will not come to power without a King’s hand to shelter under. Shrewd, or Verity. You do not believe Verity is dead. You have as much as said so. Can you let Kettricken endure the torment of believing it is so? Can you let the Six Duchies go down in blood and ruin? What good is an heir to the Farseer throne, if the throne is but a broken chair in a burned-out hall?”

The Fool’s shoulders slumped. “There are a thousand
crossroads,” he said quietly. “Some clear and bold, some shadows within shadows. Some are nigh onto certainties; it would take a great army or a vast plague to change those paths. Others are shrouded in fog, and I do not know what roads lead out of them, or to where. You fog me, bastard. You multiply the futures a thousandfold, just by your existing. Catalyst. From some of those fogs go the blackest, twisted threads of damnation, and from others shining twines of gold. To the depths or the heights, it seems, are your paths. I long for a middle path. I long for a simple death for a master who was kind to a freakish, jeering servant.”

He made no more rebuke than that. He lifted the latches and undid the bolts and left quietly. The rich clothing and careful walk made him appear deformed to me, as his motley and capers never had. I closed the door softly behind him and then stood leaning against it as if I could hold the future out.

I prepared myself most carefully for dinner that evening. When I was finally dressed in Mistress Hasty’s latest set of clothes for me, I looked almost as fine as the Fool. I had decided that as yet I would not mourn Verity, nor even give the appearance of mourning. As I descended the stairs it seemed to me that most of the Keep was converging on the Great Hall this evening. Evidently all had been summoned to attend, grand folk and humble.

I found myself seated at a table with Burrich and Hands and other of the stable folk. It was as humble a spot as I had ever been given since King Shrewd had taken me under his wing, and yet the company was more to my liking than that of the higher tables. For the honored tables of the Great Hall were packed with folk little known to me, the Dukes and visiting nobility of Tilth and Farrow for the most part. There were a scattering of faces I knew, of course. Patience was seated as almost befit her rank, and Lacey was actually seated at a table above me. I saw no sign of Molly anywhere. There were a scattering of folk from Buckkeep Town, most of them the well-to-do, and most of them seated more favorably than I would have expected. The King was ushered in, leaning on the newly elegant Fool, followed by Kettricken.

Her appearance shocked me. She wore a simple robe of
drab brown, and she had cut her hair for mourning. She had left herself less than a hand’s width of hair, and bereft of its rich weight, it stuck out about her head like a dandelion gone to seed. Its color seemed to have been cut away with its length, leaving it as pale as the Fool’s. So accustomed had I been to seeing the heavy gold braids of her hair that her head now appeared oddly small atop her wide shoulders. Her pale blue eyes were made strange by eyelids reddened by weeping. She did not look like a mourning Queen. Rather she appeared bizarre, a new kind of fool for the court. I could see nothing of my queen, nothing of Kettricken in her garden, nothing of the barefoot warrior dancing with her blade; only a foreign woman, newly alone here. Regal, in contrast, was as lavishly clothed as if to go a-courting, and moved as surely as a hunting cat.

What I witnessed that evening was as cleverly paced and carefully led as a puppet play. There was old King Shrewd, doddering and thin, nodding off over his dinner, or making vague and smiling conversation to no one in particular. There was the Queen-in-Waiting, unsmiling, barely eating, silent and mourning. Presiding over it all was Regal, the dutiful son seated next to the failing father, and beside him the Fool, magnificently clad and punctuating Regal’s conversation with witticisms to make the Prince’s conversation more sparkling than it truly was. The rest of the High Table was the Duke and Duchess of Farrow, and the Duke and Duchess of Tilth, and their current favorites among the lesser nobility of those duchies. Bearns, Rippon, and Shoaks Duchies were not represented at all.

Following the meat, two toasts were offered to Regal. The first came from Duke Holder of Farrow. He toasted the Prince lavishly, declaring him the defender of the realm, praising his swift action on behalf of Neatbay, and lauding also his courage in taking the measures necessary for the best interests of the Six Duchies. That made me prick up my ears. But it was all a bit vague, congratulating and praising, but never quite laying out exactly what Regal had decided to do. Had it gone on any longer, it would have been suitable as a eulogy.

Early into the speech, Kettricken had sat up straighter and
looked incredulously at Regal, obviously unable to believe that he would quietly nod and smile to praises not his due. If anyone besides myself noticed the Queen’s expression, none commented on it. The second toast, predictably, came from Duke Ram of Tilth. He offered a toast to the memory of King-in-Waiting Verity. This was a eulogy, but a condescending one, speaking of all that Verity had attempted and intended and dreamed of and wished for. His achievements already having been heaped on Regal’s plate, there was little left to add. Kettricken grew, if anything, whiter and more pinched about the mouth.

I believe that when Duke Ram finished, she was on the verge of rising to speak herself. But Regal arose, almost hastily, holding up his newly filled glass. He motioned all to silence, then extended that glass toward the Queen.

“Too much has been said of me this night, and too little of our most fair Queen-in-Waiting, Kettricken. She has returned home to find herself most sadly bereaved. Yet I do not think my late brother Verity would wish sorrow for his death to overshadow all that is due his lady by her own effort. Despite her condition”—and the knowing smile of Regal’s face was perilously close to a sneer—“she deemed it in the best interests of her adopted kingdom to venture forth to confront the Red-Ships herself. Doubtless many Raiders fell to her valiant sword. No one can doubt that our soldiers were inspired by the sight of their queen, determined to do battle on their behalf, regardless of what she risked.”