The Complete Tawny Man Trilogy Omnibus (38 page)

‘There’s no accounting for tastes,’ I told Whitecap, who was looking after his departing mistress with an aggrieved air.

What’s in the napkin?

I didn’t think you’d go far. A moment.

I put the horses to graze with makeshift picket lines and went over to where the field met the edge of a forested bramble. There was a great mossy river boulder there, and I spread the napkin out upon it. When I unstoppered the jug, I found it held sweet cider. Within the napkin were two meat pasties.

One for me.

Nighteyes did not come all the way out of the bramble. I tossed one of the pasties to him and immediately bit into my own. It was still warm from cooking and the meat and gravy was brown and savoury. One of the lovely things about the Wit is that one can carry on a conversation while eating without choking.
So. How did you find me, and why?
I asked him.

I found you just as I’d find any flea bite. Why? What else was I to do? You could not have expected me to stay in Buckkeep Town. With a cat? Please. Bad enough that you reek of that creature. I could not have abided sharing space with him.

Hap will worry about you when he discovers you are missing.

Perhaps, but I doubt it. He was so excited to come back to Buckkeep Town. Why a boy would find it enticing, I do not know. There is nothing but noise and dust, no game worth speaking of, and far too many humans crammed into one space.

Then you came after me solely to spare yourself that aggravation. It had nothing to do with being concerned for me or missing me?

If you and the Scentless One hunt, then I should hunt with you. That is only sense. Hap is a good boy, but he is not the best hunter. Better to leave him safe in town.

But we are on horseback, and, my friend, you are not as fleet as you used to be, nor do you have the endurance of a young
wolf. Best you go back to Buckkeep Town and keep watch over the boy.

Or maybe you could just dig a hole right here and bury me.

‘What?’ His bitterness startled the word out of me. I did choke on the cider I was drinking.

Little Brother, do not treat me as if I am already dead, or dying. If you see me that way, then I would rather truly be dead. You steal the now of my life away, when you constantly fear that tomorrow will bring my death. Your fears clutch cold at me and snatch all my pleasure in the day’s warmth from me.

As he had not in a long time, the wolf dropped all the barriers between us. I suddenly perceived what I had been hiding from myself. The recent reticence between us was not entirely Nighteyes’ doing. Half of it was mine, my retreat from him for fear that his death would be unbearably painful for me. I was the one who had set him at a distance; I was the one who had been hoarding my thoughts from him. Yet enough of my feelings had reached past that wall that he was wounded by them. I had been on the verge of abandoning him. My slow pulling away from him had been my resignation to his mortality. Truly, since the day I had pulled him back from death, I had not seen him as fully alive.

I sat for a time feeling shabby and small. I did not need to tell him I felt ashamed. The Wit forms a bond that makes many explanations unnecessary. I spoke my apology aloud. ‘Hap is really old enough to take care of himself. From now on, we belong together, come what may.’

I felt his concurrence.
So. What is it we hunt?

A boy and a cat. Prince Dutiful.

Ah. The boy and the cat from your dream. Well, at least we shall know them when we find them
. It was a bit disconcerting that he made that leap of connection so effortlessly, and that he acknowledged so easily what I had balked at. We had shared thoughts with those two, and more than once. I pushed that uneasiness aside.

But how will you cross the river? And how will you keep up with the horses?

Don’t let it trouble you, little brother. And don’t betray me by gawking.

I sensed that it amused him to leave me wondering, and so left it at that with no nagging. I finished my meal and leaned my back against the boulder that had been my table. It had soaked up the warmth of the day. I had had little sleep of late and I felt my eyelids growing heavy.

Go ahead and nap. I’ll keep watch on the horses for you
.

Thank you
. It was such a relief to close my eyes and welcome sleep without wariness. My wolf watched over me. The deep connection between us flowed unimpeded again. It brought me more peace than a full belly and sunshine.

They come.

I opened my eyes. The horses still grazed peaceably but their shadows had lengthened on the meadow grass. Lord Golden and Laurel stood at the edge of the field. I lifted a hand in recognition of them, then came reluctantly to my feet. My posture had kinked my back, and yet I would gladly have gone back to sleep. Later, I promised myself. I could see the freight waggons approaching the ferry ramp.

Both Whitecap and Malta came to my chirrup. Only Myblack went out to the end of the picket line and had to be drawn in. Once I had her reins, she surrendered and came with me as if she had never contemplated anything else. I led them to meet the oncoming waggons. When I noticed a set of grey wolf legs beneath one of the waggons, I looked aside.

The ferry was a large, flat vessel of splintery timbers, secured by a heavy line to each shore. Teams of horses drew it back and forth, but there were crewmen with push-poles manning it as well. They loaded Lady Bresinga’s waggons first, then passengers and their mounts. I was the last aboard. Myblack balked at boarding the ferry. In the end, I think she came
aboard for the sake of the other horses’ company rather than any of my coaxing and praise. The ferry cast off from its dock and began its ponderous crossing of the Buck River. The river lapped and gurgled at the edge of the laden barge.

It was full dark before we reached the north shore of the Buck River. We were first off the ferry, but then waited for the waggons to unload. Lord Golden decreed that, rather than wait out the night at the inn, we would follow the waggons to Lady Bresinga’s manor at Galeton. The waggoneers knew the way by heart. They kindled lanterns and hung them from the sideboards, and so we followed them well enough.

The round moon shone down on us. We followed well back, and yet the dust of the waggons still hung in the air and stuck to my skin. I was far more tired than I had expected to be. The ache in my back was sharpest around the old arrow scar. I longed suddenly to have quiet talk with the Fool, to somehow connect again to the healthy young man I had once been. But, I reminded myself, neither Fitz nor the Fool was here. Only Lord Golden and his man Badgerlock. The sooner I fixed that in my mind, the better for both of us. Laurel and Lord Golden carried on a quiet conversation. His attention flattered her, and she did not attempt to disguise the pleasure she took in it. They did not exclude me and yet I would not have felt comfortable sharing it.

We came at length to Galeton. We had crested several rocky hills and crossed the oak valleys between, and then as we reached the top of yet another rolling hill, the winking lights of a small town shone out below us. Galeton fronted onto a small tributary of the Buck called Antler River. It was too small a body of water to be navigable by large boats. Most of the goods that came to Galeton made the last stretch of their journey by waggon. The Antler furnished water for the cattle and the fields, and fish for the folk that lived alongside it. The Bresinga manor was on a small rise that overlooked the little town. In the dark it was impossible to see the extent of the great
house, but the spacing of the candlelit windows convinced me it was substantial. The waggons entered through the gate of a long stone wall and we followed unchallenged. When the drivers pulled up in the waggonyard beside the manor, men with torches came out to meet them. I noted the absence of barking dogs, and thought it odd. Lord Golden led Laurel and me on to the main entrance of the manor itself. Before we had even alighted, the door opened for us, and servants poured out to greet us.

We were expected. A messenger had preceded us on the morning ferry. Lady Bresinga herself appeared to greet us and welcome us to her home. Servants led our horses away, and bore our baggage for us as I followed Lord Golden and the Queen’s Huntswoman into the spacious entry hall of Bresinga Manor. Of oak and riverstone was this imposing house built. Thick timbers and massive stonework commanded the eye, dwarfing the folk who filled the chamber.

Lord Golden was the centre of their attention. Lady Bresinga had taken his arm in welcome. Short and plump, the woman looked up at him approvingly as she chatted. Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes and stretched her upper lip tightly above her teeth. The lanky boy that stood at her side was likely Civil Bresinga. He was taller than Hap, yet about his age, and wore his dark hair brushed straight back above his forehead, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak. He gave me an odd glance in passing, then directed his attention back to his mother and Lord Golden. An odd little shiver of awareness danced across my skin. The Wit. Someone here was Old Blood, and concealing it with consummate skill. I breathed a thought of warning to the wolf.
Be small
. His acknowledgement was more subtle than the scent of night flowers when day comes, yet I saw Lady Bresinga turn her head slightly, as if to catch a distant sound. Too soon to be certain, yet I felt that Chade’s and my suspicions were well-founded.

The Huntswoman of the Queen had her own circle of
admirers courting her favour. The Bresinga Huntsman was at Laurel’s elbow already, telling her that as soon as she arose in the morning, he’d be pleased to show her the best uplands for game birds. His assistants stood alertly at his elbow. Later, he would escort her into a late dinner with Lady Bresinga and Lord Golden. When hunting was planned, those two could expect to share table and wine with their betters.

In the midst of the hubbub of welcoming, little attention was paid to me. I stood, as any good servant did, awaiting my next command. A serving-woman hastened up to me. ‘I’ll show you the chambers we’ve prepared for Lord Golden so that you may arrange them to his taste. Will he want a bath this evening?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ I replied to the young woman as I followed her. ‘And a light repast in his rooms. Sometimes he is taken with an appetite late at night.’ This was a fabrication on my part to be sure that I did not have to go hungry. It was expected that I would see to my master’s comfort first, and then my own.

Lord Golden’s unexpected visit had commanded a fine chamber as large as my entire cottage. An immense bed dominated the room. It was mounded with featherbeds and fat pillows. Enormous bouquets of cut roses scented the chamber, and a veritable forest of beeswax tapers added both light and their delicate scent. By daylight, the room would look over the river and across the valley, but tonight the windows were shuttered. I opened one ‘for air’, and then assured the maid that I could unpack my master’s garments if she would see to bathwater. A small antechamber opened off Lord Golden’s for my own use. It was small, but better furnished than many servants’ chambers that I’d seen.

It took me longer to unpack Lord Golden’s clothing than I had expected. I was amazed at how much he had managed to fit into his packs. Not only clothing and boots, but jewellery, perfumes, scarves, combs and brushes emerged from the compact bags. I put it all in place as best I could imagine. I tried to recall Charim, Prince Verity’s serving-man and valet. Standing in his
shoes suddenly put all he had done in a different perspective. That good man had always been present, and always engaged in some task for Verity’s comfort or convenience. Unobtrusive, yet ever ready for his master’s command. I tried to think what he would do in my place.

I kindled a small fire in the hearth so that my master would be comfortable while he was drying after his bath. I turned down Lord Golden’s bed and set his nightshirt out upon the linen. Then, smirking, I retreated to my own chamber, wondering what the Fool would have made of all this.

I had expected my own unpacking to be simple and it was until I got to the package of clothing from the tailor. I untied the string, and the garments seemed to burst from their confines like a blossom unfurling. The Fool had reneged on Lord Golden’s promise to keep me poorly dressed. The clothing the tailor had sewn was the best quality I had ever possessed in my life. There was a set of servant’s blues, better tailored than what I now wore, and of a finer weave. Two snowy shirts of linen were more elegant than what most servants wore. There was a doublet of rich blue, with dark hose with a grey stripe in it, and another in deep green. I held the green doublet up against me. The doublet’s skirt came almost to my knees, longer than I was accustomed to, and yellow embroidery ran riot over it. Yellow leggings. I shook my head. There was a wide leather belt to fasten about it. Lord Golden’s golden cock-pheasant was embroidered on the breast of the jerkin. I rolled my eyes at my reflection. Truly, the Fool had expressed himself in these clothes for me. Dutifully I put them away. No doubt he would soon find an excuse to make me wear them.

I had scarcely finished my unpacking before I heard a step in the hallway. A knock at the door announced that Lord Golden’s tub had arrived. Two serving-boys carried it in, followed by three others bearing buckets of both hot and cold water. It was expected that I would mix these to achieve Lord Golden’s preference in his bath. Then another
lad arrived carrying a tray of scented oils that he might choose from, and yet another with a towering stack of towels. Two men arrived carrying the painted screens that would protect him from draughts while he was enjoying his ablutions. I have not always been swift at appraising social situations, yet dim as I was, I was awakening to Lord Golden’s social stature. A welcome this effusive was more likely to be accorded to royalty rather than to a landless noble of dubious origin. Obviously, his popularity at court far exceeded my initial regard of it. It chagrined me that I had not previously perceived it. Then, with unerring certainty, I knew the reason for it.

I knew who he was. I knew his past, or far more of it than any of his admirers did. To me, he was not the exotic and fabulously wealthy nobleman of some distant Jamaillian family. To me, he was the Fool in the midst of one of his elaborate pranks, and I was still expecting that at any moment he would cease his juggling and let all his flying illusions come clattering to the ground. But there was no moment of revelation awaiting. Lord Golden was real, as real as the Fool had been to me. I stood stock still a moment, reeling in that unveiling thought. Lord Golden was as real as the Fool. And hence, the Fool had been as real as Lord Golden.