Royal Assassin - Страница 118

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I tapped. I did not knock loudly, but my tapping was insistent and unending. After a moment or two a voice demanded to know who was there.

“FitzChivalry,” I said boldly. “I demand to see the King.”

A silence. Then: “No one is to be admitted.”

“By whose order?”

“Prince Regal.”

“I bear a token from the King, one on which he gave me his word that I would always be admitted to see him whenever I so wished.”

“Prince Regal said specifically that you were not to be admitted.”

“But that was before . . .” And I let my voice drop lower as I muttered a few meaningless syllables.

“What did you say?”

I muttered again.

“Speak up.”

“This is not for all the Keep to hear!” I retorted indignantly. “This is no time to spread a panic.”

That did it. The door opened a tiny crack. “What is it?” the man hissed.

I leaned in close to the door, looked up and down the corridor. I peered past him through the crack. “Are you alone?” I asked suspiciously.

“Yes!” Impatiently. “Now what is it? It had better be good!”

I lifted my hands to my mouth as I leaned toward the door, unwilling to let the slightest breath of my secret escape. The guard leaned closer to the crack. I gave a quick puff of my lips and a white powder misted his face. He staggered back, clawing at his eyes and strangling. In an instant he was down. Nightmist: it was quick, it was effective. It was also often deadly. I could not find it in myself to care. It was not so much that this was my shoulder-wrenching friend. This guard could not have stood in the antechamber of Shrewd’s room and been totally unaware of what went on within.

I had reached in through the crack and was struggling to undo the chains that secured the door when I heard a familiar hiss. “Get out of here. Leave the door alone, just go away. Don’t unlatch it, you fool!” I had a brief glimpse of a pocked visage and then the door was shut firmly in my face. Chade was right. It would be best for Regal to encounter a fully latched door, and to spend his time having his men chop through it. Every moment Regal was shut out was another moment that Chade had with the King.

What followed was harder to do than what I had already done. I went down the stairs to the kitchen, made friendly talk with the cook, and then asked her what the commotion upstairs had been. Had the Queen lost her baby? She banished me quickly to find folk to talk to who would know more. I made my way into the watch room off the kitchen to consume a small beer and force myself to eat as if I wanted to. The food lay in my stomach like so much gravel. No one spoke to me much, but I was a presence. The gossip about the Queen’s fall ebbed and flowed around me. There were Tilth and Farrow guards here now, big, slow-moving men, part of their dukes’ retinues, hobnobbing with the Buckkeep counterparts. It was more bitter than bile to hear them speak avidly of what the loss of the child would mean to Regal’s chances for the throne. It was as if they bet on a horse race.

The only other gossip that could compete with it was a rumor that a boy had seen the Pocked Man by the castle well in the courtyard. It was supposed to have been nearly midnight when the lad saw him. Not one had the sense to wonder what the boy was doing out there, or what light his eyes had used to see this vision of ill omen. Instead they were vowing to stay well away from water, for surely this omen meant the well had gone bad. At the rate at which they were drinking beer, I decided they had little to worry about. I stayed until word was sent down that Regal wanted three strong men with axes sent immediately to the King’s chambers. That excited a fresh round of talk, and during it, I quietly left the room and went to the stables.

I had intended to seek out Burrich and see if the Fool had found him yet. Instead I encountered Molly coming down his steep stairs just as I had begun to climb them. She looked down at the astounded look on my face and laughed. But it was a short laugh, and it never reached her eyes.

“Why did you go to see Burrich?” I demanded, and instantly realized how rude my question was. I had feared she had gone seeking help.

“He is my friend,” she said succinctly. She started to push past me. Without thinking, I stood firm. “Let me past!” she hissed savagely.

Instead I put my arms around her. “Molly, Molly, please,” I said hoarsely as she pushed at me without heart. “Let us find a place to talk, if only for a moment. I cannot bear to have you look at me that way, when I swear I have done you no wrong. You act as if I have cast you off, but you are in my heart always. If I cannot be with you, it is not because I do not wish to.”

She stopped struggling suddenly.

“Please?” I begged her.

She glanced about the dim barn. “We will stand and we will talk. Briefly. Right here.”

“Why are you so angry with me?”

She nearly answered me. I saw her bite back words, then turn suddenly cold. “Why do you think that what I feel about you is the centermost pillar of my life?” she retorted. “Why do you think I have no other concerns but you?”

I gaped at her. “Perhaps because it is how I feel about you,” I said gravely.

“It is not.” She was exasperated, correcting me the way she would correct a child who insisted the sky was green.

“It is,” I insisted. I tried to gather her to me, but she was wooden in my arms.

“Your King-in-Waiting Verity was more important. King Shrewd is more important. Queen Kettricken and her unborn child are more important.” She ticked them off on her fingers as if she were numbering my faults.

“I know my duty,” I said quietly.

“I know where your heart is,” she said flatly. “And it is not first with me.”

“Verity is . . . is no longer here to protect his Queen, his child, or his father,” I said reasonably. “So, for this time, I must put them ahead of my own life. Ahead of everything I hold dear. Not because I love them more but . . .” I floundered uselessly after words. “I am a King’s Man,” I said helplessly.

“I am my own woman.” Molly made it the loneliest statement in the world. “I will take care of myself.”

“Not forever,” I protested. “Someday we will be free. Free to wed, to do—”

“Whatever your King asks you to do,” she finished for me. “No, Fitz.” There was finality in her voice. Pain. She pushed away from me, stepped past me on the staircase. When she was two steps away and all of winter seemed to be blowing between us, she spoke.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, almost gently. “There is another in my life now. One who is for me what your King is for you. One who comes before my own life, who comes ahead of all else I hold dear. By your own words, you cannot fault me.” She looked back up at me.

I do not know what I looked like, only that she looked aside as if she could not bear it.

“For the sake of that one, I am going away,” she told me. “To a safer place than this.”

“Molly, please, he cannot love you as I do,” I begged.

She did not look at me. “Nor can your King love you as I . . . used to. But. It is not a matter of what he feels for me,” she said slowly. “It is what I feel for him. He must be first in my life. He needs that from me. Understand this. It is not that I no longer care for you. It is that I cannot put that feeling ahead of what is best for him.” She went down two more steps. “Good-bye, Newboy.” She no more than breathed those final words, but they sank into my heart as if branded there.

I stood on the steps, watching her go. And suddenly that feeling was too familiar, the pain too well-known. I flung myself down the steps after her, I seized her arm, I pulled her under the loft stairs into the darkness there. “Molly,” I said, “please.”

She said nothing. She did not even resist my grip on her arm.

“What can I give you, what can I tell you to make you understand what you are to me? I can’t just let you go!”

“No more can you make me stay,” she pointed out in a low voice. I felt something go out of her. Some anger, some spirit, some will. I have no word for it. “Please,” she said, and the word hurt me, because she begged. “Just let me go. Don’t make it hard. Don’t make me cry.”

I let go of her arm, but she did not leave.

“A long time ago,” she said carefully, “I told you that you were like Burrich.”

I nodded in the darkness, not caring that she could not see me.

“In some ways you are. In others you are not. I decide for us, now, as he once decided for Patience and himself. There is no future for us. Someone already fills your heart. And the gap between our stations is too great for any love to bridge. I know that you love me. But your love is . . . different from mine. I wanted us to share all our lives. You wish to keep me in a box, separate from your life. I cannot be someone you come to when you have nothing more important to do. I don’t even know what it is that you do when you are not with me. You have never even shared that much with me.”

“You wouldn’t like it,” I told her. “You don’t really want to know.”

“Don’t tell me that,” she whispered angrily. “Don’t you see that that is what I cannot live with, that you do not let me even decide that for myself? You cannot make that decision for me. You have no right! If you cannot even tell me that, how can I believe you love me?”

“I kill people,” I heard myself say. “For my King. I’m an assassin, Molly.”

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