Royal Assassin - Страница 24

As I strode hastily down the hall to the King’s door, Regal stepped abruptly from his own doorway. I halted not to run into him, and then felt trapped there, staring at him. I had seen him, several times since I had returned. But it had always been across a hall, or a passing glimpse of him while I was engaged in some task. Now we stood, scarce an arm’s length apart, and stared at one another. Almost, we could have been mistaken for brothers, I realized with shock. His hair was curlier, his features finer, his bearing more aristocratic. His garments were peacock’s feathers compared with my wren colors, I lacked silver at my throat and on my hands. Still the stamp of the Farseers was plain on us both. We shared Shrewd’s jaw and the fold of his eyelids and the curve of his lower lip. Neither of us would ever compare with Verity’s widely muscled build, but I would come closer than he would. Less than a decade of years separated our ages. Only his skin separated me from his blood. I met his eyes and wished I could spill his guts upon the clean swept floor.

He smiled, a brief showing of white teeth. “Bastard,” he greeted me pleasantly. His smile grew sharper. “Or, that is, Master Fits. A fitting name you’ve taken to yourself.” His careful pronunciation left no room for doubting his insult.

“Prince Regal,” I replied, and let my tone make the words mean the same as his. I waited with an icy patience I had not known I owned. He had to strike me first.

For a time we held our positions, eyes locked. Then he glanced down, to flick imaginary dust from his sleeve. He strode past me. I did not step aside for him. He did not jostle me as once he would have. I took a breath and walked on.

I did not know the guardsman at the door, but he waved me into the King’s chamber. I sighed and set myself another task. I would learn names and faces again. Now that the court was swelling with folk come to see the new Queen, I found myself being recognized by people I didn’t know. “That’d be the Bastard, by the look of him,” I’d heard a bacon monger say to his apprentice the other day outside the kitchen doors. It made me feel vulnerable. Things were changing too fast for me.

King Shrewd’s chamber shocked me. I had expected to find the windows ajar to the brisk winter air, to find Shrewd up and dressed and alert at table, as keen as a captain receiving reports from his lieutenants. Always he had been so, a sharp old man, strict with himself, an early riser, shrewd as his name. But he was not in his sitting room at all. I ventured to the entry of his bedchamber, peered within the open door.

Inside, the room was half in shadow still. A servant rattled cups and plates at a small table drawn up by the great curtained bed. He glanced at me, then away, evidently thinking I was a serving boy. The air was still and musty, as if the room were disused or had not been aired in a long time. I waited a time for the servant to let King Shrewd know I had come. When he continued to ignore me, I advanced warily to the edge of the bed.

“My King?” I made bold to address him when he did not speak. “I have come as you bid me.”

Shrewd was sitting up in the curtained shadows of his bed, well propped with cushions. He opened his eyes when I spoke.

“Who. . . ah. Fitz. Sit, then. Wallace, bring him a chair. A cup and plate, too.” As the servant moved to his bidding King Shrewd confided to me, “I do miss Cheffers. With me for so many years, and I never had to tell him anymore what I wanted done.”

“I remember him, my lord. Where is he, then?”

“A cough took him. He caught it in the fall, and it never left him. It slowly wore him away, until he couldn’t take a breath without wheezing.”

I recalled the servant. He had not been a young man, but not so old either. I was surprised to hear of his death. I stood silently, wordless, while Wallace brought the chair and a plate and cup for me. He frowned disapprovingly as I seated myself, but I ignored it. He would soon enough learn that King Shrewd designed his own protocol. “And you, my King? Are you well? I cannot recall that I ever knew you to keep to your bed in the morning?”

King Shrewd made an impatient noise. “It is most annoying. Not a sickness really. Just a giddiness, a sort of dizziness that sweeps down upon me if I move swiftly. Every morning I think it gone, but when I try to rise, the very stones of Buckkeep rock under me. So I keep to my bed, and eat and drink a bit, and then rise slowly. By midday I am myself. I think it has something to do with the winter cold, though the healer says it may be from an old sword cut, taken when I was not much older than you are now. See, I bear the scar still, though I thought the damage long healed.” King Shrewd leaned forward in his curtained bed, lifting with one shaky hand a sheaf of his graying hair from his left temple. I saw the pucker of the old scar and nodded.

“But, enough. I did not summon you for consultations about my health. I suspect you guess why you are here?”

“You would like a complete report of the events at Jhaampe?” I guessed. I glanced about for the servant, saw Wallace hovering near. Cheffers would have departed to allow Shrewd and me to talk freely. I wondered how plainly I dared speak before this new man.

But Shrewd waved it aside. “It is done, boy,” he said heavily. “Verity and I have consulted. Now we let it go. I do not think there is much you could tell me that I do not know, or guess already. Verity and I have spoken at length. I . . . regret . . . some things. But. Here we are, and here is always the place we must start from. Eh?”

Words swelled in my throat, nearly choking me. Regal, I wanted to say to him. Your son who tried to kill me, your bastard grandson. Did you speak at length with him, also? And was it before or after you put me into his power? But, as clearly as if Chade or Verity had spoken to me, I knew suddenly I had no right to question my King. Not even to ask if he had given my life over to his youngest son. I clenched my jaws and held my words unuttered.

Shrewd met my eyes. His eyes flickered to Wallace. “Wallace. Take yourself to the kitchens for a bit. Or wherever you wish that is not here.” Wallace looked displeased, but he turned with a sniff and departed. He left the door ajar behind him. At a sign from Shrewd, I arose and shut it. I returned to my seat.

“FitzChivalry,” he said gravely. “This will not do.”

“Sir.” I met his eyes for a moment, then looked down.

He spoke heavily. “Sometimes, ambitious young men do foolish things. When they are shown the error of their ways, they apologize.” I looked up suddenly, wondering if he expected an apology from me. But he went on. “I have been tendered such an apology. I have accepted it. Now we go on. In this, trust me,” he said, and he spoke gently but it was not a request. “Least said is soonest mended.”

I leaned back in my chair. I took a breath, sighed it carefully out. In a moment I had mastered myself. I looked up at my King with an open face. “May I ask why you have called me, my King?”

“An unpleasantness,” he said distastefully. “Duke Brawndy of Bearns thinks I should resolve it. He fears what may follow if I do not. He does not think it . . . political to take direct action himself. So I have granted the request, but grudgingly. Have not we enough to face with the Raiders at our doorstep, without internal strife? Still. They have the right to ask it of me, and I the duty to oblige any who asks. Once more you will bear the King’s justice, Fitz.”

He told me concisely of the situation in Bearns. A young woman from Sealbay had come to Ripplekeep to offer herself to Brawndy as a warrior. He had been pleased to accept her, for she was both well muscled and adept, skilled at staves, bows, and blades. She was beautiful as well as strong, small and dark and sleek as a sea otter. She had been a welcome addition to his guard, and soon was a popular figure in his court as well. She had, not charm, but that courage and strength of will that draws others to follow. Brawndy himself had grown fond of her. She enlivened his court and instilled new spirit in his guard.

But lately she had begun to fancy herself a prophetess and soothsayer. She claimed to have been chosen by El the sea god for a higher destiny. Her name had been Madja, her parentage unremarkable, but now she had renamed herself, in a ceremony of fire, wind, and water, and called herself Virago. She ate only meat she had taken herself, and kept in her rooms nothing that she had not either made herself or won by show of arms. Her following was swelling, and included some of the younger nobles as well as many of the soldiers under her command. To all she preached the need to return to El’s worship and honor. She espoused the old ways, advocating a rigorous, simple life that glorified what a person could win by her own strength.

She saw the Raiders and Forging as El’s punishment for our soft ways, and blamed the Farseer line for encouraging that softness. At first she had spoken circumspectly of such things. Of late, she had become more open, but never so bold as to voice outright treason. Still, there had been bullock sacrifices on the sea cliffs, and she had blood-painted a number of young folk and sent them out on spirit quests as in the very old days. Brawndy had heard rumors that she sought a man worthy of herself, who would join her to throw down the Farseer throne. They would rule together, to begin the time of the Fighter and put an end to the days of the Farmer. According to Bearns, quite a number of young men were ready to vie for that honor. Brawndy wished her stopped, before he himself had to accuse her of treason, and force his men to choose between Virago and himself. Shrewd offered the opinion that her following would probably drop off drastically, were she to be bested at arms, or have a severe accident or become victim to a wasting illness that depleted her strength and beauty. I was forced to agree that was probably so, but observed that there were many cases where folks who died became like gods afterward. Shrewd said certainly, if the person died honorably.