Assassins Apprentice, Page 32

  Men scrabbled hastily from the ship. Everything about them bespoke familiarity. I could not fathom why they had put in here until I saw them unloading empty water casks. The casks were sent hollowly rolling down the causeway, and I remembered the well I had passed. The part of my mind that belonged to Chade noted how well they knew Forge, to put in almost exactly opposite that well. This was not the first time this ship had stopped here for water. “Poison the well before you leave,” he suggested. But I had no supplies for anything like that, and no courage to do anything except remain hidden.

  Others had emerged from the ship and were stretching their legs. I overheard an argument between a woman and a man. He wished permission to light a fire with some of the driftwood, to roast some meat. She forbade it, saying they had not come far enough, and that a fire would be too visible. So they had raided recently, to have fresh meat, and not too far from here. She gave permission for something else that I did not quite understand, until I saw them unload two full kegs. Another man came ashore with a whole ham on his shoulder, which he dropped with a meaty slap onto one of the upright kegs. He drew a knife and began to carve off chunks of it while another man broached the other keg. They would not be leaving anytime soon. And if they did light a fire, or stay until dawn, my log’s shadow would be no hiding place at all. I had to get out of there.

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  Through nests of sandfleas and squiggling piles of seaweed, under and between logs and stones, I dragged my belly through sand and pebbled gravel. I swear that every root snag caught at me, and every shifted slab of stone blocked my way. The tide had changed. The waves broke noisily against the rocks, and the flying spray rode the wind. I was soon soaked. I tried to time my movement with the sound of the breaking waves, to hide my small sounds in theirs. The rocks were toothed with barnacles, and sand packed the gouges they made in my hands and knees. My staff became an incredible burden, but I would not abandon my only weapon. Long after I could no longer see or hear the raiders, I dared not stand, but crept and huddled still from stone to log. At last I ventured up onto the road and crawled across it. Once in the shadow of a sagging warehouse, I stood, hugging the wall, and peered about me.

  All was silent. I dared to step out two steps onto the road, but even there, I could see nothing of the ship or the sentries. Perhaps that meant they could not see me either. I took a calming breath. I quested after Smithy the way some men pat their pouches to be sure their coin is safe. I found him, but faint and quiet, his mind like a still pool. “I’m coming,” I breathed, fearful of stirring him to any effort. And I set forth again.

  The wind was relentless, and my salt-wet clothing clung and chafed. I was hungry, cold, and tired. My wet shoes were a misery. But I had no thought of stopping. I trotted like a wolf, my eyes continually shifting, my ears keen for any sound behind me. One moment the road was empty and black before me. In the next the darkness had turned to men. Two before me, and when I spun about, another behind me. The slapping waves had covered the sound of their feet, and the dodging moon offered me but glimpses of them as they closed the distance around me. I set my back to the solid wall of a warehouse, readied my staff, and waited.

  I watched them come, silent and skulking. I wondered at that, for why did they not raise a shout, why did not the whole crew come to watch me taken? But these men watched one another as much as they watched me. They did not hunt as a pack, but each hoped the others would die killing me and leave the bounty for the picking. Forged ones, not raiders.

  A terrible coldness welled up in me. The least sound of a scuffle would bring the Raiders, I was sure. So if the Forged ones did not finish me, the Raiders would. But when all roads lead to death, there is no point to running down any of them. I would take things as they came. There were three of them. One had a knife. But I had a staff and was trained to use it. They were thin, ragged, and at least as hungry as I, and as cold. One, I think, was the woman from the night before. As they closed on me, so silently, I guessed they were aware of the Raiders and feared them as much as I did. It was not good to consider the desperation that would prompt them to still attack me. But in the next breath, I wondered if Forged ones felt desperation or anything else. Perhaps they were too dulled to realize the danger.

  All of the stealthy arcane knowledge Chade had given me, all of Hod’s brutally elegant strategies for fighting two or more opponents went to the wind. For as the first two stepped into my range, I felt the tiny warmth that was Smithy ebbing in my grasp. “Smithy!” I whispered, a desperate plea that he somehow stay with me. I all but saw a tail tip stir in a last effort at a wag. Then the thread snapped and the spark blinked out. I was alone.

  A black flood of strength surged through me like a madness. I stepped out, thrust the end of my staff deep into a man’s face, drew it quickly back, and continued a swing that went through the woman’s lower jaw. Plain wood sheared the lower half of her face away, so forceful was my blow. I whacked her again as she fell, and it was like hitting a netted shark with a fish bat. The third drove into me solidly, thinking, I suppose, to be inside my staff’s range. I didn’t care. I dropped my stick and grappled with him. He was bony and he stank. I drove him onto his back, and his expelled breath in my face stank of carrion. Fingers and teeth I tore at him, as far from human as he was. They had kept me from Smithy as he was dying. I did not care what I did to him so long as it hurt him. He reciprocated. I dragged his face along the cobbles, I pushed my thumb into an eye. He sank his teeth into my wrist and clawed my cheek bloody. And when at last he ceased to fight against my strangling grip, I dragged him to the seawall and threw his body down onto the rocks.

  I stood panting, my fists still clenched. I glared toward the Raiders, daring them to come, but the night was still, save for the waves and wind and the soft gargling of the woman as she died. Either the Raiders had not heard, or they were too concerned with their own stealth to investigate sounds in the night. I waited in the wind for someone to care enough to come and kill me. Nothing stirred. An emptiness washed through me, supplanting my madness. So much death in one night, and so little significance, save to me.

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  I left the other broken bodies atop the crumbling seawall for the waves and the gulls to dispose of. I walked away from them. I had felt nothing from them when I killed them. No fear, no anger, no pain, not even despair. They had been things. And as I began my long walk back to Buckkeep, I finally felt nothing from within myself. Perhaps, I thought, Forging is a contagion and I have caught it now. I could not bring myself to care.

  Little of that journey stands out in my mind now. I walked all the way, cold, tired, and hungry. I encountered no more Forged ones, and the few other travelers I saw on that stretch of road were no more anxious than I to speak to a stranger. I thought only of getting back to Buckkeep. And Burrich. I reached Buckkeep two days into the Springfest celebration. The guards at the gate tried to stop me at first. I looked at them.

  “It’s the Fitz,” one gasped. “It was said you were dead. ”

  “Shut up,” barked the other. He was Gage, long known to me, and he said quickly, “Burrich’s been hurt. He’s up to the infirmary, boy. ”

  I nodded and walked past them.

  In all my years at Buckkeep, I had never been to the infirmary. Burrich and no one else had always treated my childhood illnesses and mishaps. But I knew where it was. I walked unseeing through the knots and gatherings of merrymakers, and suddenly felt as if I were six years old and come to Buckkeep for the very first time. I had hung on to Burrich’s belt. All that long way from Moonseye, with his leg torn and bandaged. But not once had he put me on another’s horse, or entrusted my care to another. I pushed myself through the people with their bells and flowers and sweet cakes to reach the inner keep. Behind the barracks was a separate building of whitewashed stone. There was no one there, and I walked unchallenged through the antechamber and into the room beyond.
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  There were clean strewing herbs on the floor, and the wide windows let in a flood of spring air and light, but the room still gave me a sense of confinement and illness. This was not a good place for Burrich to be. All the beds were empty, save one. No soldier kept to bed on Springfest days, save that they had to. Burrich lay, eyes closed, in a splash of sunlight on a narrow cot. I had never seen him so still. He had pushed his blankets aside and his chest was swathed in bandages. I went forward quietly and sat down on the floor beside his bed. He was very still, but I could feel him, and the bandages moved with his slow breathing. I took his hand.

  “Fitz,” he said, without opening his eyes. He gripped my hand hard.

  “Yes. ”

  “You’re back. You’re alive. ”

  “I am. I came straight here, as fast as I could. Oh, Burrich, I feared you were dead. ”

  “I thought you were dead. The others all came back days ago. ” He took a ragged breath. “Of course, the bastard left horses with all the others. ”

  “No,” I reminded him, not letting go of his hand. “I’m the bastard, remember?”

  “Sorry. ” He opened his eyes. The white of his left eye was mazed with blood. He tried to smile at me. I could see then that the swelling on the left side of his face was still subsiding. “So. We look a fine pair. You should poultice that cheek. It’s festering. Looks like an animal scratch. ”

  “Forged ones,” I began, and could not bear to explain more. I only said, softly, “He set me down north of Forge, Burrich. ”

  Anger spasmed his face. “He wouldn’t tell me. Nor anyone else. I even sent a man to Verity, to ask my prince to make him say what he had done with you. I got no answer back. I should kill him. ”

  “Let it go,” I said, and meant it. “I’m back and alive. I failed his test, but it didn’t kill me. And as you told me, there are other things in my life. ”

  Burrich shifted slightly in his bed. I could tell it didn’t ease him. “Well. He’ll be disappointed over that. ” He let out a shuddering breath. “I got jumped. Someone with a knife. I don’t know who. ”

  “How bad?”

  “Not good, at my age. A young buck like you would probably just give a shake and go on. Still, he only got the blade into me once. But I fell, and struck my head. I was fair senseless for two days. And, Fitz. Your dog. A stupid, senseless thing, but he killed your dog. ”

  “I know. ”

  “He died quickly,” Burrich said, as if to be a comfort.

  I stiffened at the lie. “He died well,” I corrected him. “And if he hadn’t, you’d have had that knife in you more than once. ”

  Burrich grew very still. “You were there, weren’t you,” he said at last. It was not a question, and there was no mistaking his meaning.

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  “Yes,” I heard myself saying, simply.

  “You were there, with the dog that night, instead of trying for the Skill?” His voice rose in outrage.

  “Burrich, it wasn’t like . . . ”

  He pulled his hand free of mine and turned as far away from me as he could. “Leave me. ”

  “Burrich, it wasn’t Smithy. I just don’t have the Skill. So let me have what I do have, let me be what I am. I don’t use this in a bad way. Even without it, I’m good with animals. You’ve forced me to be. If I use it, I can—”

  “Stay out of my stables. And stay away from me. ” He rolled back to face me, and to my amazement, a single tear tracked his dark cheek. “You failed? No, Fitz. I failed. I was too softhearted to beat it out of you at the first sign of it. “Raise him well,’ Chivalry said to me. His last command to me. And I failed him. And you. If you hadn’t meddled with the Wit, Fitz, you’d have been able to learn the Skill. Galen would have been able to teach you. No wonder he sent you to Forge. ” He paused. “Bastard or no, you could have been a fit son to Chivalry. But you threw it all away. For what? A dog. I know what a dog can be to a man, but you don’t throw your life over for a—”

  “Not just a dog,” I cut in almost harshly. “Smithy. My friend. And it wasn’t only him. I gave up the wait and came back for you. Thinking you might need me. Smithy died days ago. I knew that. But I came back for you, thinking you might need me. ”

  He was silent so long I thought he wasn’t going to speak to me. “You needn’t have,” he said quietly. “I take care of myself. ” And harsher: “You know that. I always have. ”

  “And me,” I admitted to him. “And you’ve always taken care of me. ”

  “And small damn good that did either of us,” he said slowly. “Look what I’ve let you become. Now you’re just . . . Go away. Just go away. ” He turned away from me again, and I felt something go out of the man.

  I stood slowly. “I’ll make you a wash from Helenaleaves for your eye. I’ll bring it this afternoon. ”

  “Bring me nothing. Do me no favors. Go your own way, and be whatever you will. I’m done with you. ” He spoke to the wall. In his voice was no mercy for either of us.

  I glanced back as I left the infirmary. Burrich had not moved, but even his back looked older, and smaller.

  That was my return to Buckkeep. I was a different creature from the naif who had left. Little fanfare was made over my not being dead as supposed. I made no opportunity for anyone to do so. From Burrich’s bed, I went straight to my room. I washed and changed my garments. I slept, but not well. For the rest of Springfest, I ate at night, alone in the kitchens. I penned one note to King Shrewd, suggesting that Raiders might regularly be using the wells at Forge. He made no reply to me about it, and I was glad of it. I sought no contact with anyone.

  With much pomp and ceremony, Galen presented his finished coterie to the King. One other besides myself had failed to return. It shames me now that I cannot recall his name, and if I ever knew what became of him, I have forgotten it. Like Galen, I suppose I dismissed him as insignificant.

  Galen spoke to me only once the rest of that summer, and that was indirectly. We passed one another in the courtyard, not long after Springfest. He was walking and talking with Regal. As they passed me he looked at me over Regal’s head and said sneeringly, “More lives than a cat. ”

  I stopped and stared at them until both were forced to look at me. I made Galen meet my eyes; then I smiled and nodded. I never confronted Galen about his attempt to send me to my death. He never appeared to see me after that; his eyes would slide past me, or he would exit a room when I entered it.

  It seemed to me that I had lost everything when I lost Smithy. Or perhaps in my bitterness I set out to destroy what little was left to me. I sulked about the keep for weeks, cleverly insulting anyone foolish enough to speak to me. The Fool avoided me. Chade didn’t summon me. I saw Patience thrice. The first two times I went to answer her summons, I made only the barest efforts to be civil. The third time, bored by her chatter about rose cuttings, I simply stood up and left. She did not summon me again.

  But there came a time when I felt I had to reach out to someone. Smithy had left a great gap in my life. And I had not expected that my exile from the stables would be as devastating as it was. Chance encounters with Burrich were incredibly awkward as we both learned painfully to pretend not to see each other.

  I wanted, achingly, to go to Molly, to tell her everything that had befallen me, all that had happened to me since I first came to Buckkeep. I imagined in detail how we could sit on the beach while I talked, and that when I was done, she would not judge me or try to offer advice, but would just take my hand and be still beside me. Finally someone would know everything, and I would not have to hide anything from her anymore. And she wouldn’t turn away. I dared imagine no more beyond that. I longed desperately, and feared with the fear known only to a boy whose love is two years older than he is. If I took her all my woes, would she think me a hapless child and pity me? Would she hate me for all that I had never told her before? A dozen times that thought turned my feet
away from Buckkeep Town.

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  But some two months later, when I did venture into town, my traitorous feet took me to the chandlery. I happened to have a basket with me, and a bottle of cherry wine in it, and four or five brambly little yellow roses, obtained at great loss of skin from the Women’s Garden, where their fragrance overpowered even the thyme beds. I told myself I had no plan. I did not have to tell her everything about myself. I did not even have to see her. I could decide as I went along. But in the end all decisions had already been made, and they had nothing to do with me.

  I arrived just in time to see Molly leaving on Jade’s arm. Their heads were close together, and she leaned on his arm as they spoke in soft voices. Outside the door of the chandlery, he stooped to look into her face. She lifted her eyes to his. When the man reached a hesitant hand to gently touch her cheek, Molly was suddenly a woman, one I did not know. The two-year age difference between us was a vast gulf I could never hope to bridge. I stepped around the corner before she could see me and turned aside, my face down. They passed me as if I were a tree or a stone. Her head leaned on his shoulder, and they walked slowly. It took forever for them to be out of sight.

  That night I got drunker than I had ever been, and awoke the next day in some bushes halfway up the keep road.

  18

  Assassinations

  CHADE FALLSTAR, A PERSONAL adviser to King Shrewd, made an extensive study of Forging during the period just preceding the Red-Ship wars. From his tablets, we have the following. “Netta, the daughter of the fisherman Gill and the farmer Ryda, was taken alive from her village Goodwater on the seventeenth day after Springfest. She was Forged by the Red-Ship Raiders and returned to her village three days later. Her father was killed in the same raid, and her mother, having five younger children, was little able to deal with Netta. She was, at the time of her Forging, fourteen summers old. She came into my possession some six months after her Forging.