‘I knew that,’ I muttered.

  ‘Yet I did not dis­agree with Burrich’s ac­tions. Only my word to my king kept me from con­tact­ing you.’ He paused cau­tiously. ‘It has been a dif­fi­cult time, I know. I wish I could have helped you. And you should not feel too badly that you—’

  ‘Failed.’ I filled in the word while he searched for a gentler one. I sighed, and sud­denly ad­mit­ted my pain. ‘Let’s leave it, Chade. I can’t change it.’

  ‘I know.’ Then, even more care­fully, ‘But per­haps we can use what you learned of the Skill. If you can help me un­der­stand it, per­haps I can de­vise bet­ter ways to spare Ver­ity. For so many years, the know­ledge has been kept too secret … there is scarcely a men­tion of it in the old scrolls, save to say that such and such a battle was turned by the King’s Skill upon his sol­diers, or such and such an en­emy was con­foun­ded by the King’s Skill. Yet there is noth­ing of how it is done, or …’

  Des­pair closed its grip on me again. ‘Leave it. It is not for bas­tards to know. I think I’ve proved that.’

  A si­lence fell between us. At last Chade sighed heav­ily. ‘Well. That’s as may be. I’ve been look­ing into For­ging as well, over these last few months. But all I’ve learned of it is what it is not, and what does not work to change it. The only cure I’ve found for it is the old­est one known to work on any­thing.’

  I rolled and fastened the scroll I had been look­ing at, feel­ing I knew what was com­ing. I was not mis­taken.

  ‘The King has charged me with an as­sign­ment for you.’

  That sum­mer, over three months, I killed sev­en­teen times for the King. Had I not already killed, out of my own vo­li­tion and de­fence, it might have been harder.

  The as­sign­ments might have seemed simple. Me, a horse, and pan­niers of poisoned bread. I rode roads where trav­el­lers had re­por­ted be­ing at­tacked, and when the Forged ones at­tacked me, I fled, leav­ing a trail of spilled loaves. Per­haps if I had been an or­din­ary man-at-arms, I would have been less frightened. But all my life I had been ac­cus­tomed to re­ly­ing on my Wit to let me know when oth­ers were about. To me, it was tan­tamount to hav­ing to work without us­ing my eyes. And I swiftly found out that not all Forged ones had been cob­blers and weavers. The second little clan of them that I poisoned had sev­eral sol­diers among them. I was for­tu­nate that most of them were squab­bling over loaves when I was dragged from my horse. I took a deep cut from a knife, and to this day I bear the scar on my left shoulder. They were strong and com­pet­ent, and seemed to fight as a unit, per­haps be­cause that was how they had been drilled, back when they were fully hu­man. I would have died, ex­cept that I cried out to them that it was fool­ish to struggle with me while the oth­ers were eat­ing all the bread. They dropped me, I struggled to my horse, and es­caped.

  The pois­ons were no crueller than they had to be, but to be ef­fect­ive even in the smal­lest dosage, we had to use harsh ones. The Forged ones did not die gently, but it was as swift a death as Chade could con­coct. They snatched their deaths from me eagerly, and I did not have to wit­ness their froth­ing con­vul­sions, or even see their bod­ies by the road. When news of the fallen Forged ones reached Buck­keep, Chade’s tale that they had prob­ably died from eat­ing spoiled fish from spawn­ing streams had already spread as a ubi­quit­ous ru­mour. Re­l­at­ives col­lec­ted the bod­ies and gave them proper burial. I told my­self that they were prob­ably re­lieved, and that the Forged ones had met a quicker end than if they had starved to death over winter. And so I be­came ac­cus­tomed to killing, and had nearly a score of deaths to my credit be­fore I had to meet the eyes of a man, and then kill him.

  That one, too, was not so dif­fi­cult as it might have been. He was a minor lord­ling, hold­ing lands out­side Tur­lake. A story reached Buck­keep that he had, in a tem­per, struck the child of a ser­vant, and left the girl a witling. That was suf­fi­cient to raise King Shrewd’s lip. But the lord­ling had paid the full blood-debt, and by ac­cept­ing it the ser­vant had given up any form of the King’s justice. But some months later there came to court a cousin of the girl’s, and she pe­ti­tioned for private audi­ence with Shrewd.

  I was sent to con­firm her tale, and saw how the girl was kept like a dog at the foot of the lord­ling’s chair, and more, how her belly had be­gun to swell with child. And so it was not too dif­fi­cult, as he offered me wine in fine crys­tal and begged the latest news of the King’s Court at Buck­keep, for me to find a time to lift his glass to the light and praise the qual­ity of both ves­sel and wine. I left some days later, my er­rand com­pleted, with the samples of pa­per I had prom­ised Fed­wren, and the con­veyed wishes of the lord­ling for a good trip home. The lord­ling was in­dis­posed that day. He died, in blood and mad­ness and froth, a month or so later. The cousin took in both girl and child. To this day, I have no re­grets, for the deed or for the choice of slow death for him.

  And when I was not deal­ing death to Forged ones, I waited on my lord Prince Ver­ity. I re­mem­ber the first time I climbed all those stairs to his tower, bal­an­cing a tray as I went. I had ex­pec­ted a guard or sen­try at the top. There was none. I tapped at the door, and re­ceiv­ing no an­swer, entered quietly. Ver­ity was sit­ting in a chair by a win­dow. A sum­mer wind off the ocean blew into the room. It could have been a pleas­ant cham­ber, full of light and air on a stuffy sum­mer day. In­stead it seemed to me a cell. There was the chair by the win­dow, and a small table next to it. In the corners and around the edges of the room the floor was dusty and littered with bits of old strew­ing-reeds. And Ver­ity, chin slumped to his chest as if doz­ing, ex­cept that to my senses the room thrummed with his ef­fort. His hair was un­kempt, his chin be­whiskered with a day’s growth. His cloth­ing hung on him.

  I pushed the door shut with my foot and took the tray to the table. I set it down and stood be­side it, quietly wait­ing. And in a few minutes he came back from wherever he had been. He looked up at me with a ghost of his old smile, and then down at his tray. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Break­fast, sir. Every­one else ate hours ago, save your­self.’

  ‘I ate, boy. Early this morn­ing. Some aw­ful fish soup. The cooks should be hung for that. No one should face fish first thing in the morn­ing.’ He seemed un­cer­tain, like some dod­der­ing gaf­fer try­ing to re­call the days of his youth.

  ‘That was yes­ter­day, sir.’ I un­covered the plates. Warm bread swirled with honey and rais­ins, cold meats, a dish of straw­ber­ries and a small pot of cream for them. All were small por­tions, al­most a child’s serving. I poured the steam­ing tea into a wait­ing mug. It was fla­voured heav­ily with ginger and pep­per­mint, to cover the ground elf­bark’s tang.

  Ver­ity glanced at it, and then up to me. ‘Chade never re­lents, does he?’ Spoken so cas­u­ally, as if Chade’s name were men­tioned every­day about the keep.

  ‘You need to eat, if you are to con­tinue,’ I said neut­rally.

  ‘I sup­pose so,’ he said wear­ily, and turned to the tray as if the art­fully-ar­ranged food were yet an­other duty to at­tend to. He ate with no rel­ish for the food, and drank the tea in a man­ful draught, as a medi­cine, un­de­ceived by ginger or mint. Halfway through the meal he paused with a sigh, and gazed out of the win­dow for a bit. Then, seem­ing to come back again, he forced him­self to con­sume each item com­pletely. He pushed the tray aside, and leaned back in the chair as if ex­hausted. I stared. I had pre­pared the tea my­self. That much elf­bark would have had Sooty leap­ing over the stall walls.

  ‘My prince?’ I said, and when he did not stir, I touched his shoulder lightly. ‘Ver­ity? Are you all right?’

  ‘Ver­ity,’ he re­peated as in a daze. ‘Yes. And I prefer that to “sir” or “my prince” or “my lord”. This is my father’s gam­bit, to send you. Well. I may sur­prise him yet. But, yes, call me Ver­ity. And tell them I ate. Obed­i­ent as ever, I ate. Go on, now, boy. I have work to do.’

  He seemed to rouse him­self with an ef­fort, and once more his gaze went afar. I stacked the dishes as quietly as I could onto the tray and headed to­ward the door. But as I lif­ted the latch, he spoke again.

  ‘Boy?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Ah-ah!’ he warned me.

  ‘Ver­ity?’

  ‘Leon is in my rooms, boy. Take him out for me, will you? He pines. There is no sense in the both of us shriv­el­ling like this.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Ver­ity.’

  And so the old hound, past his prime now, came to be in my care. Each day I took him from Ver­ity’s room, and we hunted the back hills and cliffs and the beaches for wolves that had not run there in a score of years. As Chade had sus­pec­ted, I was badly out of con­di­tion, and at first it was all I could do to keep up even with the old hound. But as the days went by, we re­gained our tone, and Leon even caught a rab­bit or two for me. Now that I was ex­iled from Burrich’s do­main, I did not scruple to use the Wit whenever I wished. But as I had dis­covered long ago, I could com­mu­nic­ate with Leon, but there was no bond. He did not al­ways heed me, nor even be­lieve me all the time. Had he been but a pup, I am sure we could have bon­ded to one an­other. But he was old, and his heart given forever to Ver­ity. The Wit was not domin­ion over beasts, but only a glimpse into their lives.

  And thrice a day I climbed the steeply wind­ing steps, to coax Ver­ity to eat, and to a few words of con­ver­sa­tion. Some days it was like speak­ing to a child or a dod­der­ing old­ster. On oth­ers, he asked after Leon, and quizzed me about mat­ters down in Buck­keep Town. Some­times I was ab­sent for days on my other as­sign­ments. Usu­ally, he seemed not to have no­ticed, but once, after the foray in which I took my knife wound, he watched me awk­wardly load his empty dishes onto the tray. ‘How they must laugh in their beards, if they knew we slay our own.’

  I froze, won­der­ing what an­swer to make to that, for as far as I knew, my tasks were known only to Shrewd and Chade. But Ver­ity’s eyes had gone afar again, and I left si­lently.

  Without in­tend­ing to, I began to make changes around him. One day, while he was eat­ing, I swept the room, and later that even­ing brought up a sack­ful of strew­ing-reeds and herbs. I had wor­ried that I might be a dis­trac­tion to him, but Chade had taught me to move quietly. I worked without speak­ing, and Ver­ity ac­know­ledged neither my com­ing nor go­ing. But the room was freshened, and the ververia blos­soms mixed in with the strew­ing herbs were an en­liven­ing herb. Com­ing in once, I dis­covered him doz­ing in his hard-backed chair. I brought up cush­ions, which he ig­nored for sev­eral days, and then one day had ar­ranged to his lik­ing. The room re­mained bare, but I sensed he needed it so, to pre­serve his single-minded­ness. So what I brought him were the barest items of com­fort, no tapestries or wall hangings, no vases of flowers or tink­ling wind chimes, but flower­ing thymes in pots to ease the head­aches that plagued him, and on one stormy day, a blanket against the rain and chill from the open win­dow.

  On that day I found him sleep­ing in his chair, limp as a dead thing. I tucked the blanket around him as if he were an in­valid, and set the tray be­fore him, but left it covered, to keep the good heat in the food. I sat down on the floor next to his chair, propped against one of his dis­carded cush­ions, and listened to the si­lence of the room. It seemed al­most peace­ful today, des­pite the driv­ing sum­mer rain out­side the open win­dow, and the gale wind that gus­ted in from time to time. I must have dozed, for I woke to his hand on my hair.

  ‘Do they tell you to watch over me so, boy, even when I sleep? What do they fear, then?’

  ‘Naught that I know, Ver­ity. They tell me only to bring you food, and see as best I can that you eat it. No more than that.’

  ‘And blankets and cush­ions, and pots of sweet flowers?’

  ‘My own do­ing, my prince. No man should live in such a desert as this.’ And in that mo­ment, I real­ized we were not speak­ing aloud, and sat bolt up­right and looked at him.

  Ver­ity, too, seemed to come to him­self. He shif­ted in his com­fort­less chair. ‘I bless this storm, that lets me rest. I hid it from three of their ships, per­suad­ing those who looked to the sky that it was no more than a sum­mer squall. Now they ply their oars and peer through the rain, try­ing to keep their courses. And I can snatch a few mo­ments of hon­est sleep.’ He paused. ‘I ask your par­don, boy. Some­times, now, the Skilling seems more nat­ural than speak­ing. I did not mean to in­trude on you.’

  ‘No mat­ter, my prince. I was but startled. I can­not Skill my­self, ex­cept weakly and er­rat­ic­ally. I do not know how I opened to you.’

  ‘Ver­ity, boy, not your prince. No one’s prince sits still in a sweaty shirt, with two days of beard. But what is this non­sense? Surely it was ar­ranged for you to learn the Skill? I re­mem­ber well how Pa­tience’s tongue battered away my father’s re­solve.’ He per­mit­ted him­self a weary smile.

  ‘Ga­len tried to teach me, but I had not the aptitude. With bas­tards, I am told it is of­ten …’

  ‘Wait,’ he growled, and in an in­stant was within my mind. ‘This is faster,’ he offered, by way of apo­logy, and then, mut­ter­ing to him­self, ‘What is this, that clouds you so? Ah!’ and was gone again from my mind, and all as deft and easy as Burrich tak­ing a tick off a hound’s ear. He sat long, quiet, and so did I, won­der­ing.

  ‘I am strong in it, as was your father. Ga­len is not.’

  ‘Then how did he be­come Skill­mas­ter?’ I asked quietly. I wondered if Ver­ity were say­ing this only to some­how make me feel my fail­ure less.

  Ver­ity paused as if skirt­ing a del­ic­ate sub­ject. ‘Ga­len was Queen De­sire’s … pet. A fa­vour­ite. The Queen em­phat­ic­ally sug­ges­ted Ga­len as ap­pren­tice to So­li­city. Of­ten I think our old Skill­mas­ter was des­per­ate when she took him as ap­pren­tice. So­li­city knew she was dy­ing, you see. I be­lieve she ac­ted in haste, and to­wards the end, re­gret­ted her de­cision. And I do not think he had half the train­ing he should have had be­fore be­com­ing “mas­ter”. But there he is; he is what we have.’

  Ver­ity cleared his throat and looked un­com­fort­able. ‘I will speak as plainly as I can, boy, for I see that you know how to hold your tongue when it is wise. Ga­len was given that place as a plum, not be­cause he mer­ited it. I do not think he has ever fully grasped what it means to be the Skill­mas­ter. Oh, he knows the po­s­i­tion car­ries power, and he has not scrupled to wield it. But So­li­city was more than someone who swaggered about se­cure in a high po­s­i­tion. So­li­city was ad­visor to Bounty, and a link between the King and all who Skilled for him. She made it her busi­ness to seek out and teach as many as mani­fes­ted real tal­ent and the judge­ment to use it well. This co­terie is the first group Ga­len has trained since Chiv­alry and I were boys. And I do not find them well-taught. No, they are trained, as mon­keys and par­rots are taught to mimic men, with no un­der­stand­ing of what they do. But they are what I have.’ Ver­ity looked out of the win­dow and spoke softly. ‘Ga­len has no fin­esse. He is as coarse as his mother was, and just as pre­sump­tu­ous.’ Ver­ity paused sud­denly, and his cheeks flushed as if he had said some­thing ill-con­sidered. He re­sumed more quietly. ‘The Skill is like lan­guage, boy. I need not shout at you to let you know what I want. I can ask po­litely, or hint, or let you know my wish with a nod and a smile. I can Skill a man, and leave him think­ing it was all his own idea to please me. But all that eludes Ga­len, both in the use of the Skill and the teach­ing of it. Priva­tion and pain are one way to lower a man’s de­fences; it is the only way Ga­len be­lieves in. But So­li­city used guile. She would have me watch a kite, or a bit of dust float­ing in a sun­beam, fo­cus­ing on it as if there were noth­ing else in the world. And sud­denly, there she would be, in­side my mind with me, smil­ing and prais­ing me. She taught me that be­ing open was simply not be­ing closed. And go­ing into an­other’s mind is mostly done by be­ing will­ing to go out­side of your own. Do you see, boy?’

  ‘Some­what,’ I hedged.

  ‘Some­what,’ he sighed. ‘I could teach you to Skill, had I but the time. I do not. But tell me this: were your les­sons go­ing well, be­fore he tested you?’

  ‘No. I never had any aptitude … wait! That’s not true! What am I say­ing, what have I been think­ing?’ Though I was sit­ting, I swayed sud­denly, my head bound­ing off the arm of Ver­ity’s chair. He reached out a hand and stead­ied me.

  ‘I was too swift, I sup­pose. Steady now, boy. Someone had mis­ted you. Be­fuddled you, much as I do Red Ship nav­ig­at­ors and steers­men. Con­vince them they’ve taken a sight­ing already and their course is true when really they are steer­ing into a cross-cur­rent. Con­vince them they’ve passed a point they haven’t sighted yet. Someone con­vinced you that you could not Skill.’

  ‘Ga­len.’ I spoke with cer­tainty. I al­most knew the mo­ment. He had slammed into me that af­ter­noon, and from that time, noth­ing had been the same. I had been liv­ing in a fog, all those months …

  ‘Prob­ably. Though if you Skilled into him at all, I’m sure you’ve seen what Chiv­alry did to him. He hated your father with a pas­sion, prior to Chiv turn­ing him into a lap­dog. We felt badly about it. We’d have un­done it, if we could have worked out how to do it, and es­cape So­li­city’s de­tec­tion. But Chiv was strong with the Skill, and we were all but boys then, and Chiv was angry when he did it. Over some­thing Ga­len had done to me, iron­ic­ally. Even when Chiv­alry was not angry, be­ing Skilled by him was like be­ing trampled by a horse. Or ducked in a fast-flow­ing river, more like. He’d get in a hurry, barge into you, dump his in­form­a­tion and flee.’ He paused again, and reached to un­cover a dish of soup on his tray. ‘I sup­pose I’ve al­ways as­sumed you knew all this. Though I’m damned if there’s any way you could have. Who would have told you?’