But a greater sur­prise was in store for me that af­ter­noon. Food had been set out on long tables, and all, palace res­id­ents and vis­it­ors, dined freely. Much had come from the kit­chens of the palace, but much more from the moun­tain folk them­selves. They came for­ward, without hes­it­a­tion, to set out wheels of cheese, loaves of dark bread, dried or smoked meats, or pickles and bowls of fruit. It would have been tempt­ing, had not my stom­ach still been so touchy. But the way the food was given was what im­pressed me. It was un­ques­tion­ing, this giv­ing and tak­ing between the roy­alty and their sub­jects. I noted, too, that there were no sentries or guards of any kind upon the doors. And all mingled and talked as they ate.

  At noon pre­cisely a si­lence fell over the crowd. The Prin­cess Kettricken alone as­cen­ded the cent­ral dais. In simple lan­guage, she an­nounced to all that she now be­longed to the Six Duch­ies and hoped to serve that land well. She thanked her land for all it had ever done for her, for the food it had grown to feed her, the wa­ters of its snows and rivers, the air of the moun­tain breezes. She re­minded all that she did not change her al­le­gi­ance due to any lack of love for her land, but rather in the hopes of it be­ne­fit­ing both the lands. All kept si­lent as she spoke, and as she des­cen­ded from the dais. And then the mer­ri­ment re­sumed.

  Rurisk came, seek­ing me out, to see how I did. I as­sured him I was fully re­covered, though in truth I longed to be sleep­ing. The cloth­ing Mis­tress Hasty had de­creed for me was of the latest court fash­ion and fea­tured highly in­con­veni­ent sleeves and tassles that fell into any­thing I tried to do or eat, and an un­com­fort­ably snug waist. I longed to be out of the press of people, where I could loosen some laces and get rid of the col­lar, but knew that if I left now, Chade would frown when I re­por­ted to him, and de­mand that I some­how know all that had happened while I was ab­sent. Rurisk, I think, sensed my need for a bit of quiet, for he sud­denly pro­posed a stroll out to his ken­nels. ‘Let me show you what the ad­di­tion of some Six Duch­ies blood a few years back did for my dogs,’ he offered.

  We left the palace, and walked down a short way to a long, low wooden build­ing. The clean air cleared my head and lif­ted my spir­its. In­side, he showed me a pen where a bitch presided over a lit­ter of red pups. They were healthy little creatures, glossy of coat, nip­ping and tum­bling about in the straw. They came read­ily, totally un­afraid of us. ‘These are of Buck­keep lin­eage, and will hold to a scent even in a down­pour,’ he told me proudly. He showed me other breeds as well, in­clud­ing a tiny dog with wiry legs, which, he claimed, would clam­ber right up a tree after game.

  We emerged from his ken­nels and out into the sun, where an older dog slept lazily on a pile of straw. ‘Sleep on, old man. You’ve fathered enough pups that you never need hunt again, ex­cept you love it so,’ Rurisk told him gen­i­ally. At his mas­ter’s voice, the old hound heaved him­self to his feet and came to lean af­fec­tion­ately on Rurisk. He looked up at me, and it was Nosy.

  I stared at him, and his cop­per ore eyes re­turned the look. I ques­ted softly to­ward him, and for a mo­ment re­ceived only puz­zle­ment. And then a flood of warmth, of af­fec­tion shared and re­membered. There was no doubt that he was Rurisk’s hound now; the in­tens­ity of the bond that had been between us was gone. But he offered me back great fond­ness and warm memor­ies of when we were pup­pies to­gether. I went down on one knee, and stroked the red coat gone all bristly with the years, and looked into the eyes that were be­gin­ning to show the cloud­ing of age. For an in­stant, with the phys­ical touch, the bond was as it had been. I knew he was en­joy­ing doz­ing in the sun, but could be per­suaded to go hunt­ing with very little trouble. Es­pe­cially if Rurisk came along. I pat­ted his back, and drew away from him. I looked up to find Rurisk re­gard­ing me strangely. ‘I knew him when he was just a puppy,’ I told him.

  ‘Burrich sent him to me, in care of a wan­der­ing scribe, many years ago,’ Rurisk told me. ‘He has brought me great pleas­ure, in com­pany and in hunt­ing.’

  ‘You have done well by him,’ I said. We left and strolled back to the palace, but as soon as Rurisk left my side, I went straight to Burrich. As I came up, he had just re­ceived per­mis­sion to take the horses out­side and into the open air, for even the calmest beast will grow rest­ive in close quar­ters with many strangers. I could see his di­lemma; while he was tak­ing horses out, he would be leav­ing the oth­ers un­ten­ded. He looked up war­ily as I ap­proached.

  ‘With your leave, I will help you move them,’ I offered.

  Burrich’s face re­mained im­pass­ive and po­lite. But be­fore he could open his mouth to speak, a voice be­hind me said, ‘I am here to do that, mas­ter. You might soil your sleeves, or overly weary your­self work­ing with beasts.’ I turned slowly, baffled by the venom in Cob’s voice. I glanced from him to Burrich, but Burrich did not speak. I looked squarely at Burrich.

  ‘Then I will walk along­side you, if I may, for I have some­thing im­port­ant we must speak of.’ My words were de­lib­er­ately formal. For a mo­ment longer Burrich gazed at me. ‘Bring the Prin­cess’s mare,’ he said at last, ‘and that bay filly. I will take the greys. Cob, mind the rest for me. I shan’t be long.’

  And so I took the mare’s head and the filly’s lead-rope, and fol­lowed Burrich as he edged the horses through the crowd and out of doors. ‘There is a pad­dock, this way,’ he said, and no more. We walked for a bit in si­lence. The crowd thinned rap­idly once we were away from the palace. The horses’ hooves thud­ded pleas­antly against the earth. We came to the pad­dock, which fron­ted on a small barn with a tack room. For a mo­ment or two, it al­most seemed nor­mal to be work­ing along­side Burrich again. I un­saddled the mare, and wiped the nervous sweat from her while he shook out grain into a grain box for them. He came to stand be­side me as I fin­ished with the mare. ‘She’s a beauty,’ I said ad­mir­ingly. ‘From Lord Ranger’s stock?’

  ‘Yes.’ His word cut off the con­ver­sa­tion. ‘You wished to speak to me.’

  I took a great breath, then said it simply. ‘I just saw Nosy. He’s fine. Older now, but he’s had a happy life. All these years, Burrich, I al­ways be­lieved you killed him that night. Dashed out his brains, cut his throat, strangled him – I ima­gined it a dozen dif­fer­ent ways, a thou­sand times. All those years.’

  He looked at me in­cred­u­lously. ‘You be­lieved I would kill a dog for some­thing you did?’

  ‘I only knew he was gone. I could ima­gine noth­ing else. I thought it was my pun­ish­ment.’

  For a long time he was still. When he looked back up at me, I could see his tor­ment. ‘How you must have hated me.’

  ‘And feared you.’

  ‘All those years? And you never learned bet­ter of me, never thought to your­self, “He would not do such a thing”?’

  I shook my head slowly.

  ‘Oh, Fitz,’ he said sadly. One of the horses came to nudge at him, and he pet­ted it ab­sently. ‘I thought you were stub­born and sul­len. You thought you had been griev­ously wronged. No won­der we have been so much at odds.’

  ‘It can be un­done,’ I offered quietly. ‘I have missed you, you know. Missed you sorely, des­pite all our dif­fer­ences.’

  I watched him think­ing, and for a mo­ment or two, I thought he would smile and clap me on the shoulder and tell me to go fetch the other horses. But his face grew still, and then stern. ‘But for all that, it did not stop you. You be­lieved I had it in me to kill any an­imal you used the Wit on. But it did not stop you from do­ing it.’

  ‘I don’t see it the way you do,’ I began, but he shook his head.

  ‘We are bet­ter par­ted, boy. Bet­ter for both of us. There can be no mis­un­der­stand­ings if there are no un­der­stand­ings at all. I can never ap­prove, or ig­nore, what you do. Never. Come to me when you can say you will do it no more. I will take your word on it, for you’ve never broken your word to me. But un­til then, we are bet­ter par­ted.’

  He left me stand­ing by the pad­dock and went back for his other horses. I stood a long time, feel­ing sick and weary, and not just from Kettricken’s poison. But I went back into the palace, walked about, spoke to people and ate, and even en­dured with si­lence the mock­ing, tri­umphant smiles Cob gave me.

  The day seemed longer than any two days in my pre­vi­ous ex­per­i­ence. Had not it been for my burn­ing and gurg­ling stom­ach, I would have found it ex­cit­ing and ab­sorb­ing. The af­ter­noon and early even­ing were given over to con­genial con­tests of arch­ery, wrest­ling and foot-races. Young and old, male and fe­male, joined in these con­tests, and there seemed to be some moun­tain tra­di­tion that who­ever won on such an aus­pi­cious oc­ca­sion would en­joy luck for a full turn of a year. Then there was more food, and singing, and dan­cing of dan­cers, and an en­ter­tain­ment, like a pup­pet show, but done all with shad­ows on a screen of silk. By the time folk began to re­tire, I was more than ready for my bed. It was a re­lief to close my cham­ber screen and be alone. I was just pulling off my an­noy­ing shirt, and re­flect­ing on what a strange day it had been when there was a tap at my door.

  Be­fore I could speak, Sevrens slid open the screen and slipped in. ‘Regal com­mands your pres­ence,’ he told me.

  ‘Now?’ I asked owl­ishly.

  ‘Why else would he send me now?’ Sevrens de­man­ded.

  Wear­ily I pulled my shirt back on and fol­lowed him out of the room. Regal’s cham­bers were in an up­per level of the palace, not really a second floor, but more like a wooden ter­race built to one side of the great hall. The walls were screens, and there was a sort of bal­cony where he might stand and look down be­fore des­cend­ing. These rooms were much more richly dec­or­ated. Some of the work was ob­vi­ously Chy­urda, bright birds brushed onto silk pan­els and fig­ur­ines carved of am­ber. But many of the tapestries and statues and hangings looked to me like things Regal had ac­quired for his own pleas­ure and com­fort. I stood wait­ing in his ante­cham­ber while he fin­ished his bath. By the time he ambled out in his night­shirt, it was all I could do to keep my eyes open.

  ‘Well?’ he de­man­ded of me.

  I looked at him blankly. ‘You summoned me,’ I re­minded him.

  ‘Yes. I did. I should like to know why it was ne­ces­sary. I thought you had re­ceived some sort of train­ing in this sort of thing. How long were you go­ing to wait be­fore you re­por­ted to me?’

  I could think of noth­ing to say. I had never re­motely con­sidered re­port­ing to Regal. To Shrewd or Chade, def­in­itely, and to Ver­ity. But to Regal?

  ‘Need I re­mind you of your duty? Re­port.’

  I hast­ily gathered my wits. ‘Would you hear my ob­ser­va­tions on the Chy­urda as a people? Or in­form­a­tion on the herbs they grow? Or …’

  ‘I want to know what you are do­ing about your … as­sign­ment. Have you ac­ted yet? Have you made a plan? When can we ex­pect res­ults, and of what kind? I scarcely want the Prince drop­ping dead at my feet, and me un­pre­pared for it.’

  I could scarcely credit what I was hear­ing. Never had Shrewd spoken so bluntly or so openly of my work. Even when our pri­vacy was as­sured, he circled and danced and left me to draw my own con­clu­sions. I had seen Sevrens go into his other cham­ber, but had no idea where the man was now or how sound car­ried in this cham­ber. And Regal was speak­ing as if we were dis­cuss­ing shoe­ing a horse.

  ‘Are you be­ing in­solent, or stu­pid?’ Regal de­man­ded.

  ‘Neither,’ I re­joined as po­litely as I was able. ‘I am be­ing cau­tious. My prince.’ I ad­ded the last in the hopes of put­ting the con­ver­sa­tion on a more formal level.

  ‘You are be­ing fool­ishly cau­tious. I trust my valet, and there is no one else here. So re­port. My bas­tard as­sas­sin.’ He said the last words as if he thought them clev­erly sar­castic.

  I took a breath and re­minded my­self I was a King’s man. And in this time and place, this was as close to a king as I was go­ing to get. I chose my phrases care­fully. ‘Yes­ter­day, in the garden, Prin­cess Kettricken told me you had told her I was a pois­oner and that her brother Rurisk was my tar­get.’

  ‘A lie,’ Regal said de­cis­ively. ‘I told her noth­ing of the kind. Either you had clum­sily be­trayed your­self, or she was merely fish­ing for in­form­a­tion. I hope you have not spoiled all by re­veal­ing your­self to her.’

  I could have lied much bet­ter than he did. I let his re­marks slide by, and went on. I gave him a full re­port, of my pois­on­ing, and of Rurisk and Kettricken’s early-morn­ing visit. I re­peated our con­ver­sa­tion ver­batim. And when I was fin­ished, Regal spent a num­ber of minutes look­ing at his nails be­fore he spoke to me. ‘And have you de­cided on a method and time yet?’

  I tried not to show my sur­prise. ‘Un­der the cir­cum­stances, I thought it bet­ter to aban­don the as­sign­ment.’

  ‘No nerve,’ Regal ob­served with dis­gust. ‘I asked Father to send that old whore Lady Thyme. She’d have had him in his grave by now.’

  ‘Sir?’ I asked ques­tion­ingly. That he re­ferred to Chade as Lady Thyme made me nearly cer­tain that he knew noth­ing at all.

  ‘Sir?’ Regal mim­icked back at me, and for the first time I real­ized the man was drunk. Phys­ic­ally, he car­ried it well. He did not stink of it, but it brought all his pet­ti­ness to the sur­face. He sighed heav­ily, as if too dis­gus­ted for words, then flung him­self down on a couch draped with blankets and cush­ions. ‘Noth­ing has changed,’ he in­formed me. ‘You’ve been given your task. Do it. If you are clever, you can make it ap­pear an ac­ci­dent. Hav­ing been so na­ively open with Kettricken and Rurisk, neither will ex­pect it. But I want it done. Be­fore to­mor­row even­ing.’

  ‘Be­fore the wed­ding?’ I asked in­cred­u­lously. ‘Don’t you think the death of the bride’s brother might lead her to can­cel it?’

  ‘It would be no more than tem­por­ary if she did. I have her well in hand, boy. She is eas­ily dazzled. That end of this thing is my con­cern. Yours is get­ting rid of her brother. Now. How will you do it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ That seemed a bet­ter an­swer than say­ing I had no in­ten­tion. I would re­turn to Buck­keep and re­port back to Shrewd and Chade. If they said I had chosen wrongly, then they might do with me as they wished. But I re­membered Regal’s own voice, from so long ago, quot­ing Shrewd. ‘Don’t do what you can’t undo, un­til you’ve con­sidered what you can’t do once you’ve done it.’

  ‘When will you know?’ he de­man­ded sar­castic­ally.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I hedged. ‘These things can­not be done reck­lessly or slop­pily. I need to study the man and his habits, ex­plore his cham­bers, and learn the habits of his ser­vants. I must find a way to …’

  ‘The wed­ding is two days hence,’ Regal in­ter­rup­ted. The fo­cus of his eyes softened. ‘I already know all the things you say you must dis­cover. Easi­est, then, for me to plan it for you. Come to me to­mor­row night, and I will give you your or­ders. Mind this well, bas­tard. I do not want you to act be­fore you have in­formed me. I would find any sur­prise un­pleas­ant. You would find it deadly.’ He lif­ted his eyes to mine but I kept my face a care­ful blank.

  ‘You are dis­missed,’ he told me regally. ‘Re­port to me here, to­mor­row night, at the same time. Do not make me send Sevrens to fetch you. He has more im­port­ant tasks. And do not think my father will not hear of your lax­ity. He will. He will re­gret not send­ing Bitch Thyme to do this little deed.’ He leaned back heav­ily and yawned, and I caught a whiff of wine, and a subtle smoke. I wondered if he were learn­ing his mother’s habits.

  I re­turned to my cham­bers, in­tend­ing to pon­der care­fully all my op­tions and for­mu­late a plan. But so weary was I and half-sick still, that I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pil­low.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Di­lem­mas

  In the dream, the Fool stood by my bed. He looked down at me and shook his head. ‘Why can­not I speak clearly? Be­cause you make it all a muddle. I see a cross­roads through the fog, and who al­ways stands within it? You. Do you think I keep you alive be­cause I am so en­tranced with you? No. It is be­cause you cre­ate so many pos­sib­il­it­ies. While you live, you give us more choices. The more choices, the more chances to steer for calmer wa­ter. So it is not for your be­ne­fit, but for the Six Duch­ies that I pre­serve your life. And your duty is the same. To live, so that you may con­tinue to present pos­sib­il­it­ies.’

  I awoke in pre­cisely the same quandary I had gone to sleep in. I had no idea of what I was go­ing to do. I lay in my bed, listen­ing to the ran­dom sounds of the palace awaken­ing. I needed to talk to Chade. That was not pos­sible. So I lightly closed my eyes and tried to think as he had taught me. ‘What do you know?’ he would have asked me, and ‘What do you sus­pect?’ So.

  Regal had lied to King Shrewd about Rurisk’s health, and his at­ti­tude to­ward the Six Duch­ies. Or, pos­sibly, King Shrewd had lied to me about what Regal had said. Or Rurisk had lied about his in­clin­a­tions to­ward us. I pondered a mo­ment, and de­cided to fol­low my first as­sump­tion. Shrewd had never lied to me, that I knew, and Rurisk could have simply let me die in­stead of rush­ing to my room. So.

  So Regal wanted Rurisk dead. Or did he? If he wanted Rurisk dead, why did he be­tray me to Kettricken? Un­less she had lied about that. I con­sidered. Not likely. She might won­der if Shrewd would send an as­sas­sin, but why would she im­me­di­ately de­cide to ac­cuse me? No. She had re­cog­nized my name. And known of Lady Thyme. So.