Is it the nature of the world that all things seek a rhythm, and in that rhythm a sort of peace? Cer­tainly it has al­ways seemed so to me. All events, no mat­ter how earth-shak­ing or bizarre, are di­luted within mo­ments of their oc­cur­rence by the con­tinu­ance of the ne­ces­sary routines of day-to-day liv­ing. Men walk­ing a bat­tle­field to search for wounded among the dead will still stop to cough, to blow their noses, still lift their eyes to watch a V of geese in flight. I have seen farm­ers con­tinue their plough­ing and plant­ing, heed­less of armies clash­ing but a few miles away.

  So it proved for me. I look back on my­self and won­der. Sep­ar­ated from my mother, dragged off to a new city and clime, aban­doned by my father to the care of his man, and then bereft of my puppy com­pan­ion, I still rose from my bed one day and re­sumed a small boy’s life. For me, that meant rising when Burrich awoke me, and fol­low­ing him to the kit­chens, where I ate be­side him. After that, I was Burrich’s shadow. He sel­dom al­lowed me out of his sight. I’d dog his heels, watch­ing him at his tasks, and even­tu­ally as­sist­ing him in many small ways. Even­ing brought a meal dur­ing which I sat at his side on a bench and ate, my man­ners su­per­vised by his sharp eyes. Then it was up to his quar­ters, where I might spend the rest of the even­ing watch­ing the fire in si­lence while he drank, or watch­ing the fire in si­lence await­ing his re­turn. He worked while he drank, mend­ing or mak­ing har­ness, com­pound­ing a salve, or ren­der­ing down a physic for a horse. He worked, and I learned, watch­ing him, though few words passed between us that I re­call. Odd to think of two years, and most of an­other one passed in such a way.

  I learned to do as Molly did, steal­ing bits of time for my­self on the days when Burrich was called away to as­sist in a hunt or help a mare birth. Once in a great while I dared to slip out when he had drunk more than he could man­age, but those were dan­ger­ous out­ings. When I was free, I would hast­ily seek out my young com­pan­ions in the city and run with them for as long as I dared. I missed Nosy with a keen­ness as great as if Burrich had severed a limb from my body. But neither of us ever spoke of that.

  Look­ing back, I sup­pose he was as lonely as I. Chiv­alry had not al­lowed Burrich to fol­low him into his ex­ile. In­stead, he had been left to care for a name­less bas­tard, and found that the bas­tard had a pen­chant for what he re­garded as a per­ver­sion. And even after his leg healed he dis­covered he would never ride nor hunt nor even walk as well as he once had; all that had to be hard, hard for a man such as Burrich. He never whined about it to any­one, that I heard. But again, in look­ing back, I can­not ima­gine to whom he could have made com­plaint. Locked into loneli­ness were we two, and look­ing at one an­other every even­ing, we each saw the one we blamed for it.

  Yet all things must pass, but es­pe­cially time, and with the months and then the years, I came slowly to have a place in the scheme of things. I fetched for Burrich, bring­ing be­fore he had thought to ask for it, and ti­died up after his min­is­tra­tions to the beasts, and saw to clean wa­ter for the hawks and picked ticks off dogs come home from the hunt. Folk got used to see­ing me, and no longer stared. Some seemed not to see me at all. Gradu­ally Burrich re­laxed his watch on me. I came and went more freely, but still took care that he should not know of my so­journs into town.

  There were other chil­dren within the keep, many about my own age. Some were even re­lated to me, second cous­ins or third. Yet I never formed any real bonds with any of them. The younger ones were kept by their moth­ers or care­takers, the older ones had their own tasks and chores to oc­cupy them. Most were not cruel to me; I was simply out­side their circles. So, al­though I might not see Dick or Kerry or Molly for months, they re­mained my closest friends. In my ex­plor­a­tions of the keep, and on winter even­ings when all gathered in the Great Hall for min­strels, or pup­pet shows or in­door games, I swiftly learned where I was wel­come and where I was not.

  I kept my­self out of the Queen’s view, for whenever she saw me, she would al­ways find some fault with my be­ha­viour and have Burrich re­proached with it. Regal, too, was a source of danger. He had most of his man’s growth, but did not scruple to shove me out of his path or walk cas­u­ally through whatever I had found to play with. He was cap­able of a pet­ti­ness and vin­dict­ive­ness that I never en­countered in Ver­ity. Not that Ver­ity ever took time with me, but our chance en­coun­ters were never un­pleas­ant. If he no­ticed me, he would tousle my hair, or of­fer me a penny. Once a ser­vant brought to Burrich’s quar­ters some little wooden toys, sol­diers and horses and a cart, their paint much worn, with a mes­sage that Ver­ity had found them in a corner of his cloth­ing chest and thought I might en­joy them. I can­not think of any other pos­ses­sion I ever val­ued more.

  Cob in the stables was an­other danger zone. If Burrich were about, he spoke me fair and treated me evenly, but had small use for me at other times. He gave me to un­der­stand he did not want me about and un­der­foot where he was work­ing. I found out even­tu­ally that he was jeal­ous of me, and felt my care had re­placed the in­terest Burrich had once taken in him. He was never overtly cruel, never struck me or scol­ded me un­fairly; but I could sense his dis­taste for me, and avoided him.

  All the men-at-arms showed a great tol­er­ance for me. After the street chil­dren of Buck­keep Town, they were prob­ably the closest I had to friends. But no mat­ter how tol­er­ant men may be of a boy of nine or ten, there is pre­cious little in com­mon. I watched their bone games and listened to their stor­ies, but for every hour I spent among their com­pany, there were days when I did not go amongst them at all. And while Burrich never for­bade me the guard­room, he did not con­ceal that he dis­ap­proved of the time I spent there.

  So I was and was not a mem­ber of the keep com­munity. I avoided some and I ob­served some and I obeyed some. But with none did I feel a bond.

  Then one morn­ing, when I was still a bit shy of my tenth year I was at play un­der the tables in the Great Hall, tum­bling and teas­ing with the pup­pies. It was quite early in the day. There had been an oc­ca­sion of some sort the day be­fore, and the feast­ing had las­ted the whole day and well into the night. Burrich had drunk him­self sense­less. Al­most every­one, noble or ser­vants, was still abed, and the kit­chen had not yiel­ded up much to my hungry ven­tur­ing that morn­ing. But the tables in the Great Hall were a trove of broken pastries and dishes of meat. There were bowls of apples as well, slabs of cheese; in short, all a boy could wish for plun­der­ing. The great dogs had taken the best bones and re­treated to their own corners of the hall, leav­ing vari­ous pups to scrabble for the smal­ler bits. I had taken a rather large meat pasty un­der the table and was shar­ing it out with my chosen fa­vour­ites among the pups. Ever since Nosy, I had taken care that Burrich should not see me to have too great an af­fin­ity with any one puppy. I still did not un­der­stand why he ob­jec­ted to my close­ness to a hound, but I would not risk the life of a puppy to dis­pute it with him. So I was al­tern­at­ing bites with three whelps when I heard slow foot­steps thresh­ing across the reed-strewn floor. Two men were speak­ing, dis­cuss­ing some­thing in low tones.

  I thought it was the kit­chen ser­vants, come to clear away. I scrabbled from be­neath the table to snare a few more choice leav­ings be­fore they were gone.

  But it was no ser­vant who startled at my sud­den ap­pear­ance but the old King, my grand­father, him­self. A scant step be­hind him, at his el­bow, was Regal. His bleary eyes and rumpled doublet at­tested to his par­ti­cip­a­tion in last night’s rev­el­ries. The King’s new Fool, but re­cently ac­quired, pattered after them, pale eyes agoggle in an egg­shell face. He was so strange a creature, with his pasty skin and mot­ley all of blacks and whites, that I scarce dared to look at him. In con­trast, King Shrewd was clear of eye, his beard and hair freshly groomed and his cloth­ing im­macu­late. For an in­stant he was sur­prised, and then re­marked, ‘You see, Regal, it is as I was telling you. An op­por­tun­ity presents it­self, and someone seizes it; of­ten someone young, or someone driven by the en­er­gies and hun­gers of youth. Roy­alty has no leis­ure to ig­nore such op­por­tun­it­ies, or to let them be cre­ated for oth­ers.’

  The King con­tin­ued his stroll past me, ex­pound­ing on his theme while Regal gave me a bale­ful look from blood­shot eyes. A flap of his hand in­dic­ated that I should dis­ap­pear my­self. I in­dic­ated my un­der­stand­ing with a quick nod, but dar­ted first to the table. I stuffed two apples into my jer­kin, and took up a mostly whole goose­berry tart when the King sud­denly roun­ded and ges­tured at me. His Fool mimed an im­it­a­tion. I froze where I stood.

  ‘Look at him,’ the old King com­manded.

  Regal glared at me, but I dared not move.

  ‘What will you make of him?’

  Regal looked per­plexed. ‘Him? It’s the fitz. Chiv­alry’s bas­tard. Sneak­ing and thiev­ing as al­ways.’

  ‘Fool.’ King Shrewd smiled, but his eyes re­mained flinty. The Fool, think­ing him­self ad­dressed, smiled sweetly. ‘Are your ears stopped with wax? Do you hear noth­ing I say? I asked you, not “what do you make of him?” but “what will you make of him?”. There he stands, young, strong, and re­source­ful. His lines are every bit as royal as yours, for all that he was born on the wrong side of the sheets. So, what will you make of him? A tool? A weapon? A com­rade? An en­emy? Or will you leave him ly­ing about, for someone else to take up and use against you?’

  Regal squin­ted at me, then glanced past me and, find­ing no one else in the hall, re­turned his puzzled gaze to me. At my ankle, a pup whined a re­minder that earlier we had been shar­ing. I warned him to hush.

  ‘The bas­tard? He’s only a child.’

  The old King sighed. ‘Today. This morn­ing and now, he is a child. When next you turn around he will be a youth, or worse, a man, and then it will be too late for you to make any­thing of him. But take him now, Regal, and shape him, and a dec­ade hence you will com­mand his loy­alty. In­stead of a dis­con­ten­ted bas­tard who may be per­suaded to be­come a pre­tender to the throne, he will be a hench­man, united to the fam­ily by spirit as well as blood. A bas­tard, Regal, is a unique thing. Put a signet ring on his hand and send him forth, and you have cre­ated a dip­lo­mat no for­eign ruler will dare to turn away. He may safely be sent where a prince of the blood may not be risked. Ima­gine the uses for one who is and yet is not of the royal blood­line. Host­age ex­changes. Mar­ital al­li­ances. Quiet work. The dip­lomacy of the knife.’

  Regal’s eyes grew round at the King’s last words. For a pause, we all breathed in si­lence, re­gard­ing one an­other. When Regal spoke, he soun­ded as if he had dry bread caught in his throat. ‘You speak of these things in front of the boy. Of us­ing him, as a tool, a weapon. You think he will not re­mem­ber your words when he is grown?’

  King Shrewd laughed, and the sound rang against the stone walls of the Great Hall. ‘Re­mem­ber them? Of course he will. I count on it. Look at his eyes, Regal. There is in­tel­li­gence there, and pos­sibly po­ten­tial Skill. I’d be a fool to lie to him. More stu­pid still simply to be­gin his train­ing and edu­ca­tion with no ex­plan­a­tion, for that would leave his mind fal­low for whatever seeds oth­ers might plant there. Isn’t it so, boy?’

  He was re­gard­ing me stead­ily and I sud­denly real­ized I was re­turn­ing his look. For all of his speech our gazes had been locked as we read one an­other. In the eyes of the man who was my grand­father was hon­esty, of a rocky, bony sort. There was no com­fort in it, but I knew I could al­ways count on it to be there. I nod­ded slowly.

  ‘Come here.’

  I walked to him slowly. When I reached him, he got down on one knee, to be eye-to-eye with me. The Fool knelt sol­emnly be­side us, look­ing earn­estly from face to face. Regal glared down at all of us. At the time I never grasped the irony of the old King gen­u­flect­ing to his bas­tard grand­son. So I was sol­emn as he took the tart from my hands and tossed it to the pup­pies who had trailed after me. He drew a pin from the folds of silk at his throat and sol­emnly pushed it through the simple wool of my shirt.

  ‘Now you are mine,’ he said, and made that claim­ing of me more im­port­ant than any blood we shared. ‘You need not eat any man’s leav­ings. I will keep you, and I will keep you well. If any man or wo­man ever seeks to turn you against me by of­fer­ing you more than I do, then, come to me, and tell me of the of­fer, and I shall meet it. You will never find me a stingy man, nor be able to cite ill-use as a reason for treason against me. Do you be­lieve me, boy?’

  I nod­ded, in the mute way that was still my habit, but his steady brown eyes de­man­ded more.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I will be is­su­ing some com­mands re­gard­ing you. See that you com­ply with them. If any seem strange to you, speak to Burrich. Or to my­self. Simply come to the door of my cham­ber, and show that pin. You’ll be ad­mit­ted.’

  I glanced down at the red stone that winked in a nest of sil­ver. ‘Yes, sir,’ I man­aged again.

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly, and I sensed a trace of re­gret in his voice, and wondered what it was for. His eyes re­leased me, and sud­denly I was once more aware of my sur­round­ings, of the pup­pies and the Great Hall and Regal watch­ing me with fresh dis­taste on his face, and the Fool nod­ding en­thu­si­ast­ic­ally in his va­cant way. Then the King stood. When he turned away a chill went over me, as if I had sud­denly shed a cloak. It was my first ex­per­i­ence of the Skill at the hands of a mas­ter.

  ‘You don’t ap­prove, do you, Regal?’ The King’s tone was con­ver­sa­tional.

  ‘My King may do whatever he wishes.’ Sulky.

  King Shrewd sighed. ‘That is not what I asked you.’

  ‘My mother and Queen will cer­tainly not ap­prove. Fa­vour­ing the boy will only make it ap­pear that you re­cog­nize him. It will give him ideas, and oth­ers.’

  ‘Faugh!’ The King chuckled as if amused.

  Regal was in­stantly in­censed. ‘My mother the Queen will not agree with you, nor will she be pleased. My mother –’

  ‘Has not agreed with me, nor been pleased with me for some years. I scarcely no­tice it any more, Regal. She will flap and squawk and tell me again that she would re­turn to Far­row, to be Duch­ess there, and you Duke after her. And if very angry, she will threaten that if she did, Tilth and Far­row would rise up in re­bel­lion, and be­come a sep­ar­ate king­dom, with her as the Queen.’

  ‘And I as King after her!’ Regal ad­ded de­fi­antly.

  Shrewd nod­ded to him­self. ‘Yes, I thought she had planted such fes­ter­ing treason in your mind. Listen, boy. She may scold and fling crock­ery at the ser­vants, but she will never do more than that. Be­cause she knows it is bet­ter to be queen of a peace­ful king­dom than duch­ess of a duchy in re­bel­lion. And Far­row has no reason to rise up against me, save the ones she in­vents in her head. Her am­bi­tions have al­ways ex­ceeded her abil­it­ies.’ He paused, and looked dir­ectly at Regal. ‘In roy­alty, that is a most lam­ent­able fail­ing.’

  I could feel the waves of an­ger Regal sup­pressed as he looked at the floor.

  ‘Come along,’ the King said, and Regal heeled after him, obed­i­ent as any hound. But the part­ing glance he cast me was venom­ous.

  I stood and watched as the old King de­par­ted the hall. I felt an echo­ing loss. Strange man. Bas­tard though I was, he could have de­clared him­self my grand­father, and had for the ask­ing what he in­stead chose to buy. At the door, the pale Fool paused. For an in­stant he looked back at me, and made an in­com­pre­hens­ible ges­ture with his nar­row hands. It could have been an in­sult or a bless­ing. Or simply the flut­ter­ing of a Fool’s hands. Then he smiled, waggled his tongue at me, and turned to hurry after the King.

  Des­pite the King’s prom­ises, I stuffed my jer­kin front with sweet cakes. The pups and I shared them all in the shade be­hind the stables. It was a big­ger break­fast than any of us were ac­cus­tomed to, and my stom­ach mur­mured un­hap­pily for hours af­ter­ward. The pups curled up and slept, but I wavered between dread and an­ti­cip­a­tion. Al­most I hoped that noth­ing would come of it, that the King would for­get his words to me. But he did not.

  Late that even­ing I fi­nally wandered up the steps and let my­self into Burrich’s cham­ber. I had spent the day pon­der­ing what the morn­ing’s words might mean for me. I could have saved my­self the trouble. For as I entered, Burrich set aside the bit of har­ness he was mend­ing and fo­cused all his at­ten­tion on me. He con­sidered me in si­lence for a bit, and I re­turned his stare. Some­thing had changed, and I feared. Ever since he had dis­ap­peared Nosy, I had be­lieved that Burrich had the power of life and death over me as well; that a fitz could be dis­posed of as eas­ily as a pup. That hadn’t stopped me from de­vel­op­ing a feel­ing of close­ness for him; one needn’t love in or­der to de­pend. That sense of be­ing able to rely on Burrich was the only real sta­bil­ity I had in my life, and now I felt it trem­bling un­der me.

  ‘So.’ He spoke at last, and put a fi­nal­ity into the word. ‘So. You had to put your­self be­fore his eyes, did you? Had to call at­ten­tion to your­self. Well. He’s de­cided what to do with you.’ He sighed, and his si­lence changed. For a brief time, I al­most felt he pit­ied me. But after a bit, he spoke.

  ‘I’m to choose a horse for you to­mor­row. He sug­ges­ted that it be a young one, that I train you up to­gether. But I talked him into start­ing you with an older, stead­ier beast. One stu­dent at a time, I told him. But I’ve my own reas­ons for put­ting you with an an­imal that’s … less im­pres­sion­able. See that you be­have; I’ll know if you’re play­ing about. Do we un­der­stand one an­other?’