BLUE LAKE IS the terminus of the Cold River. It is also the name of the largest town on its shores. Early in King Shrewd's reign, the country surrounding the northeast side of the lake was renowned for its grainfields and orchards. A grape peculiar to its soil produced a wine with a bouquet no other could rival. Blue Lake wine was known not just throughout the Six Duchies, but was exported by the caravan load as far as Bingtown. Then came the long droughts and the lightning fires that followed them. The farmers and vintners of the area never recovered. Blue Lake subsequently began to rely more heavily on trade. The present-day town of Blue Lake is a trade town, where the caravans from Farrow and the Chalced States meet to barter for the goods of the Mountain folk. In summers, huge barges navigate the placid waters of the lake, but in winter the storms that sweep down from the Mountains drive the bargefolk from the lake and put an end to trade on the water.
The night sky was clear with an immense orange moon hanging low. The stars were true and I followed their guidance, sparing a few moments for weary wonderment that these were the same stars that had once shone down on me as I made my way home to Buckkeep. Now they guided me back to the Mountains.
I walked the night away. Not swiftly, and not steadily, but I knew that the sooner I got to water, the sooner I could ease my pains. The longer I went without water, the weaker I would become. As I walked, I moistened one of the linen bandages with Bolt's brandy, and dabbed at my face. I had looked at the damage briefly in the looking glass. There was no mistaking that I had lost another fight. Most of it was bruising and minor cuts. I expected no new scars. The brandy stung on the numerous abrasions, but the moisture eased some of the scabbing so that I could open my mouth with minimal pain. I was hungry, but feared the salty dried meat would only accentuate my thirst.
I watched the sun come up over the great Farrow plain in a marvelous array of colors. The chill of the night eased and I loosened Bolt's cloak. I kept walking. With the increasing light, I scanned the ground hopefully. Perhaps some of the horses had headed back to the waterhole. But I saw no fresh tracks, only the crumble-edged hoofprints we had made yesterday, already being devoured by the wind.
The day was still young when I reached the water-place. I approached it cautiously, but my nose and my eyes told me it was blessedly deserted. I knew I could not depend on my luck that it would be that way long. It was a regular stopping place for caravans. My first act was to drink my fill. Then there was a certain luxury to building my own small fire, heating a kettle of water and adding lentils, beans, grain, and dried meat to it. I set it on a stone close to the fire to simmer while I stripped and washed in the waterhole. It was shallow at one end, and the sun had almost warmed it. The flat blade of my left shoulder was still quite painful to touch or move, as were the chafed places on my wrists and ankles, the knot on the back of my head, my face in general … I left off cataloging my pain for myself. I wasn't going to die from any of it. What more than that mattered?
The sun dried me while I shivered. I sloshed out my clothes and spread them on some brush. While the sun dried them, I wrapped myself in Bolt's cloak, drank brandy, and stirred my soup. I had to add more water, and it seemed to take years for the dried beans and lentils to soften. I sat by my fire, occasionally adding some more branches or dried dung to it. After a time, I opened my eyes again and tried to decide if I were drunk, beaten, or incredibly weary. I decided that was as profitable as cataloging my pain. I ate the soup as it was, with the beans still a bit hard. I had more of the brandy with it. There wasn't much left. It was difficult to persuade myself to do it, but I cleaned the kettle and warmed more water. I cleaned the worst of my cuts, treated them with the salve, wrapped the ones that could be bandaged. One ankle looked nasty; I could not afford for it to become infected. I lifted my eyes to find the daylight fading. It seemed to have gone swiftly. With the last of my energy, I put out my fire, bundled up all my possessions, and moved away from the waterhole. I needed to sleep and I would not risk being discovered by other travelers. I found a small depression that was slightly sheltered from the wind by some tarry-smelling brush. I spread out the blanket, covered myself with Bolt's cloak, and sank down into sleep.
I know that for a time I slept dreamlessly. Then I had one of those confusing dreams in which someone called my name, but I could not find who. A wind was blowing and it was rainy. I hated the sound of the blowing wind, so lonely. Then the door opened and Burrich stood in it. He was drunk. I felt both irritated and relieved. I had been waiting for him to come home since yesterday, and now he was here, he was drunk. How dared he be so?
A shivering ran over me, an almost-awakening. And I knew that these were Molly's thoughts, it was Molly I was Skilldreaming. I should not, I knew I should not, but in that edgeless dream state, I had not the will to resist. Molly stood up carefully. Our daughter was sleeping in her arms. I caught a glimpse of a small face, pink and plump, not the wrinkled red face of the newborn I'd seen before. To have already changed so much! Silently, Molly carried her to the bed and placed her gently on it. She turned up a corner of the blanket to keep the baby warm. Without turning around, she said in a low tight voice, "I was worried. You said you'd be back yesterday."
"I know. I'm sorry. I should have been, but …" Burrich's voice was hoarse. There was no spirit in it.
"But you stayed in town and got drunk," Molly filled in coldly.
I … yes. I got drunk." He shut the door and came into the room. He moved to the fire to warm his red hands before it. His cloak was dripping and so was his hair, as if he had not bothered to pull the hood up as he walked home. He set a carrysack down by the door. He took the soaked cloak off and sat down stiffly in the chair by the hearth. He leaned forward to rub his bad knee.
"Don't come in here when you're drunk," Molly told him flatly.
"I know that's how you feel. I was drunk yesterday. I had a bit, earlier today, but I'm not drunk. Not now. Now I'm just … tired. Very tired." He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
"You can't even sit up straight." I could hear the anger rising in Molly's voice. "You don't even know when you're drunk."
Burrich looked up at her wearily. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded, shocking me. He sighed. "I'll go," he told her. He rose, wincing as he put weight on his leg, and Molly felt a pang of guilt. He was still cold, and the shed where he slept at night was drafty and damp. But he'd brought it on himself. He knew how she felt about drunkards. Let a man have a drink or two, that was fine, she had a cup herself now and then, but to come staggering home like this and try to tell her …
"Can I see the baby for a moment?" Burrich asked softly. He had paused at the door. I saw something in his eyes, something Molly did not know him well enough to recognize, and it cut me to the bone. He grieved.
"She's right there, on the bed. I just got her to sleep," Molly pointed out briskly.
"Can I hold her … just for a minute?"
"No. You're drunk and you're cold. If you touch her, she'll wake up. You know that. Why do you want to do that?"
Something in Burrich's face crumpled. His voice was hoarse as he said, "Because Fitz is dead, and she's all I have left of him or his father. And sometimes …" He lifted a wind-roughened hand to rub his face. "Sometimes it seems as if it's all my fault." His voice went very soft on those words. "I should never have let them take him from me. When he was a boy. When they first wanted to move him up to the keep, if I'd put him on a horse behind me and gone to Chivalry, maybe they'd both still be alive. I thought of that. I nearly did it. He didn't want to leave me, you know, and I made him. I nearly took him back to Chivalry instead. But I didn't. I let them have him, and they used him."
I felt the trembling that ran suddenly through Molly. Tears stung suddenly at her own eyes. She defended herself with anger. "Damn you, he's been dead for months. Don't try to get around me with drunkard's tears."
"I know," Burrich said. "I know. He's dead." He took a sudden deep breath, and straightened himself in that old familiar way. I saw him fold up his pains and weakness and hide them deep inside himself. I wanted to reach out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. But that was truly me and not Molly. He started for the door, and then paused. "Oh. I have something." He fumbled inside his shirt. "This was his. I … took it from his body, after he died. You should keep it for her, so she has something of her father's. He had this from King Shrewd."
My heart turned over in my chest as Burrich stretched out his hand. There on his palm was my pin, with the ruby nestled in the silver. Molly just looked at it. Her lips were set in a flat line. Anger, or tight control of whatever she felt. So harsh a control even she did not know what she hid from. When she did not move toward him, Burrich set it carefully on the table.
It all came together for me suddenly. He'd gone up to the shepherd's cabin, to try again to find me, to tell me I had a daughter. Instead, what had he found? A decayed body, probably not much more than bones by now, wearing my shirt with the pin still thrust safely into the lapel. The Forged boy had been dark haired, about my height and age.
Burrich believed I was dead. Really and truly dead. And he mourned me.
Burrich. Burrich, please, I'm not dead. Burrich, Burrich!
I rattled and raged around him, battering at him with every bit of my Skill-sense, but as always, I could not reach him. I came suddenly awake trembling and clutching at myself, feeling as if I were a ghost. He'd probably already gone to Chade. They'd both think me dead. A strange dread filled me at that thought. It seemed terribly unlucky to have all of one's friends believe one to be dead.
I rubbed gently at my temples, feeling the beginning of a Skill-headache. A moment later I realized my defenses were down, that I'd been Skilling as fiercely as I was able toward Burrich. I slammed my walls up and then curled up shivering in the dusk. Will hadn't stumbled onto my Skilling that time, but I could not afford to be so careless. Even if my friends believed me dead, my enemies knew better. I must keep those walls up, must never take a chance of letting Will into my head. The new pain of the headache pounded at me, but I was too weary to get up and make tea. Besides, I had no elfbark, only the Tradeford woman's untried seeds. I drank the rest of Bolt's brandy instead, and went back to sleep. At the edge of awareness, I dreamed of wolves running. I know you live. I shall come to you if you need me. You need but ask. The reaching was tentative but true. I clung to the thought like a friendly hand as sleep claimed me.
In the days that followed, I walked to Blue Lake. I walked through wind carrying scouring sand in it. The scenery was rocks and scree, crackly brush with leathery leaves, low-growing fat-leaved succulents and far ahead, the great lake itself. At first the trail was no more than a scarring in the crusty surface of the plain, the cuts of hooves and the long ridges of the wagon paths fading in the ever-present cold wind. But as I drew closer to the lake, the land gradually became greener and gentler. The trail became more of a road. Rain began to fall with the wind, hard pattering rain that pelted its way through my clothes. I never felt completely dry.
I tried to avoid contact with the folk that traveled the road. There was no hiding from them in that flat country, but I did my best to look uninteresting and forbidding. Hard-riding messengers passed me on that trail, some headed toward Blue Lake, others back toward Tradeford. They did not pause for me, but that was small comfort. Sooner or later, someone was going to find five unburied King's Guards and wonder at that. And the tale of how the Bastard had been captured right in their midst would be too juicy a gossip for Creece or Starling to forbear telling. The closer I got to Blue Lake, the more folk were on the road, and I dared to hope I blended in with other travelers. For in the rich grassy pasturelands, there were holdings and even small settlements. One could see them from a great distance, the tiny hummock of a house and the wisp of smoke rising from a chimney. The land began to have more moisture in it, and brush gave way to bushes and trees. Soon I was passing orchards and then pastures with milk cows, and chickens scratching in the dirt by the side of the road. Finally I came to the town that shared the name of the lake itself.
Beyond Blue Lake was another stretch of flat land, and then the foothills. Beyond them, the Mountain Kingdom. And somewhere beyond the Mountain Kingdom was Verity.
It was a little unsettling when I considered how long it had taken me to come this far afoot compared to the first time when I had traveled with a royal caravan to claim Kettricken as bride for Verity. Out on the coast, summer was over and the wind of the winter storms had begun their lashing. Even here, it would not be long before the harsh cold of an inland winter seized the plains in the grip of the winter blizzards. While up in the Mountains, I supposed the snow had already begun to fall in the highest stretches. It would be deep before I reached the Mountains, and I did not know what conditions I would face as I traveled up into the heights to find Verity in the lands beyond. I did not truly know if he still lived; he had spent much strength helping me win free of Regal. Yet Come to me, come to me seemed to echo with the beating of my heart, and I caught myself keeping step to that rhythm. I would find Verity or his bones. But I knew I would not truly belong to myself again until I had done so.
Blue Lake town seems a larger city than it is because it sprawls so. I saw few dwellings of more than one story. Most were low, long houses, with more wings added to the building as sons and daughters married and brought spouses home. Timber was plentiful on the other side of Blue Lake, so the poorer houses were of mud brick while those of veteran traders and fishers were of cedar plank roofed with wide shingles. Most of the houses were painted white or gray or a light blue, which made the structures seem even larger. Many had windows with thick, whorled panes of glass in them. But I walked past them and went to where I always felt more at home.
The waterfront was both like and unlike a seaport town's. There were no high and low tides to contend with, only storm driven waves, so many more houses and businesses were built out on pilings quite a way into the lake itself. Some fisherfolk were able to tie up literally at their own doorsteps, and others delivered their catch to a back door so that the fish merchant might sell it out the front. It seemed strange to smell water without salt or iodine riding the wind; to me the lake air smelled greenish and mossy. The gulls were different, with black-tipped wings, but in all other ways as greedy and thieving as any gulls I'd ever known. There were also entirely too many guardsmen for my liking. They prowled about like trapped cats in Farrow's gold-and-brown livery. I did not look in their faces, nor give them reason to notice me.
I had a total of fifteen silvers and twelve coppers, the sum of my funds and what Bolt had been carrying in his own purse. Some of the coins were a style I did not recognize, but their weight felt good in my hand. I assumed they'd be accepted. They were all I had to get me as far as the Mountains, and all I had that I might ever take home to Molly. So they were doubly valuable to me and I did not intend to part with any more than I must. But neither was I so foolish as to even consider heading into the Mountains without some provisions and some heavier clothes. So spend some I must, but I also hoped to find a way to work my passage across Blue Lake, and perhaps beyond.
In every town, there are always poorer parts, and shops or carts where folk deal in the cast-off goods of others. I wandered Blue Lake for a bit, staying always to the waterfront where trade seemed the liveliest, and eventually I came to streets where most of the shops were of mud brick even if they were roofed with shingles. Here I found weary tinkers selling mended pots and rag pickers with their carts of well-worn wares and shops where one might buy odd crockery and the like.
From now on, I knew, my pack would be heavier, but it could not be helped. One of the first things I bought was a sturdy basket plaited from lake reeds with carry-straps to go over my shoulders. I placed my present bundle inside it. Before the day was out, I had added padded trousers, a quilted jacket such as the Mountain folk wore, and a pair of loose boots, like soft leather socks. This last item had leather lacing to secure them tightly to my calves. I bought also some thick woolen stockings, mismatched in color but very thick, to wear beneath the boots. From another cart I purchased a snug woolen cap and a scarf. I bought a pair of mittens that were too large for me, obviously made by some Mountain wife to fit her husband's hands.
At a tiny herb stall, I was able to find elfbark, and so secured a small store of that for myself. In a nearby market, I bought strips of dried smoked fish, dried apples, and flat cakes of very hard bread that the vendor assured me would keep well no matter how far I might travel.
I next endeavored to book passage for myself on a barge across Blue Lake. Actually, I went to the waterfront hiring square, hoping to work my passage across. I swiftly found out no one was hiring. "Look, mate," a boy of thirteen loftily told me. "Everyone knows the big barges don't work the lake this time of year less there's gold in it. And there ain't this year. Mountain witch shut down all the trade to the Mountains. Nothing to haul means no money worth taking the risk. And that's it, plain and simple. But even if the trade was open, you'd not find much going back and forth in winter. Summers is when the big barges can cross from this side to that. Winds can be iffy even then, but a good crew can work a barge, sail and oar, there and back again. But this time of year, it's a waste of time. The storms blow up every five days or so and the rest of the time the winds only blow one way, and if they aren't full of water, they're carrying ice and snow. It's a fine time to come from the Mountain side to Blue Lake town, if you don't mind getting wet and cold and chopping ice off your rigging all the way. But you won't find any of the big freight barges making the run from here to there until next spring. There's smaller boats that will take folk across, but passage on them is dear and for the daring. If you take ship on one of those, it's because you're willing to pay gold for the passage, and pay with your life if your skipper makes a mistake. You don't look as if you've got the coin for it, man, let alone to pay the King's tariff on the trip."
Boy he might have been, but he knew what he spoke about. The more I listened, the more I heard the same thing. The Mountain witch had closed the passes and innocent travelers were being attacked and robbed by Mountain brigands. For their own good, travelers and traders were being turned back at the border. War was looming. That chilled my heart, and made me all the more certain I must reach Verity. But when I insisted I had to get to the Mountains, and soon, I was advised to somehow avail myself of five gold pieces for the passage across the lake and good luck from there. In one instance, a man hinted he knew of a somewhat illegal endeavor in which I might gain that much in a month's time or less, if I were interested. I was not. I already had enough difficulties to contend with.
Come to me.
I knew that somehow, I would.
I found a very cheap inn, run-down and drafty, but at least not smelling too much of Smoke. The clientele could not afford it. I paid for a bed and got a pallet in an open loft above the common room. At least heat also rose with the errant smoke from the hearth below. By draping my cloak and clothes over a chair by my pallet, I was finally able to dry them completely for the first time in days. Song and conversation, both rowdy and quiet, were a constant chorus to my first effort at sleep. There was no privacy and I finally got the hot bath I longed for at a bath-and-steamhouse five doors away. But there was a certain weary pleasure in knowing where I would sleep at night, if not how well.
I had not planned it, but it was an excellent way also to listen to the common gossip of Blue Lake. The first night I was there, I learned much more than I wished to of a certain young noble who had got not one, but two serving women with child and the intimate details of a major brawl in a tavern two streets away that had left Jake Ruddy Nose without his namesake portion of anatomy, having had it bitten off by Crookarm the Scribe.
The second night I was at the inn, I heard the rumor that twelve King's guards had been found slaughtered by brigands half a day's ride past Jernigan's Spring. By the next night, someone had made the connection, and tales were told of how the bodies had been savaged and fed upon by a beast. I considered it quite likely that scavengers had found the bodies and fed from them. But as the tale was told, it was clearly the work of the WitBastard, who had changed himself into a wolf to escape his fetters of cold iron, and fallen upon the whole company by the light of a full moon to wreak his savage violence on them. As the teller described me, I had little fear of being discovered in their midst. My eyes did not glow red in firelight, nor did my fangs protrude from my mouth. I knew there would be other, more prosaic descriptions of me passed about. Regal's treatment of me had left me with a singular set of scars that were difficult to conceal. I began to grasp how difficult it had been for Chade to work with a pock-scarred face.
The beard I had once found an irritant now seemed natural to me. It grew in wiry curls that reminded me of Verity's and was just as unruly. The bruises and cuts Bolt had left on my face were mostly faded, though my shoulder still ached endlessly in the cold weather. The damp chill of the wintry air reddened my cheeks above my beard and fortunately made the edge of my scar less noticeable. The cut on my arm had long healed, but the broken nose I could do little about. It, too, no longer startled me when I saw it in a mirror. In a way, I reflected, I was as much Regal's creation now as Chade's. Chade had only taught me how to kill; Regal had made me a true assassin.
My third evening in the inn, I heard the gossip that made me cold.
"The King hisself, it was, aye, and the head Skill-wizard. Cloaks of fine wool with so much fur at the collar and hood you could scarcely see their faces. Riding black horses with gold saddles, fine as you please, and a score of brown-and-golds riding at their heels. Cleared the whole square so they might pass, did the guards. So I said to the fella next to me, Hey, what's all this, you know? And he told me King Regal has come to town to hear for himself what the Mountain witch has been doing to us, and to put an end to it. And more. Says he, the King himself has come to track down the Pocked Man and the Witted Bastard, for it's well known they work hand in glove with the Mountain witch."
I overheard this from a rheumy-eyed beggar who'd earned enough coin to buy a mug of hot cider and nurse it next to the inn fire. This bit of gossip earned him another round, while his patron told him yet again the tale of the Wit-Bastard and how he had slaughtered a dozen of the King's Guard and drunk their blood for his magic. I found myself a turmoil of emotions. Disappointment that my poisons had evidently done nothing to Regal. Fear that I might be discovered by him. And a savage hope that I might have one more chance at him before I found my way to Verity.
I scarcely needed to ask any questions. The next morning found all of Blue Lake abuzz with the King's arrival. It had been many years since a crowned king had actually visited Blue Lake, and every merchant and minor noble intended to take advantage of the visit. Regal had commandeered the largest and finest inn in the town, blithely ordering that all the rooms be cleared for him and his retinue. I heard rumors that the innkeeper was both flattered and aghast at being chosen, for while it would certainly establish the reputation of his inn, there had been no mention of recompense, only a lengthy list of victuals and vintages that King Regal expected to be available.
I dressed in my new winter garments, pulled my wool cap down over my ears, and set forth. The inn was found easily. No other inn at Blue Lake was three stories high, nor could any boast so many balconies and windows. The streets outside the inn were thick with nobles attempting to present themselves to King Regal, many with comely daughters in tow. They were jostling elbow to elbow with minstrels and jugglers offering to entertain, merchants bearing samples of their finest wares as gifts, as well as those making deliveries of meat, ale, wine, bread, cheese, and every other foodstuff imaginable. I did not attempt to get in, but listened mostly to those coming out. The taproom was packed with guardsmen, and a rude lot were they, badmouthing the local ale and whores as if they got better in Tradeford. And King Regal was not receiving today, no, he felt poorly after his hasty trip, and had sent for the best stocks of merrybud to settle his complaints. Yes, there was to be a dinner this evening, a most lavish affair, my dear, only the very finest of folk to be invited. And did you see him, with that one eye gone like a dead fish's, fair give me the creeps, was I the King, I'd find a better-made man to advise me, Skill or no. Such was the talk from a variety of folk leaving by front door and back, and I stored it all away as well as noting which windows in the inn were curtained against the day's brief light. Resting, was he? I could aid him with that.
But there I found my dilemma. A few weeks ago, I would simply have slipped in and done my best to plant a knife in Regal's chest, and damn the consequences. But now I not only had Verity's Skill-command eating at me, but also the knowledge that if I survived, I had a woman and child awaiting me. I was no longer willing to trade my life for Regal's. This time, I needed a plan.
Nightfall found me on the roof of the inn. It was a cedar shake roof, sharply peaked, and very slippery with frost. There were several wings to the inn, and I lay in the juncture of the pitched roofs between two of them, waiting. I was grateful to Regal for having chosen the largest and finest inn. I was up well above the level of the neighboring buildings. No one was going to see me with a casual glance; they'd have to be looking for me. Even so, I waited till full dark before I half slid and half clambered down to the edge of the eaves. I lay there a time, calming my heart. There was nothing to hold on to. The roof had a generous eave, to shield the balcony below it. I would have to slide down, catch the eave with my hands in passing, and swing myself in if I was to land on the balcony. Otherwise, it was a three-story drop to the street. I prayed I would not land upon the balcony's decoratively spiked railing.
I had planned well. I knew which rooms were Regal's bedchamber and sitting room, I knew the hour at which he would be at dinner with his guests. I had studied the door and window latches on several buildings in Blue Lake. I found nothing I was unfamiliar with. I had secured some small tools, and a length of light line would provide my exit. I would enter and leave without a trace. My poisons waited in my belt pouch.
Two awls taken from a cobbler's shop earlier in the day provided my hand grips as I worked my way down the roof. I thrust them, not into the tough shakes, but between them so they caught on the overlapping shakes below. I was most nervous for the moments when part of my body dangled off the roof, with no clear view of what was happening below. At the crucial moment, I swung my legs a few times for impetus, and braced myself to let go.
Trap, trap.
I froze where I was, my legs curled under the eave of the roof while I clung to the two awls sunk between the shakes. I did not even breathe. It was not Nighteyes.
No. Small Ferret. Trap, trap. Go away. Trap, trap.
It's a trap?
Trap, trap for Fitz-Wolf. Old Blood knows, Big Ferret said, go with, go with, warn Fitz-Wolf. Rolf-Bear knew your smell. Trap, trap. Go away.
I almost cried out when a small warm body suddenly struck my leg and then ran up my clothes. In a moment, a ferret poked its whiskery face into mine. Trap, trap, he insisted. Go away, go away.
Dragging my body back up onto the roof was more difficult than lowering it down. I had a bad moment when my belt caught on the edge of the eaves. After a bit of wriggling, I got loose and slowly slithered back up onto the roof. I lay still a moment, catching my breath, while the ferret sat between my shoulders, explaining over and over. Trap, trap. A tiny, savagely predatory mind was his, and I sensed a great anger in him. I would not have chosen such a bond-animal for myself, but someone had. Someone who was no more.
Big Ferret hurt to death. Tells Small Ferret, go with, go with: Take the smell. Warn Fitz-Wolf. Trap, trap.
There was so much I wanted to ask. Somehow Black Rolf had interceded for me with the Old Blood. Since I had left Tradeford, I had feared that every Witted one I encountered would be against me. But someone had sent this small creature to warn me. And he had held to his purpose, even though his bond-partner was dead. I tried to learn more from him, but there was not much more in that small mind. Great hurt and outrage at the passing of his bond-partner. A determination to warn me. I would never learn who Big Ferret had been, nor how he had discovered this plan nor how his bond-beast had managed to conceal himself in Will's possessions. For that was whom he showed me waiting silently in the room below. One-Eye. The Trap, trap.
Come with me? I offered him. Fierce as he was, he still seemed small and all alone. To touch minds with him was like seeing what remained of an animal cloven in two. The pain drove from his mind all save his purpose. There was room for only one other thing now.
No. Go with, go with. Hide in One-Eye's things. Warn FitzWolf. Go with, go with. Find Old Blood Hater. Hide-hide. Wait, wait. Old Blood Hater sleep, Small Ferret kill.
He was a small animal, with a small mind. But an image of Regal, Old Blood Hater, was fixed in that simple mind. I wondered how long it had taken Big Ferret to implant this notion firmly enough for him to carry it for weeks. Then I knew. A dying wish. The little creature had been driven all but mad by the death of his bond-human. This had been Big Ferret's last message to him. It seemed a futile errand for so small a beast.
Come with me, I suggested gently. How can Small Ferret kill Old Blood Hater?
In an eye-blink he was at my throat. I actually felt the sharp teeth grip the vein in my throat. Snip-snip when he sleeps. Drink his blood, like a coney. No more Big Ferret, no more holes, no more coneys. Only Old Blood Hater. Snip-snip. He let go of my jugular and slipped suddenly inside my shirt. Warm. His small clawed feet were icy on my skin.
I had a strip of dried meat in my pocket. I lay on the roof and fed it to my fellow assassin. I would have persuaded him to come with me if I could, but I sensed he could no more change his mind than I could refuse to go to Verity. It was all he had left of Big Ferret. Pain, and a dream of revenge. "Hide-hide. Go with, go with the One-Eye. Smell the Old' Blood Hater. Wait until he sleeps. Then snip, snip. Drink his blood like a coney's."
Yes yes. My hunt. Trap, trap Fitz-Wolf Go away, go away.
I took his advice. Someone had given much to send me this courier. I did not wish to face Will in any case. Much as I wanted to kill him, I knew now I was not his equal in the Skill. Nor did I wish to spoil Small Ferret's chance. There is honor among assassins, of a kind. It warmed my heart to know I was not Regal's only enemy. Soundless as the dark, I made my way over the inn roof and then down to the street by the stable.
I returned to my dilapidated inn, paid my copper and took a place at a plank table beside two other men. We ate the inn's potato-and-onion mainstay. When a hand fell on my shoulder, I did not startle so much as flinch. I had known there was someone behind me; I had not expected him to touch me. My hand went to my belt knife stealthily as I turned on my bench to face him. My tablemates went on eating, one noisily. No man in this inn professed an interest in any business save his own.
I looked up at Starling's smiling face and my guts turned over inside me. "Tom!" she greeted me jovially, and claimed a seat at the table beside me. The man next to me gave over the space without a word, scraping his bowl along with himself over the stained table plank. After a moment I took my hand from my knife and put it back on the table's edge. Starling gave a small nod to that gesture. She wore a black cloak of good thick wool, trimmed with yellow embroidery. Small silver rings graced her ears now. She was entirely too pleased with herself to suit me. I said nothing, but only looked at her. She made a small gesture toward my bowl.
"Please, go on eating. I didn't mean to disturb your meal. You look as if you could use it. Short rations lately?"
"A bit," I said softly. When she said no more, I finished the soup, wiping out the wooden bowl with the last two bites of coarse bread that had come with it. By then Starling had attracted the attention of a serving girl, who brought us two mugs of ale. She took a long draw from hers, made a face, and then set it back on the table. I sipped at mine and found it no worse to the palate than the lake water that was the alternative.
"Well?" I said at last when she still had not spoken. "What do you want?"
She smiled affably, toying with the handle of her mug. "You know what I want. I want a song, one that will live after me." She glanced about us, especially at the man who was still noisily sucking down his soup. "Have you a room?" she asked me.
I shook my head. "I've a pallet in the loft. And I've no songs for you, Starling."
She shrugged her shoulders, a tiny movement. "I've no songs for you right now, but I've got tidings that would interest you. And I've a room. At an inn some way from here. Walk there with me, and then we shall talk. There was a fine shoulder of pork roasting on the hearth fire when I left. It would likely be cooked by the time we got there."
Every sense I had pricked up at the mention of meat. I could smell it, I could almost taste it. "I couldn't afford it," I told her bluntly.
"I could," she offered blandly. "Get your things. I'll share my room as well."
"And if I decline?" I asked quietly.
Again she made the tiny shrugging motion. "It's your choice." She returned my gaze levelly. I could not decide if there was a threat in her small smile or not.
After a time I rose and went to the loft. When I returned, I had my things. Starling was waiting for me by the base of the ladder.
"Nice cloak," she observed wryly. "Haven't I seen it somewhere before?"
"Perhaps you have," I said quietly. "Would you like to see the knife that goes with it?"
Starling only smiled more broadly and made a small warding gesture with her hands. She turned and walked away, not looking back to see if I followed. Again, there was that curious mixture of trusting me and challenging me. I walked behind her.
Outside it was evening. The sharp wind that blew through the streets was full of lake damp. Even though it was not raining, I felt the moisture beading on my clothes and skin. My shoulder began to ache immediately. There were no street torches still burning; what little light there was escaped from shutters and doorsills. But Starling walked with sureness and confidence, and I followed, my eyes swiftly adjusting to the darkness.
She led me away from the waterfront, away from the poorer quarters of the town, up to the merchant streets and the inns that served the tradefolk of the town. It was not so far from the inn where King Regal was not truly staying at all. She opened an inn door that was inscribed with a tusked boar's head, and nodded to me to precede her. I did, but cautiously, glancing about well before I entered. Even after I saw no guardsmen, I was not sure if I was running my head into a snare or not.
This inn was bright and warm, with glass as well as shutters for its windows. The tables were clean, the reeds on the floor almost fresh, and the smell of roasting pork filled the air. A serving boy walked by us with a tray full of brimming mugs, looked at me, then raised an eyebrow to Starling, obviously questioning her choice of men. Starling replied with a swooping bow, and in the process swept off her damp cloak. I followed suit more slowly, and then trailed after her as she led me to a table near the hearth.
She seated herself, then looked up at me. She was confident she had me now. "Let's eat before we talk, shall we?" she invited me engagingly, and indicated the chair opposite her. I took the offered seat, but turned it so my back was to the wall and I could command a view of the room. A small smile twitched at her mouth and her dark eyes danced. "You've nothing to fear from me, I assure you. On the contrary, it is I who place myself at risk in seeking you out."
She glanced about, then called to a boy named Oak that we wished two platters of the roast pork, some fresh bread and butter, and apple wine to go with it. He hastened off to fetch it, and served it out on our table with a charm and grace that bespoke his interest in Starling. He exchanged some small chatter with her; he noticed me very little, save to make a face of distaste as he stepped around my damp carry-basket. Another patron called him away, and Starling attacked her plate with appetite. After a moment, I sampled mine. I had not had fresh meat in some days, and the hot crackling fat on the pork almost made me dizzy with its savor. The bread was fragrant, the butter sweet. I had not tasted food this good since Buckkeep. For a second my appetite was all I considered. Then the taste of the apple wine put me suddenly in mind of Rurisk and how he had died of poisoned wine. I set my goblet carefully back on the table and recalled my caution. "So. You sought me out, you say?"
Starling nodded as she chewed. She swallowed, wiped her mouth, and added, "And you were not easy to find, for I was not asking folk for news of you. Only looking with my own two eyes. I hope you appreciate that."
I gave a half nod. "And now that you have found me? What do you want of me? A bribe for your silence? If so, you'll have to content yourself with a few coppers."
"No." She took a sip of wine, then cocked her head to look at me. "It is as I've told you. I want a song. It seems to me I've missed one already, not following you when you were … removed from our company. Though I hope you'll favor me with the details of exactly how you survived." She leaned forward, the power of her trained voice dropping down to a confidential whisper. "I can't tell you what a thrill that was for me, when I heard they'd found those six guardsmen dead. I had thought I was wrong about you, you see. I truly believed they had dragged off poor old Tom the shepherd as a scapegoat. Chivalry's son, I told myself, would never go as quietly as all that. And so I let you go and I didn't follow. But when I heard the news, it put a shiver up my spine as stood every hair on my body on end. `It was him,' I chided myself. `The Bastard was there and I watched him taken away and never stirred a finger.' You can't imagine how I cursed myself for doubting my instincts. But then I decided, well, if you survived, you'd still come here. You're on your way to the Mountains, aren't you?"
I just looked at her, a flat gaze that would have sent any Buckkeep stableboy scuttling, and wiped the grin from the face of a Buck guard. But Starling was a minstrel. Singers of songs are never easily abashed. She went on with her meal, waiting for my answer. "Why would I be going to the Mountains?" I asked her, softly.
She swallowed, took a sip of wine, then smiled. "I don't know why. To rally to Kettricken's aid perhaps? Whatever the reason, I suspect there's a song in it, don't you?"
A year ago, her charm and smile might have won me. A year ago I would have wanted to believe this engaging woman, I'd have wanted her to be my friend. Now she only made me tired. She was an encumbrance, a connection to avoid. I didn't answer her question. I only said, "It's a foolish time to even think of going to the Mountains. The winds are against the trip; there will be no barge runs until spring; and King Regal has forbidden travel or trade between the Six Duchies and the Mountains. No one's going to the Mountains."
She nodded her agreement. "I understand that the King's guards pressed two barges and their crews a week ago, and forced them to attempt the trip. Bodies from at least one barge washed back to shore. Men and horses. No one knows if the other soldiers made it across or not. But" she smiled with satisfaction and drew closer to me as she dropped her voice "I do know of one group who are still bound for the Mountains."
"Who?" I demanded.
She made me wait a moment.
"Smugglers." She spoke the word very softly.
"Smugglers?" I asked cautiously. It made sense. The tighter the restrictions on trade, the more profitable for those who managed it. There would always be men who would risk their lives for a profit.
"Yes. But that is not truly why I sought you out. Fitz, you must have heard that King Regal has come to Blue Lake. But it's all a lie, a trap to lure you in. You must not go there."
"I knew that," I told her calmly.
"How?" she demanded. She spoke quietly, but I could see how annoyed she was that I had known before she had told me.
"Perhaps a little bird told me," I told her loftily. "You know how it is, we Witted ones speak the tongues of all the animals."
"Truly?" she asked me, gullible as a child.
I raised one eyebrow at her. "It would be more interesting to me to know how you knew."
"They tracked us down to question us. Everybody they could find from Madge's caravan."
"And?"
"And such tales as we told! According to Creece, several sheep were lost along the way, dragged off at night without a sound. And when Tassin told of the night you tried to rape her, she said it was only then she noticed that your nails were black like a wolf's claws, and your eyes glowed in the darkness."
"I never tried to rape her!" I exclaimed, and then hushed myself when the waiting-boy turned toward us inquiringly.
Starling leaned back in her chair. "But such a fine tale as it made, it fair brought tears to my eyes. She showed the Skillwizard the mark on her cheek where you'd clawed her, and said she would never have escaped you but for the wolfsbane that happened to grow nearby."
"It sounds to me as if you should follow Tassin about if you are looking for a song," I muttered disgustedly.
"Oh, but the tale I told was even better," she began, then shook her head at the serving boy as he approached. She pushed away her empty plate and glanced about the room. It was starting to fill with the evening's customers. "I have a room upstairs," she invited me. "We can talk more privately there."
This second meal had finally filled my belly. And I was warm. I should have felt wary, but the food and the warmth were making me sleepy. I tried to focus my thoughts. Whoever these smugglers were, they offered the hope of getting to the Mountains.
The only hope I'd had lately. I gave a small nod. She rose and I followed with my carry-basket.
The room upstairs was clean and warm. There was a feather bed on the bedframe, with clean wool blankets upon it. A pottery ewer of water and a washbasin rested on a small stand by the bed. Starling lit several candles in the room, driving the shadows back into the corners. Then she gestured me in. As she latched the door behind us, I sat down on the chair. Odd, how a simple, clean room could seem such a luxury to me now. Starling sat down on the bed.
"I thought you said you had no more coin than I did," I commented.
"I didn't, back then. But since I came to Blue Lake, I've been in demand. Even more so since the guards' bodies were found."
"How is that?" I asked her coldly.
"I'm a minstrel'' she retorted. "And I was there when the Wit-Bastard was taken. Do you think I can't tell the story of that well enough to be worth a coin or two?"
"So. I see." I mulled over what she had told me, then asked, "So, do I owe my glowing red eyes and fangs to your telling?"
She gave a snort of disdain. "Of course not. Some street corner ballad maker came up with that." Then she halted, and smiled almost to herself "But I'll admit to a bit of embroidery. As I tell it, Chivalry's Bastard was stoutly thewed and fought like a buck, a young man in the prime of his years, despite the fact that his right arm still bore the savage marks of King Regal's sword. And above his left eye, he'd a streak of white as wide as a man's hand in his hair. It took three guardsmen just to hold him, and he did not stop fighting, even when the leader of the guard struck him so hard it knocked the teeth from the front of his mouth." She paused and waited. When I said nothing, she cleared her throat. "You might thank me for making it a bit less likely that folk would recognize you on the street."
"Thank you. I suppose. How did Creece and Tassin react to that?"
"They nodded all the while. My story only made theirs all the better, you see."
"I see. But you still haven't told me how you know it was a trap."
"They offered us money for you. If any of us had had word from you. Creece wanted to know how much. We had been taken up to the King's own sitting room for this questioning. To make us feel more important, I suppose. We were told the King himself felt ill after his long trip, and was resting right next door. While we were there, a servant came out, bringing the King's cloak and his boots to be cleaned of mud." Starling gave me a small smile. "The boots were immense."
"And you know the size of the King's feet?" I knew she was correct. Regal had small hands and feet, and was more vain of them than many a court lady.
"I've never been to court. But a few of those better born at our keep had been up to Buckkeep for occasions. They spoke much of the handsome youngest prince, of his fine manners and dark curling hair. And his tiny feet, and how well he danced on them." She shook her head. "I knew it was not King Regal in that room. The rest was easy to deduce. They had come to Blue Lake too promptly following the killings of the guards. They came for you."
"Perhaps," I conceded. I was beginning to have a high opinion of Starling's wits. "Tell me more of the smugglers. How did you come to hear of them?"
She shook her head, smiling. "If you strike a bargain with them, it will be through me. And I shall be a part of it."
"How are they getting to the Mountains?" I asked.
She looked at me. "If you were a smuggler, would you tell others what route you used?" Then she shrugged. "I've heard gossip that smugglers have a way to cross the river. An old way. I know there was once a trade route that went upriver and then across. It fell out of favor when the river became so unpredictable. Since the bad fires a few years back, the river floods every year. When it does, it shifts in its bed. So the regular traders have come to rely more on boats than on a bridge that may or may not be intact." She paused to gnaw briefly at a thumbnail. "I think that at one time there was a bridge a way upstream, but after the river washed it out for the fourth consecutive year, no one had the heart to rebuild it. Someone else told me that in summer there is a pulley ferry, and that they used to cross on the ice in winter. In the years when the river freezes. Maybe they are hoping the river will freeze this year. My own thought is, when trade is stopped in one place, it starts in another. There will be a way across."
I frowned. "No. There must be another way to the Mountains."
Starling seemed mildly insulted that I'd doubt her. "Ask about it yourself, if you choose. You might enjoy waiting with the King's Guard that strut all about the waterfront. But most folk will tell you to wait for spring. A few will tell you that if you want to get there in the winter, you don't start from here. You could go south, around Blue Lake entirely. From there, I gather there are several trade routes to the Mountains, even in winter."
"By the time I did that, it would be spring. I could get to the Mountains just as quickly by waiting it out here."
"That's another thing I've been told," Starling agreed smugly.
I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. Come to me. "Are there no close, easy ways across that damnable lake?"
"No. If there were an easy way to cross, there would not still be guardsmen infesting the entire waterfront."
There seemed no other choice for me. "Where would I find these smugglers?"
Starling grinned broadly. "Tomorrow, I will take you to them," she promised. She rose and stretched. "But tonight I must take myself to the Gilded Pin. I have not sung my songs there yet, but yesterday I was invited. I've heard their clients can be quite generous to traveling minstrels." She stooped to gather up her well-wrapped harp. I rose as she picked up her still-damp cloak.
"I must be on my way as well," I said politely.
"Why not sleep here?" she offered. "Less chance of being recognized and a lot fewer vermin in this room." A smile twisted the corner of her mouth as she looked at my hesitant face. "If I wanted to sell you to the King's Guard, I could have done it. As alone as you are, FitzChivalry, you had better decide to trust someone."
When she called me by my name, it was as if something twisted inside me. And yet, "Why?" I asked her softly. "Why do you aid me? And don't tell me it's the hope of a song that may never be."
"That shows how little you understand minstrels," she said. "There is no more powerful lure for one than that. But I suppose there is more. No. I know there is." She looked up at me suddenly, her eyes meeting mine squarely. "I had a little brother. Jay. He was a guard stationed at the Antler Island Tower. He saw you fight the day the Raiders came." She gave a brief snort of laughter. "Actually, you stepped over him. You sank your axe into the man who had just struck him down. And waded deeper into the battle without even a glance back at him." She looked at me from the corner of her eye. "That is why I sing `Antler Tower Raid' slightly differently from any other minstrel. He told me of it, and I sing you as he saw you. A hero. You saved his life."
She looked abruptly aside from me. "For a time, anyway. He died later, fighting for Buck. But for a time, he lived because of your axe." She stopped speaking, and swung her cloak around her shoulders. "Stay here," she told me. "Rest. I won't be back until late. You can have the bed until then, if you want."
She whisked out the door without waiting for a reply. I stood for a time staring at the closed door. FitzChivalry. Hero. Just words. But it was as if she had lanced something inside me, drained away some poison, and now I could heal. It was the strangest feeling. Get some sleep, I advised myself. I actually felt as if I could.