I awoke near dawn and reported to Burrich after a hearty breakfast. I was quick at my chores and attentive to my charges and could not at all understand why he had awakened so headachy and grumpy. He muttered something once about “his father’s head for spirits” and then dismissed me early, telling me to take my whistling elsewhere.
Three days later King Shrewd summoned me in the dawn. He was already dressed, and there was a tray and food for more than one person set out on it. As soon as I arrived, he sent away his man and told me to sit. I took a chair at the small table in his room, and without asking me if I were hungry, he served me food with his own hand and sat down across from me to eat himself. The gesture was not lost on me, but even so I could not bring myself to eat much. He spoke only of the food, and said nothing of bargains or loyalty or keeping one’s word. When he saw I had finished eating, he pushed his own plate away. He shifted uncomfortably.
“It was my idea,” he said suddenly, almost harshly. “Not his. He never approved of it. I insisted. When you’re older, you’ll understand. I can take no chances, not on anyone. But I promised him that you’d know this right from me. It was all my own idea, never his. And I will never ask him to try your mettle in such a way again. On that you have a king’s word.”
He made a motion that dismissed me. And I rose, but as I did so I took from his tray a little silver knife, all engraved, that he had been using to cut fruit with. I looked him in the eyes as I did so, and quite openly slipped it up my sleeve. King Shrewd’s eyes widened, but he said not a word.
Two nights later, when Chade summoned me, our lessons resumed as if there had never been a pause. He talked, I listened, I played his stone game and never made an error. He gave me an assignment, and we made small jokes together. He showed me how Slink the weasel would dance for a sausage. All was well between us again. But before I left his chambers that night, I walked to his hearth. Without a word, I placed the knife on the center of his mantel shelf. Actually, I drove it, blade first, into the wood of the shelf. Then I left without speaking of it or meeting his eyes. In fact, we never spoke of it.
I believe that the knife is still there.
6
Chivalry’s Shadow
There are two traditions about the custom of giving royal offspring names suggestive of virtues or abilities. The one that is most commonly held is that somehow these names are binding; that when such a name is attached to a child who will be trained in the Skill, somehow the Skill melds the name to the child, and the child cannot help but grow up to practice the virtue ascribed to him or her by name. This first tradition is most doggedly believed by those same ones most prone to doff their caps in the presence of minor nobility.
A more ancient tradition attributes such names to accident, at least initially. It is said that King Taker and King Ruler, the first two of the Outislanders to rule what would become the Six Duchies, had no such names at all. Rather that their names in their own foreign tongue were very similar to the sounds of such words in the Duchies’ tongue, and thus came to be known by their homonyms rather than by their true names. But for the purposes of royalty, it is better to have the common folk believe that a boy given a noble name must grow to have a noble nature.
“Boy!”
I lifted my head. Of the half dozen or so other lads lounging about before the fire, no one else even flinched.
The girls took even less notice as I moved up to take my place at the opposite side of the low table where Master Fedwren knelt. He had mastered some trick of inflection that let all know when boy meant “boy” and when it meant “the bastard.”
I tucked my knees under the low table and sat on my feet, then presented Fedwren with my sheet of pith paper. As he ran his eyes down my careful columns of letters, I let my attention wander.
Winter had harvested us and stored us here in the Great Hall. Outside, a sea storm lashed the walls of the keep while breakers pounded the cliffs with a force that occasionally sent a tremor through the stone floor beneath us. The heavy overcast had stolen even the few hours of watery daylight that winter had left us. It seemed to me that a darkness lay over us like a fog, both outside and within. The dimness penetrated my eyes, so that I felt sleepy without feeling tired. For a brief moment I let my senses expand and felt the winter sluggishness of the hounds where they dozed and twitched in the corners. Not even there could I find a thought or image to interest me.
Fires burned in all three of the big hearths, and different groups had gathered before each. At one, fletchers busied themselves with their work, lest tomorrow be a clear enough day to allow for a hunt. I longed to be there, for Sherf’s mellow voice was rising and falling in the telling of some tale, broken frequently with appreciative laughter from her listeners. At the end hearth, children’s voices piped along in the chorus of a song. I recognized it as the Shepherd’s Song, a counting tune. A few watchful mothers tapped toes as they tatted at their lacemaking while Jerdon’s withered old fingers on the harp strings kept the young voices almost in tune.
Here, at our hearth, children old enough to sit still and learn letters did so. Fedwren saw to that. His sharp blue eyes missed nothing. “Here,” he said to me, pointing. “You’ve forgotten to cross their tails. Remember how I showed you? Justice, open your eyes and get back to your pen work. Doze off again and I’ll let you bring us another log for the fire. Charity, you can help him if you smirk again. Other than that” — and his attention was suddenly back on my work again—“your lettering is much improved, not only on these Duchian characters, but on the Outislander runes as well. Though those can’t really be properly brushed onto such poor paper. The surface is too porous, and takes the ink too well. Good pounded bark sheets are what you want for runes,” and he ran a finger appreciatively over the sheet he was working on. “Continue to show this type of work, and before winter’s out I’ll let you make me a copy of Queen Bidewell’s Remedies. What do you say to that?”
I tried to smile and be properly flattered. Copy work was not usually given to students; good paper was too rare, and one careless brushstroke could ruin a sheet. I knew the Remedies was a fairly simple set of herbal properties and prophecies, but any copying was an honor to aspire to. Fedwren gave me a fresh sheet of pith paper. As I rose to return to my place he lifted a hand to stop me. “Boy?”
I paused.
Fedwren looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know who to ask this of, except you. Properly, I’d ask your parents, but . . .” Mercifully he let the sentence die. He scratched his beard meditatively with his inkstained fingers. “Winter’s soon over, and I’ll be on my way again. Do you know what I do in summer, boy? I wander all the Six Duchies, getting herbs and berries and roots for my inks, and making provisions for the papers I need. It’s a good life, walking free on the roads in summers and guesting at the keep here all winter. There’s much to be said for scribing for a living.” He looked at me meditatively. I looked back, wondering what he was getting at.
“I take an apprentice, every few years. Some of them work out, and go on to do scribing for the lesser keeps. Some don’t. Some don’t have the patience for the detail, or the memory for the inks. I think you would. What would you think about becoming a scribe?”