But to your most pressing question. I have seen no “silvery river or stream.” And as I traveled there on the Rain Wild River and then up one of its tributaries, I assure you that I saw a great many rivers and streams feeding into that vast waterway. They were gray with silt. I suppose they might appear silvery in some lights.
However, I think I have had tidings of what it is that you seek. It is not a river, but a well. Silvery stuff rises within it, and the dragons seem to find it almost intoxicating. The location of this well and its very existence are supposed to be a great secret, but for one who can hear dragons, their clamor when the stuff rises close enough to the surface for them to drink betrays it. At other times, I imagine it must be drawn up in a bucket for them. I was obliged to keep my questions on this topic oblique. Two of the young keepers have little tolerance for brandy, and we had a lovely wandering conversation until their commander arrived and berated them and threatened me. This Rapskal seems a very unsettled sort of person, capable of carrying out his various threats against me if he found me encouraging his men to drunkenness. He demanded that I leave Kelsingra, and the next morning I was escorted from my accommodations to the next departing ship. He did not ban me from the city as I have heard other travelers and entrepreneurs have been banned, but I think I shall let some time pass before I attempt another visit.
I will anticipate your next letter of credit and your queries. I am still quartered at the Splintered Fid, and messages sent to that inn will reach me.
It was dawn when I fell facedown on my bed. I was exhausted. I had climbed the stairs, eager as a boy to tell the Fool all that had transpired, only to find him soundly asleep. For a time, I had sat by his bed, wishing he could have been there with me. When I dozed off in the chair, I’d surrendered and tottered back down the stairs to my bed. I closed my eyes and slept. I sank into sweet oblivion, and then jerked awake as if someone had stuck a pin in me. I could not free myself from the sensation that something was wrong: terribly, terribly wrong.
I could not sleep. Danger, danger, danger thrummed through my nerves. I seldom felt such unease without a reason. Years ago, my wolf had always been at my back, using his keener sense to warn me of lurking intruders or unseen watches. He was gone these many years, but in this he remained. When something prickled against my senses, I had learned to pay attention.
I remained perfectly still on my bed. I heard only what I expected to hear, the winter wind outside my window, the soft sounds of the fire, my own breathing. I smelled nothing beyond my own smells. I opened my eyes to slits, feigning sleep still, and studied what I could of the room. Nothing. With Wit and Skill, I sensed all around me. There was nothing to alarm me. And yet I could not shake my anxiety. I closed my eyes. Sleep. Sleep.
I slept, but I did not rest. My heart was a wolf, hunting over snow hills, not for prey but for his lost pack. Hunting and hunting and hunting. Howling out my pain to the night, I ran and ran and ran. I woke sweaty and still in my clothes. I had a moment of stillness and then heard the tiny scratch at my door. My senses remained wolf-sharpened from my dream. I crossed the room and opened the door while Ash was still poking at the lock.
Without a trace of embarrassment, he removed the pick from the lock, stooped, picked up the breakfast tray, and carried it into my room. Moving efficiently, he set out my breakfast. Then he moved a small table that had been by my bed. He unslung a pouch from his shoulder, removed papers from it, and laid them out in orderly rows.
“What are those? Are they from Chade?”
He pointed to each category. “Letters of congratulation. Invitations. Petitions for you to use your influence. I did not read them all, only the ones that looked useful. I expect you will have a host of them every day now.”
My unwanted correspondence arranged, he looked around my chamber for his next task. I was still grasping that reading my private correspondence was part of what he considered his duty. I saw only a shadow of disapproval in his eyes as he took in my rumpled clothes before he offered, “Have you any washing, my lord? I should be happy to take it to the laundry folk.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. But I don’t think guests use the washerfolk that way. And I am not your lord.”
“Sir, I do believe all of that changed last night. Prince FitzChivalry, I should be greatly honored to convey your dirty smallclothes to the washerfolk.” A grin twitched and then disappeared.
“Are you being cheeky with me?” I was incredulous.
He lowered his eyes and observed quietly, “Not cheeky, sir. But one bastard may rejoice at another lowborn’s good fortune, and dream of better days for himself.” He cocked his head at me. “Chade has had me hard at learning the history of the Six Duchies. Did you know that one queen-in-waiting actually gave birth to a bastard, and that he rose to be King of the Six Duchies?”
“Not quite. You are thinking of the Piebald Prince. And that did not end well for him at all.” His cousin had killed him for being Witted and had taken the throne.
“Perhaps not.” He glanced at my breakfast tray and tugged the napkin straight. “But he had a moment, didn’t he? Someday, I’d like a moment. Does it seem fair to you that how we are born determines how we are seen for the rest of our lives? Must I always be the son of a whore, a bawdyhouse errand boy? A few promises and a ring, and you might have been the king. Did you never think of that?”
“No,” I lied. “It was one of the first lessons I had from Chade. Think of what is and don’t let what might have been distract you.”
He nodded to that. “Well, being Lady Rosemary’s apprentice is definitely a step up in my life. And if the opportunity presents itself, I will imagine a better status for myself. I respect Lord Chade, but if one only remains what one is today, well . . .” He tipped his head at me with a speculative look.
That stung, a bit. “Well. No offense taken, Ash, and if you continue with your lessons and your present master, then yes, I think you can rightly dream of better days.”
“Thank you, sir. Your clothes, then?”
“A moment.” As I began to strip off my sweaty shirt and crumpled trousers, Ash went to Lord Feldspar’s traveling trunk and began to pull out garments. “This won’t do,” I heard him mutter. “Nor this. Not now. What’s this? Perhaps.”
But when I turned back to him to accept the clothing he was offering me, his eyes were very wide. “What’s wrong?”
“Sir, what happened to your back? Were you attacked? Should I request a private guard for you? One on your door?”
I reached around to touch the sore spots on my back. I was startled that they were not completely healed. One was still oozing and two others were sore to the touch. And I could not think of a ready lie to explain what must look like a number of small puncture wounds on my back. “A bizarre accident, not an attack. My shirt, please.” I tried to sound as if I were accustomed to having some young man as my valet. Wordlessly, he shook it out and held it open for me. I turned and met his eyes. He glanced away. He knew I was lying about my back. But was I? It had been, after all, a bizarre accident. I said nothing as I accepted clean smallclothes, trousers, and stockings. I was pleased that he had chosen clothes far more sensible than those Lord Feldspar had been flaunting. There were still a multitude of buttons, but fewer that poked me. My boots, newly cleaned, were ready for me. I felt a measure of relief as I sat down to put them on. “Thank you. You’re good at this.”