Fool's Quest (2 page)

On the shelf below were mortars and pestles, knives for chopping, sieves for straining, and several small, heavy pots for rendering. There were stained metal spoons, neatly racked. Below them was a row of small clay pots that puzzled me at first. They were no bigger than my fist, glazed a shiny brown, as were their tight-fitting lids. They were sealed shut with tar except for a hole in the middle of each lid. A tail of twisted waxed linen emerged from each hole. I hefted one cautiously and then understood. Chade had told me that his experiments with exploding powder had been progressing. These represented his most recent advance in how to kill people. I set the pot back carefully. The tools of the killing trade that I had forsaken stood in rows like faithful troops. I sighed, but not out of regret, and turned away from them. The Fool slept on.

I tidied the dishes from our late-night repast onto a tray and otherwise brought the chamber to rights. The tub of bathwater, now cold and gray, remained, as did the repulsively soiled undergarment the Fool had worn. I did not even dare to burn it on the hearth for fear of the stench it would emit. I did not feel disgust, only pity. My own clothing from the day before was still covered in blood, from both a dog and the Fool. I told myself it was not all that noticeable on the dark fabric. Then, thinking again, I went to investigate the old carved wardrobe that had always stood beside the bed. At one time, it had held only Chade's work robes, all of them of serviceable gray wool and most of them stained or scorched from his endless experiments. Only two work robes hung there now, both dyed blue and too small for me. There was also, to my surprise, a woman's nightrobe, two simple shifts, and a pair of black leggings that would have been laughably short on me. Ah. These were Lady Rosemary's things. Nothing here for me.

It disturbed me to slip quietly from the rooms and leave the Fool sleeping, but I had errands to carry out. I suspected that someone would be sent in to do the cleaning and to supply the room afresh, and I did not like to leave him there unconscious and vulnerable. But at that point, I knew I owed Chade my trust. He had provided all for us the previous evening, despite his pressing duties.

The Six Duchies and the Mountain Kingdom sought to negotiate alliances, and to that end powerful representatives had been invited to Buckkeep Castle for the week of Winterfest. Yet even in the middle of an evening of feasting, music, and dancing, not only Chade but King Dutiful and his mother, Lady Kettricken, had found time to slip away and greet me and the Fool, and Chade had still found a way to have this chamber well supplied with all we needed. He would not be careless of my friend. Whoever he sent to this chamber would be discreet.

Chade. I took a breath and reached for him with the Skill-magic. Our minds brushed
. Chade? The Fool is asleep and I've some errands that I'd like—

Yes, yes, fine. Not now, Fitz. We're discussing the Kelsingra situation. If they are not willing to control their dragons, we may have to form an alliance to deal with the creatures. I've made provisions for you and your guest. There is coin in a purse on the blue shelf if you need it. But now I must put my full attention to this. Bingtown claims that Kelsingra may actually be seeking an alliance with the Duchess of Chalced!

Oh.
I withdrew. Abruptly, I felt like a child who had interrupted the adults discussing important things. Dragons. An alliance against dragons. Alliance with whom? Bingtown? And what could anyone hope to do against dragons, save bribe them with enough meat to stupefy them? Would not befriending the arrogant carnivores be better than challenging them? I felt unreasonably snubbed that my opinion had not been consulted.

And in the next instant I chided myself.
Let Chade and Dutiful and Elliania and Kettricken manage the dragons. Walk away, Fitz.

I lifted a tapestry and slipped into the labyrinth of secret corridors that wormed its way behind the walls of Buckkeep Castle. Once I had known the spy-ways as well as I knew the path to the stables. Despite the passing years, the narrow corridors that crept through interior walls or snaked along the outer walls of the castle had not changed.

But I had. I was no longer a skinny boy or even a youth. I was a man of sixty, and though I flattered myself that I was fit enough still to do a hard day's work, I was no longer limber and lithe. The narrow corners that I had once ferreted past without a thought now required a bit of negotiating. I reached the old pantry entrance and hunched by the concealed door, ear pressed to the wall, waiting for a quiet moment before I emerged behind a meat rack full of dangling sausages.

I was saved only by the benign chaos of Winterfest. When I stepped out of the pantry into the corridor, a large woman in a flour-dusted apron demanded to know what was taking me so long. “Did you find the goose-grease for me or not?”

“I, I didn't see it there,” I replied and she responded tartly, “That's because you went into the wrong pantry! Go along two more doors, down a flight of steps, take the second door to the cold room, and look for it there, in a big brown crock on a shelf. Hurry up!”

She spun around and left me standing. As she walked away, she muttered loudly about hiring new help right before a feast-day. I blew out a nervous breath and turned to find a fellow of about my height and build laboring up the corridor with a heavy brown crock in his arms. I followed him and as he went into the kitchens, I stepped past the kitchen door and its exhaled aroma of fresh bread, steaming soups, and roasting meats and hurried outside.

In the teeming courtyard of Buckkeep Castle on a wintry day, I was just one more man rushing on an urgent errand. I looked up at the sky in surprise. Past noon. I had slept far longer than I'd intended. A brief break in the storms had bared the midday sun, but more snow was surely coming our way. Now I regretted how impulsively I had discarded my cloak the day before. I'd be lucky to regain the keep before the snow came down.

I went first to the infirmary, hoping to apologize to Riddle privately. But it was busier than usual, for apparently some of our guardsmen had gotten into a bit of a brawl last night. No great damage to any of them, save for one fellow who had been bitten on the cheek. The ugliness of that was enough to make anyone wince. Again, the noise and disorder were my allies as I swiftly discovered that Riddle was no longer there. I left, hoping that he was well recovered by now but surmising that he was actually recuperating someplace more conducive to rest. I stood outside the infirmary deciding what I should do next.

I hefted my purse. The coins I had hoped to spend to delight my little daughter still weighted it heavily—now supplemented by what Chade had left me. I had loaded my purse well at Withywoods in the belief that I would indulge her in every possible way on that market day in Oaksbywater. Had it been only yesterday? Bleakness washed over me. What I had intended as a day of pleasure and indulgence had ended in violence and bloodshed. To save the Fool's life, I had sent her home without me, in the dubious guardianship of Scribe FitzVigilant and Lady Shun. Little Bee, only nine and looking more like a six-year-old. I wondered what sort of day she was having. Nettle had promised to send a bird to let her know I had arrived safely at Buckkeep, and I knew that my elder daughter would never fail me at such a task. So, later today, I would write letters, to FitzVigilant and Revel, but most especially to Bee. A top-notch messenger on a good horse could have them there in three days. Four if more snow fell … For now the bird message would have to suffice. And while I had this time, I would take myself to Buckkeep Town, not just to buy myself a fresh set of garb with Chade's coin but also to buy more gifts for Bee. Winterfest gifts, I decided, to show her I had thought of her even if I could not be with her. I'd indulge myself by indulging her! Even if my gifts would reach her days late.

I chose to hike down to the town rather than Skilling to Dutiful or Nettle to arrange a horse from the stables. Horses did not do well on the steeply cobbled streets, and Dutiful was doubtless still fully engaged with entertaining his trade delegations. Nettle was probably still very angry with me, as I well deserved. No harm in letting time cool her temper a bit.

I found the road wider than I recalled it, with trees cut back from the margin on both sides, and far fewer potholes and muddy swathes than I remembered. And the town was closer than it had been, for its sprawl of houses and shops had begun to crawl up the road to the castle. An area that once had been forest was now the outskirts of the town, with merchants of all sorts, a cheap tavern called the Buck Guard, and what I suspected was a whorehouse behind it. The door of the Bawdy Trout was off its hinges and a scowling innkeeper was repairing it. Past it, old Buckkeep Town was decked out for the feast-day to come, with garlands and evergreen boughs and brightly colored pennants. The streets were busy, not just with deliveries to taverns and inns, but with all the travelers and tradesfolk that prospered during a holiday.

It took some time for me to find the items I needed. In one shop that was obviously accustomed to catering to sailors and guardsmen, I found two cheap ready-made shirts that almost fit, a long vest of brown wool, a heavy cloak, and some trousers that would do for a time. I had to smile as I realized I had become accustomed to a much better quality of clothing. After giving that a thought, I went to a tailor's shop, where I was swiftly measured and clothing was promised before two days had passed. I feared I would be in Buckkeep at least that long, but mentioned that if the clothing was ready faster, I would pay a bonus. I fumbled my way through estimating the Fool's height and greatly diminished girth, and they told me that if I returned by late afternoon, they would have smallclothes and two serviceable house-robes for him. I told them he was ill and that soft fabrics would be appreciated. The coins I left with them promised swift work.

With that necessary shopping out of the way, I took myself down to where music and merry chaos dominated the streets. Here was the Winterfest of my youth: puppetry and juggling, song and dance, vendors offering sweets and savory treats, hedge-witches selling potions and charms, girls in holly wreaths and every noisy joy the heart could hope for. I missed Molly, and longed ardently to have Bee at my side, experiencing this with me.

I bought things for her. Ribbons with bells on them, sticks of candy, a silver necklace with three amber birds, a packet of spiced nuts, a green scarf with yellow stars woven in, a small belt-knife with a good horn handle, and then a canvas bag to carry it all in. It came to me that a messenger could just as easily take this bag to her as a simple letter from me, and so I filled it. A necklace made from speckled seashells from some faraway beach, a pomander for her winter woolens chest, and on until the bag would barely close. For the moment, it was a blue-sky day, with a fresh wind that tasted of the ocean. A gem of a day, and I enjoyed imagining her delight in all the trinkets she would discover in this bag. As I loitered amid the merriment, I thought of the words I would write to go with it, in letters written plain and clear that she might read my thoughts herself and know how much I regretted leaving her. But soon the wind brought a fresh bank of dark-gray snow clouds scudding in. Time to return to the castle.

I stopped by the tailor's shop on my way back and was rewarded with garments for the Fool. As I left, lowering clouds that had been on the horizon stole in. Snow began to fall and the wind bared its teeth as I hurried up the steep road back to the castle. I was passed in at the gate as easily as I had left: The trade delegation and the merrymaking of Winterfest meant that the guards had been ordered to be generous in whom they admitted.

But it reminded me there was still a problem I'd soon have to solve. I needed an identity. Since I had shaved my beard to please my daughter, not only the staff of Withywoods but even Riddle had been astonished at my youthful appearance. After all the years I'd been absent from Buckkeep Castle, I feared to introduce myself as Tom Badgerlock, and not just because the streak of white in my hair that had prompted that name was long gone. The folk who recalled Tom Badgerlock would expect a man of sixty years, not someone who looked to be in his middle thirties.

Instead of using the kitchen entrance, I went to a side hall and entered through a door mostly reserved for couriers and higher-status servants. My bulging bag gained me entry, and to the one under-steward who asked my business, I replied that I had a parcel for Lady Nettle and I was allowed to pass.

The wall hangings and furniture of the castle had changed over the years, but the basic hierarchy of chambers remained as it had been since my boyhood. I went up a servants' stair, gained the floor reserved for lesser nobility, spent a small amount of time apparently waiting for someone to let me into an apartment there, and, as soon as the corridor was cleared, successfully gained access to the next floor and the door to Lady Thyme's old chambers. The key turned smoothly and I entered the room. The concealed entrance to Chade's old chamber was through a wardrobe of musty old women's clothing.

My crawl through the wardrobe was as ungainly as it had been the night before, and I found myself wondering if all Chade's secrecy was truly needed. I knew the Fool had asked for these rooms because he still feared pursuit, but I trusted that our passage through the stones would thwart anyone who had been following him. Then I recalled how the White girl had died, with parasites eating her eyes, and decided that caution was ever the better path. Keeping the Fool well hidden could do no harm.

One of Chade's secretive minions had visited those chambers while I was gone. I needed to meet him. Or her. The Fool's filthy garments had been taken and the tub had been emptied and pushed into the corner. Last night's dishes and glasses had been tidied away. A heavy stoneware pot was lidded deep in the hearth, but the smell of braised beef had still escaped to flavor the room. A cloth had been spread on the table, and a loaf wrapped in a clean yellow napkin reposed next to a small dish of pale winter butter. There was a dusty bottle of red wine and a couple of cups, alongside plates and cutlery.