Fool’s Fate

‘Ew. Don’t all the little legs tickle?’

‘No. It’s a dream, remember? You don’t have to keep the unpleasant parts.’

‘You never have nightmares, do you?’ I asked in admiration.

‘I think that I used to, when I was very small. But I don’t any more. Why would anyone stay in a dream that didn’t please her?’

‘Not all of us can control our dreams the way you can, child. You should count it as a blessing.’

‘Do you have nightmares?’

‘Sometimes. Don’t you recall where you found me last time, crossing that talus slope?’

‘Oh. Yes, I remember that. But I thought it was something you liked to do. Some men like doing dangerous things, you know.’

‘Perhaps. But some of us have had our fill of that, and would avoid nightmares if we could.’

She nodded slowly. ‘My mother has terrible nightmares sometimes. Even when I go into them and tell her to come out, she won’t. She either won’t or can’t see me. And my father … I know he has bad dreams, because sometimes he shouts aloud. But I can’t find my way into his dreams at all.’ She stopped for a moment’s thought. ‘I think that’s why he started drinking again. When he’s drunk, he passes out instead of falling asleep. Do you think he could be hiding from his nightmares?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, and wished she had not told me such things. ‘I bring you news that may ease both of them, however. Swift is on his way back home.’

She clasped her hands together and took a deep breath. ‘Oh, thank you, Shadow Wolf. I knew you could help me.’

I tried to be stern. ‘I wouldn’t have to help you if you’d used common sense. Swift is far too young to be out and about on his own. You shouldn’t have helped him run away.’

‘I know that, now. But I didn’t then. Why can’t real life be like dreams? In a dream, if something starts to go wrong, you can simply change it.’ She lifted her hands to her shoulders and smoothed them down the front of her gown. Suddenly, she was wearing a dress of poppy petals. ‘See? No tickly legs now. You just have to tell the parts you don’t like to go away.’

‘Like you send away the dragon?’

‘The dragon?’

‘You know who I mean. Tintaglia. She appears small at first, as a lizard or a bee and then becomes larger until you vanquish her.’

‘Oh. Her.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘She only comes when you do. I thought she was a part of your dream.’

‘No. She’s not a part of anyone’s dream. She’s as real as you and me.’ It suddenly disturbed me that Nettle had not perceived that. Had our dream conversations exposed her to a greater danger than I knew?

‘Who is she, then, when she is awake?’

‘I told you. She’s a dragon.’

‘There’s no such thing as dragons,’ she declared with a laugh, shocking me into momentary silence.

‘You don’t believe in dragons? Then who saved the Six Duchies from the Red Ship raiders?’

‘Soldiers and sailors, mostly, I suppose. It hardly matters anyway, does it? It happened so long ago.’

‘It matters a great deal to some of us,’ I muttered. ‘Especially to the ones who were there.’

‘I’m sure it does. Yet I’ve noticed that few if any can tell a straight tale of exactly what happened to save the Six Duchies. Just that they saw the dragons in the distance and that the next thing they knew, the Red Ships were sinking or broken. And the dragons were almost out of sight.’

‘Dragons have a strange effect upon people’s memories,’ I explained to her. ‘They … they seem to absorb them as they pass over people. Like a cloth wiping up spilled beer.’

She grinned up at me. ‘So, if that’s true, why doesn’t Tintaglia have that effect on us? How is it we can remember her being in our dreams?’

I held up a warning hand. ‘Let’s not use her name any more. I’ve no wish to encounter her again. As to why we can remember her, well, I think it is because she comes to us as a dream creature rather than in the flesh. Or it could be that she does not take our memories because she is a creature of flesh and blood, instead of …’

I recalled to whom I was speaking and halted. I was telling her too much. If I did not guard my tongue, soon I’d be telling her about Skill-carving dragons from memory stone, and how those creatures were the Elderlings of tale and song.

‘Go on.’ She urged me. ‘If Tintaglia is not of flesh and blood, then what else could she be? And why does she always ask us about a black dragon? Are you going to say that he is real, too?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said cautiously. ‘I don’t even know if he exists at all. Let’s not talk of that, just now.’ I had felt nervous ever since she had mentioned Tintaglia’s name. The word seemed to shimmer in the air, as betraying as the smoke from a cook-fire.

But if there was any truth to the old summoning magic of a name, we were spared that night. I bade her farewell. Somehow, in leaving her dream I re-entered my old nightmare. The sliding pebbles of the steep slope promptly rolled away under my feet. I was falling, falling to my death. I heard Nettle’s out-flung cry of, ‘Change it to flying, Shadow Wolf! Make it a flying dream instead,’ but I did not know how to heed her. Instead, I jerked upright in my narrow cot in the barracks.

Morning was near, and most of the beds were filled now. Yet there was still a small time left for sleep. I tried to find it, but could not, and arose earlier than usual. None of my fellows were stirring. I put on my new uniform, and spent some time trying to persuade my hair to stay out of my face. I had shorn it for grief at Nighteyes’ death, and it had not yet grown enough to stay bound back in a warrior’s tail. I tied it back into a ridiculous stub, knowing it would soon pull free to hang about my face and brow.

I went to the guardroom and ate heartily of a lavish breakfast the kitchens had prepared for us. I knew I was bidding farewell to land food for a time, and availed myself of hot meat, fresh bread and porridge with honey and cream. Meals on the ship would depend on the weather, and most of it would be salted, dried and plainly cooked. If the water were rough and the cook judged fire too dangerous, we’d get cold food and hard bread. The prospect did not cheer me.

I returned to the barracks to find most of the guard stirring to wakefulness. I watched the rest of the men-at-arms don their blue tunics and complain about the weight of wool cloaks on a warm spring day. Chade had never admitted it, but there were a half dozen of our company who, I suspected, were as much spies as guardsmen. There was a quiet watchfulness about them that made me think they saw more than they seemed to.

Riddle, a youngster of about twenty, was most emphatically not. He was as excited as I was jaded. A dozen times he consulted his mirror, paying particular attention to a rather new moustache. He was the one who insisted on loaning me pomade for my hair, saying he could not allow me to set forth on such an important day looking like a shaggy-haired farmer. He himself, dressed for display and seated on his bunk, tapped his feet impatiently on the floor and kept up a constant stream of chatter, everything from teasing me about the ornate hilt on my sword to demanding whether I knew if it was true that dragons could be slain only with an arrow to the eye. His loose energy was an annoying as a pacing dog. I was relieved when Longwick, our newly-appointed captain, tersely ordered us to form up outside.

Not that the order meant imminent departure. It meant only that it was time for us to stand in formation and wait. Guardsmen spend more time waiting than they ever do in drill or fighting. This morning was no exception. Before we were ordered to move, I’d listened to a very explicit account of all three of Hest’s liaisons of the night before, while Riddle helpfully asked detailed questions. When we did get the order to move, it was only as far as the courtyard in front of the main doors. Here we formed up around the Prince’s horse and groom, and waited some more. Servants and lackeys who, like ourselves, were dressed and deployed to show their masters’ importance, soon joined us. Some held horses’ heads, some leashed dogs and some, like us, merely stood, armed and attired and waiting.

Eventually the Prince and his entourage emerged. Thick was at his heels and Sada, the woman who tended him on such occasions, was right behind him. Dutiful spared no glance for me today; I was as faceless as the rest. The Queen and her men preceded us, while Councillor Chade and his escort came immediately behind us. I spotted Civil, with his cat by his side chatting with Web as they found their places in the procession. Despite Chade’s objection, the Queen had announced that several of her ‘Old Blood friends’ would travel with the Prince. The court reaction had been mixed, with some saying that we’d soon see if Old Blood magic was good for anything and others muttering that at least it got the beast-magickers out of Buckkeep.

Behind them came the favoured nobles who would accompany the Prince, both to curry favour with him and to investigate trading opportunities in the Out Islands. Behind them trailed those who would bid us farewell and then enjoy Spring Fest. But although I craned my neck, I saw no sign of Lord Golden as the procession formed up. By the time Dutiful was up and mounted and we were striding out of the gate, it seemed as if all of Buckkeep Castle were following us. I was grateful to be in the forefront, for by the time all passed, the road would be a trampled mire of mud and manure.

We reached the ships but could not simply load and depart. There were speeches and presentations of flowers and last-minute gifts. I had half-expected to find Lord Golden and his baggage and servants still camped out on the docks but there was no sign of them. I wondered uneasily what had happened. He was a resourceful man. Had he managed to find a way aboard the ship?

I sweated through the formalities. Then we moved aboard the ship, flanking the Prince, who went to his cabin, where he would receive farewell visits from the nobles who were not accompanying him, while those who were to be passengers boarded the ship and settled. Some of us were stationed outside the Prince’s cabin, but the rest, including myself, were sent below decks, to be out of the way.

I spent most of that miserable afternoon sitting on my sea chest. Above me, the planks resounded with the noise of people coming and going. Somewhere a dog barked in a continuous frenzy. It was like being stuck inside a cask while someone beat on the outside of it. A dim, smelly cask, I amended to myself, with the rising stink of the bilges, elbow to elbow with men who thought they had to shout to be heard. I tried to distract myself by wondering what had become of the Fool, but that only increased my sensation of suffocation. I bowed my chin down to my chest, closed my eyes and tried to be alone.

It didn’t work.

Riddle perched on my sea chest beside me. ‘Eda’s tits, but it stinks down here! Think it’ll get worse when we’re underway and the bilge is sloshing around?’

‘Probably.’ I didn’t want to think of that before it happened. I’d travelled by sea before, but on those voyages, I’d slept on the deck, or at least had free access to it. Here, in the confined darkness, even the rhythmic swaying of the ship against its mooring was giving me a headache.

‘Well.’ He kicked his heels against the chest, sending the vibration up my spine into my head. ‘I never have been to sea before. Have you?’

‘Once or twice. On little boats, where I had light and air. Not like this.’

‘Oh. Ever been to the Out Islands?’

‘No.’