Fool’s Quest

Oh, Web, what have you got me into? I could not, could not, take in another orphan. She would have to fend for herself. That was all. I would have to hope that she would make her way back to him. I wished he had not sent her in search of me. I hardened my heart and went into the tailor’s shop.

My new accoutrements were a very short blue cape with a trim of snowflake lace in layers on it. I wondered if the tailor had jumbled Chade’s order with one for a lady, but the tailor and her husband gathered around me to try it on and make some adjustments to the ties. They then brought out the matching cuffs for my wrists and ankles. The tailor made a mouth at the sight of my distinctly unfashionable boots but agreed that they were probably more suitable for the snow. I promised her that the lace cuffs would be worn with my most fashionable bell-toed shoes, and she appeared mollified. The lad that had delivered the order had paid them in advance, so all I had to do was accept the package and be on my way.

As I came out of the shop, the light of the short winter afternoon was starting to leak away. Cold was settling on the town, and the traffic in the streets had thinned. I did not look toward the crow hunched under the eaves nor at her gathered tormentors. I turned my steps toward Buckkeep. ‘Tom! Tom!’ she cried after me, but I kept walking.

Then, ‘Fitz! Fitz!’ she cawed shrilly. Despite myself, my steps faltered. I kept my eyes on the path before me as I saw others turning to stare at the crow. I heard the frantic beating of wings and then heard her shriek, ‘Fitz—Chivalry! Fitz—Chivalry!’

Beside me, a thin woman clasped her knotted hands to her breast. ‘He’s come back!’ she cried. ‘As a crow!’ To that, I had to turn, lest others mark how I ignored this sensation.

‘Ar, it’s just some fellow’s tamed crow,’ a man declared disdainfully. We all turned our eyes skyward. The hapless bird was flying up as high as she could, with the mob in pursuit.

‘I heard you split a crow’s tongue, you can teach it to talk,’ the chestnut vendor volunteered.

‘Fitz—Chivalry!’ she shrieked again as a larger crow struck her. She lost her momentum and tumbled in the air, caught herself, and flapped bravely, but she had fallen to a level below the murder of crows and now they all mobbed her. In twos and threes they dived on her, striking her, tearing out feathers that floated in the still air. She fought the air to try to stay aloft, helpless to protect herself from the birds that were mobbing her.

‘It’s an omen!’ someone shouted.

‘It’s FitzChivalry in beast form!’ a woman cried out. ‘The Witted Bastard has returned!’

And in that instant, terror swept through me. Had I thought I recalled earlier what the Fool was enduring? No. I had forgotten the icy flood of certainty that every hand was against me, that the good people of Buck dressed in their holiday finery would tear me apart with their bare hands, just as the flock of crows was tearing that lone bird apart. I felt sick with fear, in my legs and in my belly. I began to walk away and at every step I thought they must see how my legs quivered, how white my face had gone. I gripped my package with both hands and tried to walk on as if I were the only one uninterested in the aerial battle overhead.

‘He’s falling!’ someone shouted, and I had to halt and look up.

But she wasn’t falling. She’d tucked her wings as if she were a hawk and was diving. Diving straight at me.

An instant to see that, and then she had hit me. ‘I’ll help you, sir!’ the chestnut vendor shouted and started toward me, his tongs raised to strike the flapping bird tangled in my cloak. I hunched my shoulders and turned to take the blow for her as I wrapped her in the fabric.

Be still. You’re dead! It was the Wit I used to speak to her, with no idea if she would hear my thoughts. She had become still as soon as I covered her and I thought it likely she actually was dead. What would Web say to me? Then I saw my foolish hat and flopping wig lying in the street before me. I snatched it up and under the guise of catching my parcel to my chest I held the crow firm as well. I whirled on the well-meaning chestnut vendor. ‘What do you mean by assaulting me?’ I shouted at him as I jammed hat and wig back onto my head. ‘How dare you humiliate me like this!’

‘Sir, I meant no ill!’ the vendor cried, falling back from me. ‘That crow—!’

‘Really? Then why did you charge at me and nearly knock me to the ground, if not to expose me to ridicule?’ I tugged vainly at my lopsided wig, settling it oddly on my head. I heard a boy laugh, and a mother rebuke him with barely-contained merriment. I glared in their direction and then one-handedly made my wig and hat worse. There were several guffaws from behind me. I whirled, letting my hat and wig nearly leave my head again. ‘Imbeciles! Ruffians! I shall see the Buckkeep town guards know about the dangers on this street! Assaulting visitors! Mocking a guest of the KING! I want you to know, I am cousin to the Duke of Farrow, and he will be hearing about this from me!’ I puffed out my cheeks and let my lower lip tremble in feigned rage. My shaking voice I did not have to manufacture. I felt half-sick with fear that someone would recognize me. The echo of my name seemed to hang in the air. I turned on my heel and did my best to flounce with indignation as I strode hastily away. I heard a little girl’s voice ask, ‘But where did that bird go?’

I did not loiter to see if anyone would answer her. My apparent discomfiture at losing my hat and wig seemed to have provided them with some amusement, as I had hoped. Several times before I was out of sight I made seemingly vain attempts to adjust both. When I judged I was far enough away, I stepped into an alley and drew up the hood of my cloak over my hat and wig. The crow was so still within the fold of my cloak that I feared she was truly dead. She had struck me quite hard, hard enough to break a bird’s neck I surmised. But my Wit told me that while she might be stunned and stilled, life still beat in her. I traversed the alley and walked down the winding way of Tinker Street until I found another, narrower alley. There I finally unfolded the wrap of cloak that cradled her still black body.

Her eyes were closed. Her wings were clapped neatly to her body. I have always been impressed with how birds could fold two limbs so smoothly that, had you never seen a bird before, you would believe it only had legs. I touched her gleaming black beak.

She opened a shining eye. I put a hand on her back, trapping her wings to her side. Not yet. Stay still until we are somewhere safe.

I felt no return of the Wit from her, but her obedience made me believe she had understood me. I arranged crow and parcel under my cloak and hurried on toward Buckkeep Castle. The road was better maintained and more travelled than it had once been, but it was still steep and icy in some places. The light was fading and the wind rising. The wind picked up snow crystals as scathing as sand and blasted them at me. Carts and wagons bearing provisions for this final evening of merry-making passed me. I was going to be late.

Inside my cloak, the crow had become restive. She shifted and clung to my shirtfront with beak and claws. I reached in to touch her and offer her support. She fluttered violently and the hand I drew back had fingertips of blood. I reached her with the Wit. Are you hurt?

My thought bounced back to me as if I had thrown a pebble at a wall. Despite that, her pain washed against me and prickled up my spine. I spoke aloud in a quiet voice. ‘Stay under my cloak. Climb up to my shoulder. I’ll keep still while you do that.’

For a time, she did not move. Then she gripped my shirt with her beak and climbed up me, reaching to claim a fresh beak-hold with every few steps. She became a lump on my shoulder under my cloak and then moved around to make me a hunchback. When she seemed settled, I straightened up slowly.

‘I think we’ll be fine,’ I told my passenger.

The winds had shepherded the clouds in and now they released a fresh fall of snow. It came down in thick clumps of flakes that whirled and danced in the wind. I bent my head and trudged up the steep hill toward the keep.

I was admitted back into the castle grounds without question. I could hear the music and the murmur of voices from the Great Hall. Already so late! The crow-mobbing had delayed me more than I had realized. I hastened past servants bearing trays, and well-dressed folk who were less late than I was and up the stairs. I kept my hood up, my gaze down and greeted no one. The moment I was inside my room, I lifted my snowy cloak away. The crow gripped the back of my collar and my wig was tangled in her feet. As soon as she was uncovered, she lifted from the nape of my neck and attempted to fly. With my wig and hat weighing her down, she plummeted to the floor.

‘Keep still. I’ll free you,’ I told her.

After several minutes of struggling, she lay on her side, one wing half-open and the hair of the wig snarled around her feet. The white pinions interspersed with the black ones were clearly visible now, the feathers that meant every other crow in the world would attempt to kill her. I sighed. ‘Now keep still and I’ll free you,’ I repeated. Her beak was open and she was gasping. One bright black eye stared up at me. I moved slowly. It seemed impossible that she had tangled her feet so thoroughly in such a short time. Drops of her blood were scattered on the floor. I spoke to her as I tried to untangle her. ‘Are you hurt badly? Did they stab you?’ With my Wit I tried to radiate calm and reassurance to her. Are you hurt? I offered the question, trying not to press against her boundaries. Her pain washed against me. She fluttered wildly, undoing much of my untangling effort, and then fell still again. ‘Are you hurt badly?’ I asked her again.

She closed her beak, looked at me and then croaked, ‘Plucked! Plucked my feathers!’

‘I see.’ Wonder at how many human words she knew mingled with relief that she could give me information. But a bird was not a wolf. Trying to interpret what I felt from her was difficult. There was pain and fear and a great deal of anger. If she had been my wolf, I would have known exactly where she was injured and how badly. This was like trying to communicate with someone who spoke a different language. ‘Let me try to get you free. I need to take you to a table and better light. May I pick you up?’

She blinked. ‘Water. Water. Water.’

‘And I will get you water, too.’ I tried not to think of how time was fleeting. As if in response to my worry, I felt a questioning twinge from Chade. Where was I? The queen had asked Dutiful to be sure I was present, a most unusual request from her.

I’ll be there soon, I promised, fervently hoping I would be. I triggered the secret door and then scooped the crow from the floor, holding her safely but loosely in my hands as I carried her up the dark stairway.

‘Fitz?’ the Fool asked anxiously before I had reached the last step. I could just make out his silhouette in the chair before the fire. The candles had burned out hours ago. My heart sank at the worry in his voice.

‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve an injured crow with me, and she’s tangled in my wig. I’ll explain in a moment, but for now I just need to set her down and get some light and give her water.’

‘You have a crow tangled in your wig?’ he asked, and for a wonder, there was a trace of both amusement and mockery in his voice. ‘Ah, Fitz. I can always trust you to have some sort of bizarre problem that breaks my ennui.’

‘Web sent her to me.’ In the darkness, I set her down on the table. She tried to stand, but the strands of hair wrapped her too well. She collapsed onto her side. ‘Be still, bird. I need to get some candles for light. Then I hope I’ll be able to untangle you.’

She remained quiescent, but day birds often go still in the dark. I groped through the dimly-lit chamber to find additional candles. By the time I had lit them, put them in holders and returned to the worktable, the Fool was already there. To my surprise, his knotted fingers were at work on the locks of hair that were wrapped so securely about the bird’s toes and legs. I set my candles down at the far end of the table and watched. The bird was still, her eyes occasionally blinking. The Fool’s fingers, once long, elegant and clever, were now like knotted dead twigs. He was speaking to her softly as he worked. The hand with the deadened fingertips gently bade her feet be still as the fingers of his other hand lifted and pulled at strands of hair. He spoke in a murmur like water over stones. ‘And this one must go under first. And now we can lift that toe from the loop. There. That’s one foot almost clear. Oh, that’s tight. Let me push this thread of hair under … there. There’s one foot cleared.’

The crow kicked the free leg abruptly, and then subsided as the Fool set his hand to her back. ‘You will be free in a moment. Be still, or the ropes will just get tighter. Struggling against ropes never works.’

Ropes. I held my silence. It took longer than a moment for him to untangle her second foot. I nearly offered him scissors, but he was so intent on his task, so removed from his own misery that I banished my concerns about the passing time and let them be. ‘There you are. There,’ he said at last. He set the hat and battered wig to one side. For a breath, she lay still. Then, with a twitch and a flap, she was on her feet. He didn’t try to touch her.

‘He will want water, Fitz. Fear makes one so thirsty.’

‘She,’ I corrected him. I went to the water bucket and filled a cup and brought it back to the table. I set it down, dipped my fingers in it and held them up so the bird could see water drip back into the cup and stepped away. The Fool had taken up the hat and the wig that was fastened to it still. Wind, rain, and the crow-struggle had taken a toll on the wig. Parts were tangled into a frizz while other locks hung lank and wet.

‘I don’t think this can be easily mended,’ he said. He set it back on the table. I took it up and ran my fingers through the hair, trying to bring it back to some semblance of order. ‘Tell me about the bird,’ he requested.

‘Web asked me if I could take her in. She had, well, not an owner. A friend. Not a Wit-bond, but a human who helped her. She was hatched with some white feathers in her wings—’

‘White! White! White!’ the bird suddenly croaked. She hopped over to the water, a typical crow’s two-footed hop and stuck her beak deep into the cup. As she drank thirstily, the Fool exclaimed, ‘She can talk!’

‘Only as birds do. She repeats words she has been taught. I think.’

‘But she talks to you, through your Wit?’

‘Not really. I can sense her feelings, distress, pain. But we are not bonded, Fool. I do not share her thoughts nor she mine.’ I gave the hat and wig a shake, trying to mend them. The crow squawked in surprise and hopped sideways, nearly oversetting the water. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,’ I said. I looked woefully at the wig and hat. There was no mending them. ‘A moment, Fool. I must speak to Chade.’ I reached out to Chade through the Skill. My wig has been damaged. I do not think I can appear as Lord Feldspar tonight.

Then come however you may, but make it soon. Something is brewing, Fitz. Queen Elliania bubbles with something. At first I thought she was angry, for when she greeted me, her eyes were cold and bright. But she seems oddly warm, almost jubilant, leading the dancing with an enthusiasm I’ve never seen before.