The Complete Tawny Man Trilogy: Fool’s Errand, The Golden Fool, Fool’s Fate

‘You take your place like a figure stepping into a carefully-composed portrait,’ I observed quietly.

He smiled, his obvious pleasure in the compliment a confirmation of my words. Then he came to his feet as effortlessly as a cat. His arm and hand twined through a motion to point at each door off the room. ‘My bedchamber. The privy room. My private room.’ This door was closed, as was the last one. ‘And your chamber, Tom Badgerlock.’

I did not ask him about his private room. I knew his need for solitude of old. I crossed the room and tugged open the door to my quarters. I peered inside the small, dark room. It had no window. As my eye adjusted, I could make out a narrow cot in the corner, a washstand and a small chest. There was a single candle in a holder on the washstand. That was all. I turned back to the Fool with a quizzical look.

‘Lord Golden,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘is a shallow, venal fellow. He is witty and quick-tongued, and very charming to his fellows, and completely unaware of those of lesser stations. So. Your chamber reflects that.’

‘No window? No fireplace?’

‘No different from most of the servants’ chambers on this floor. It has, however, one singularly remarkable advantage that most of the others lack.’

I glanced back into the room. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t see it.’

‘And that is exactly what is intended. Come.’

Taking my arm, he accompanied me into the dark little room. He shut the door firmly behind us. We were instantly plunged into complete darkness. Speaking quietly next to me, he observed, ‘Always remember that the door must be shut for this to work. Over here. Give me your hand.’

I complied, and he guided my hand over the rough stone of the outer wall adjacent to the door. ‘Why must we do this in the dark?’ I demanded.

‘It was faster than kindling candles. Besides, what I am showing you cannot be seen, only felt. There. Feel that?’

‘I think so.’ It was a very slight unevenness in the stone.

‘Measure it off with your hand, or whatever you want to do to learn where it is.’

I obliged him, discovering that it was about six of my handspans from the corner of the room, and at the height of my chin. ‘Now what?’

‘Push. Gently. It does not take much.’

I obeyed and felt the stone shift very slightly beneath my hand. A small click sounded, but not from the wall before me. Instead, it came from behind me.

‘This way,’ the Fool told me, and in the darkness led me to the opposite wall of the small chamber. Again, he set my hand to the wall and told me to push. The darkness gave way on oiled hinges, the seeming stone no more than a façade that swung away at my touch. ‘Very quiet,’ the Fool observed approvingly. ‘He must have greased it.’

I blinked as my eyes adjusted to a subtle light leaking down from high above. In a moment I could see a very narrow staircase leading up. It paralleled the wall of the room. A corridor, equally narrow, snaked away into darkness, following the wall. ‘I believe you are expected,’ the Fool told me in his aristocratic sneer. ‘As is Lord Golden, but in far different company. I will excuse you from your duties as my valet, at least for tonight. You are dismissed, Tom Badgerlock.’

‘Thank you, master,’ I replied snidely. I craned my neck to peer up the stairs. They were stone, obviously built into the wall when the castle was first constructed. The grey quality of the light that seeped down suggested daylight rather than lamplight.

The Fool’s hand settled briefly on my shoulder, delaying me. In a far different voice he said, ‘I’ll leave a candle burning in the room for you.’ The hand squeezed affectionately. ‘And welcome home, FitzChivalry Farseer.’

I turned to look back at him. ‘Thank you, Fool.’ We nodded to one another, an oddly formal farewell, and I began to climb the stair. On the third stair, I heard a snick behind me, and looked back. The door had closed.

I climbed for quite a distance. Then the staircase turned, and I perceived the source of the light. Narrow openings, not even as wide as arrowslits, permitted the setting sun to finger in. The light was growing dimmer, and I suddenly perceived that when the sun set, I would be plunged into absolute darkness. I came to a junction in the corridor at that time. Truly, Chade’s rat-warren of tunnels, stairs and corridors within Buckkeep Castle were far more extensive than I had ever imagined. I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined the layout of the castle. After a brief hesitation, I chose a path and went on. As I travelled, from time to time I became aware of voices. Tiny peepholes gave me access to bedchambers and parlours as well as providing slivers of light in long dark stretches of corridor. A wooden stool, dusty with disuse, sat in one alcove. I sat down on it and peered through a slit into a private audience chamber that I recognized from my service with King Shrewd. Evidently the magnificent woodwork that framed the hearth furnished this spy post. Having taken my bearings from this, I hastened on.

At last, I saw a yellowish glow in the secret passageway far ahead of me. Hurrying towards it, I found a bend in the corridor, and a fat candle burning in a glass. Far down another stretch, I glimpsed a second candle. From that point on, the tiny lights led me on, until I climbed a very steep stair and suddenly found myself standing in a small stone room with a narrow door. The door swung open at my touch, and I found myself stepping out from behind the wine rack into Chade’s tower room.

I looked about the chamber with new eyes. It was uninhabited at the moment, but a small fire crackling on the hearth and a laden table told me I was, indeed, expected. The great bedstead was overladen with comforters, cushions and furs as it had always been, yet an elaborate spiderweb constructed amidst the dusty hangings spoke of disuse. Chade used this room still, but he no longer slept here.

I ventured down to the workroom end of the chamber, past the scroll-laden racks and the shelves of arcane equipment. Sometimes, when one goes back to the scene of one’s childhood, things seem smaller. What was mysterious and the sole province of adults suddenly seems commonplace and mundane when viewed with mature eyes.

Such was not the case with Chade’s workroom. The little pots carefully labelled in his decisive hand, the blackened kettles and stained pestles, the spilled herbs and the lingering odours still worked their spell on me. The Wit and the Skill were mine, but the strange chemistries that Chade practised here were a magic I had never mastered. Here I was still an apprentice, knowing only the basics of my master’s sophisticated lore.

My travels had taught me a bit. A shallow gleaming bowl, draped with a cloth, was a scrying basin. I’d seen them used by fortune-tellers in Chalcedean towns. I thought of the night that Chade had wakened me from a drunken stupor to tell me that Neat Bay was under attack from Red Ship Raiders. There had been no time, that night, to demand how he knew. I had always assumed it had been a messenger bird. Now I wondered.

The work hearth was cold, but tidier than I recalled. I wondered who his new apprentice was, and if I would meet the lad. Then my musings were cut short by the sound of a door closing softly. I turned to see Chade Fallstar standing near a scroll rack. For the first time, I realized that there were no obvious doors in the chamber. Even here, all was still deception. He greeted me with a warm if weary smile. ‘And here you are at last. When I saw Lord Golden enter the Great Hall smiling, I knew you would be awaiting me. Oh, Fitz, you have no idea how relieved I am to see you.’

I grinned at him. ‘In all our years together, I can’t recall a more ominous greeting from you.’

‘It’s an ominous time, my boy. Come, sit down, eat. We’ve always reasoned best over food. I’ve so much to tell you, and you may as well hear it with a full belly.’

‘Your messenger did not tell me much,’ I admitted, taking a place at the small lavishly-spread table. There were cheeses, pastries, cold meats, fruit that was fragrantly ripe, and spicy breads. There was both wine and brandy, but Chade began with tea from an earthenware pot warm at the edge of the fire. When I reached for the pot, a gesture of his hand warded me off.

‘I’ll put on more water,’ he offered, and hung a kettle to boil. I watched the set of his mouth as he sipped the dark brew in his cup. He did not seem to relish it, yet he sank back in his chair with a sigh. I kept my thoughts to myself.

As I began to heap my plate, Chade noted, ‘My messenger told you as much as he knew, which was nothing. One of my greatest tasks has been to keep this private. Ah, where do I begin? It is hard to decide, for I don’t know what precipitated this crisis.’

I swallowed a mouthful of bread and ham. ‘Tell me the heart of it, and we can work backwards from there.’

His green eyes were troubled. ‘Very well.’ He took breath, then hesitated. He poured us both brandy. As he set mine before me he said, ‘Prince Dutiful is missing. We think he might have run on his own. If he did, he likely had help. It is possible that he was taken against his will, but neither the Queen nor I think that likely. There.’ He sat back in his chair and watched for my reaction.

It took me a moment to marshal my thoughts. ‘How could it happen? Who do you suspect? How long has he been gone?’

He held up a hand to halt my flow of questions. ‘Six days and seven nights, counting tonight. I doubt he will reappear before morning, though nothing would please me better. How did it happen? Well, I do not criticize my queen, but her Mountain ways are often difficult for me to accept. The Prince has come and gone as he pleased from both castle and keep since he was thirteen. She seemed to think it best that he get to know his people on a common footing. There have been times when I thought that was wise, for it has made the folk fond of him. I myself have felt that it was time he had a guard of his own to accompany him, or at the least a tutor of the well-muscled sort. But Kettricken, as you may recall, can be as unbending as stone. In that, she had her way. He came and went as he wished, and the guards had their orders to let him do so.’

The water was boiling. Chade still kept teas where he always had, and he made no comment as I rose to make my tea. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, and I let him, for my own thoughts were milling in every direction like a panicky flock of sheep. ‘He could already be dead,’ I heard myself say aloud, and then could have bitten my tongue out at the stricken look on Chade’s face.

‘He could,’ the old man admitted. ‘He is a hearty, healthy boy, unlikely to turn away from a challenge. This absence need not be a plot; an ordinary accident could be at the base of it. I thought of that. I’ve a discreet man or two at my beck, and they’ve searched the base of the sea cliffs, and the more dangerous ravines where he likes to hunt. Still, I think that if he were injured, his little hunting cat might still have come back to the castle. Though it is hard to say with cats. A dog would, I think, but a cat might just revert to being wild. In any case, unpleasant as the idea is, I have thought to look for a body. None has been discovered.’

A hunting cat. I ignored my jabbing thought to ask, ‘You said run away, or possibly taken. What would make you think either one likely?’

‘The first, because he’s a boy trying to learn to be a man in a Court that makes neither easy for him. The second, because he’s a prince, newly betrothed to a foreign princess, and rumoured to be possessed of the Wit. That gives several factions any number of reasons to either control him or destroy him.’

He gave me several silent minutes to digest that. Several days would not have been enough. I must have looked as sick as I felt, for Chade finally said, softly, ‘We think that even if he has been taken, he is most valuable to his kidnappers alive.’

I found a breath and spoke through a dry mouth. ‘Has anyone claimed to have him? Demanded ransom?’

‘No.’

I cursed myself for not staying abreast of politics in the Six Duchies. But had not I sworn never to become involved in them again? It suddenly seemed a child’s foolish resolve never to get caught in the rain again. I spoke quietly, for I felt ashamed. ‘You are going to have to educate me, Chade, and swiftly. What factions? How does it benefit their interests to have control of the Prince? What foreign princess? And –’ and this last question near choked me, ‘– Why would anyone think Prince Dutiful was Witted?’

‘Because you were,’ Chade said shortly. He reached again for his teapot and replenished his cup. It poured even blacker this time, and I caught a whiff of a treacly yet bitter-edged aroma. He gulped down a mouthful, and swiftly followed it with a toss of brandy. He swallowed. His green eyes met mine and he waited. I said nothing. Some secrets still belonged to me alone. At least, I hoped they did.

‘You were Witted,’ he resumed. ‘Some say it must have come from your mother, whoever she was, and Eda forgive me, I’ve encouraged that thinking. But others point back a time, to the Piebald Prince and several other oddlings in the Farseer line, to say, “No, the taint is there, down in the roots, and Prince Dutiful is a shoot from that line.”’

‘But the Piebald Prince died without issue; Dutiful is not of his line. What made folk think that the Prince might be Witted?’

Chade narrowed his eyes at me. ‘Do you play Cat-And-Mouse with me, boy?’ He set his hands on the edge of the table. Veins and tendons stood up ropily on their backs as he leaned towards me to demand, ‘Do you think I’m losing my faculties, Fitz? Because I can assure you, I’m not. I may be getting old, boy, but I’m as acute as ever. I promise you that!’

Until that moment, I had not doubted it. This outburst was so uncharacteristic of Chade that I found myself leaning back in my chair and regarding him with apprehension. He must have interpreted the look in my eyes, for he sat back in his chair and dropped his hands into his lap. When he spoke again, it was my mentor of old that I heard. ‘Starling told you of the minstrel at Springfest. You know of the unrest in the land among the Witted, yes, and you know of those who call themselves the Piebalds. There is an unkinder name for them. The Cult of the Bastard.’ He gave me a baleful look, but gave me no time to absorb that information. He waved a hand, dismissing my shock. ‘Whatever they call themselves, they have recently taken up a new weapon. They expose families tainted by the Wit. I do not know if they seek to prove how widespread the Wit is, or if their aim is the destruction of their fellows who will not ally with them. Posts appear in public places. “Gere the Tanner’s son is Witted; his beast is a yellow hound.” “Lady Winsome is Witted; her beast is her merlin.” Each post is signed with their emblem, a piebald horse. Who is Witted and who is not has become court gossip these days. Some deny the rumours; others flee, to country estates if they are landed, to a distant village and a new name if they are not. If those posts are true, there are far more who possess the Beast Magic than even you might suppose. Or,’ and he cocked his head at me, ‘do you know far more of all this than I do?’