Assassin’s Quest. Робин Хобб
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myself, and hoped it would be potent enough. I veered wide of the heaped stones that covered the Forged ones’ bodies. Before I reached the bank of the river, Nighteyes was beside me, hitching along on three legs. I dropped my kettle and sank down beside him. I threw my arms around him, mindful of the slash on his shoulder, and buried my face in his ruff.
I was so scared. I nearly died.
I understand now why we must kill them all, he said calmly. If we do not, they will never let us be. We must hunt them down to their own lair and kill them all.
It was the only comfort he could offer me.
Minstrels and wandering scribes hold special places in the society of the Six Duchies. They are repositories of knowledge, not only of their own crafts, but of so much more. The minstrels hold the histories of the Six Duchies, not just the general history that has shaped the kingdom, but the particular histories, of the small towns and even the families who make them up. Although it is the dream of every minstrel to be sole witness to some great event, and thus gain the authoring of a new saga, their true and lasting importance lies in their constant witnessing of the small events that make up life’s fabric. When there is a question of a property line, or family lineage, or even of a long-term promise made, the minstrels are called upon, to supply the details that others may have forgotten. Supporting them, but not supplanting them, are the wandering scribes. For a fee, they will provide written record of a wedding, a birth, of land changing hands, of inheritances gained or dowries promised. Such records may be intricate things, for every party involved must be identified in a way that is unmistakable. Not just by name and profession, but by lineage and location and appearance. As often as not, a minstrel is then called to make his mark as witness to what the scribe has written, and for this reason, it is not unusual to find them travelling in company together, or for one person to profess both trades. Minstrels and scribes are by custom well treated in the noble houses, finding their winter quarters there and sustenance and comfort in old age. No lord wishes to be ill remembered in the tellings of minstrels and scribes, or worse yet, not remembered at all. Generosity to them is taught as simple courtesy. One knows one is in the presence of a miser when one sits at table in a keep that boasts no minstrels.
I bid the musicians farewell at the door of an inn in a shoddy little town called Crowsneck the next afternoon. Rather, I bid Josh farewell. Honey stalked into the inn without a backwards glance at me. Piper did look at me, but the look was so puzzled that it conveyed nothing to me. Then she followed Honey in. Josh and I were left standing in the street. We had been walking together and his hand was still on my shoulder. ‘Bit of a step here at the inn door,’ I warned Josh quietly.
He nodded his thanks. ‘Well. Some hot food will be welcome,’ he observed and pushed his chin toward the door.
I shook my head, then spoke my refusal. ‘Thank you, but I won’t be going in with you. I’m moving on.’
‘Right now? Come, Cob, at least have a mug of beer and a bite to eat. I know that Honey is … difficult to tolerate sometimes. But you needn’t assume she speaks for all of us.’
‘It’s not that. I simply have something that I must do. Something I have put off for a long, long time. Yesterday I realized that until I have done it, there will be no peace for me.’
Josh sighed heavily. ‘Yesterday was an ugly day. I would not base any life decision on it.’ He swung his head to look toward me. ‘Whatever it is, Cob, I think time will make it better. It does most things, you know.’
‘Some things,’ I muttered distractedly. ‘Other things don’t get better until you … mend them. One way or another.’
‘Well.’ He held out his hand to me, and I took it. ‘Good luck to you then. At least this fighter’s hand has a sword to grip now. That can’t be bad fortune for you.’
‘Here’s the door,’ I said, and opened it for him. ‘Good luck to you as well,’ I told him as he passed me, and closed it behind him.
As I stepped out into the open street again, I felt as if I had tossed a burden aside. Free again. I would not soon weight myself down with anything like that again.
I’m coming, I told Nighteyes. This evening, we hunt.
I’ll be watching for you.
I hitched my bundle a bit higher on my shoulder, took a fresh grip on my staff and strode down the street. I could think of nothing in Crowsneck that I could possibly desire. My path took me straight through the market square however, and the habits of a lifetime die hard. My ears pricked up to the grumbles and complaints of those who had come to bargain. Buyers demanded to know why prices were so high; sellers replied that the trade from downriver was scarce, and whatever goods came upriver as far as Crowsneck were dear. Prices were worse upriver, they assured them. For all those who complained about the high prices, there were as many who came looking for what was simply not there. It was not just the ocean fish and the thick wool of Buck that no longer came up the river. It was as Chade had predicted; there were no silks, no brandies, no fine Bingtown gemwork, nothing from the Coastal Duchies, nor from the lands beyond. Regal’s attempt to strangle the Mountain Kingdom’s trade routes had also deprived the Crowsneck merchants of Mountain amber and furs and other goods. Crowsneck had been a trading town. Now it was stagnant, choking on a surplus of its own goods and naught to trade them for.
At least one shambling drunk knew where to put the blame. He wove his way through the market, caroming off stalls and staggering through the wares lesser merchants had displayed on mats. His shaggy black hair hung to his shoulders and merged with his beard. He sang as he came, or growled, more truly, for his voice was louder than it was musical. There was little melody to fix the tune in my mind, and he botched whatever rhyme had once been to the song, but the sense of it was clear. When Shrewd had been King of the Six Duchies, the river had run with gold, but now that Regal wore the crown, the coasts all ran with blood. There was a second verse, saying it was better to pay taxes to fight the Red Ships than pay them to a king that hid, but that one was interrupted by the arrival of the City Guard. There were a pair of them, and I expected to see them halt the drunk and shake him down for coins to pay for whatever he’d broken. I should have been forewarned by the silence that came over the market when the guards appeared. Commerce ceased, folk melted out of the way or pressed back against the stalls to allow them passage. All eyes followed and fixed on them.
They closed on the drunk swiftly, and I was one of the silent crowd watching as they seized him. The drunk goggled at them in dismay, and the look of appeal he swept over the crowd was chilling in its intensity. Then one of the guards drew back a gauntleted fist and sank it into his belly. The drunk looked to be a tough old man, gone paunchy in the way that some thickly-set men do as they age. A soft man would have collapsed to that blow. He curled himself forward over the guard’s fist, his breath whistling out, and then abruptly spewed out a gush of soured ale. The guards stepped back in distaste, one giving the drunk a shove that sent him tottering off balance. He crashed against a marketstall, sending two baskets of eggs splatting into the dirt. The egg merchant said nothing, only stepped back deeper into his stall as if he did not wish to be noticed at all.
The guards advanced on the unfortunate man. The first one there gripped him by the shirt front and dragged him to his feet. He struck him a short, straight blow to the face that sent him crashing into the other guard’s arms. That one caught him, and held him up for his partner’s fist to find his belly again. This time the drunk dropped to his knees and the guard behind him casually kicked him down.
I did not realize I had started forward until a hand caught at my shoulder. I looked back into the wizened face of the gaunt old woman who clutched at me. ‘Don’t make them mad,’ she breathed. ‘They’ll let him off with a beating, if no one makes them angry. Make them angry, and they’ll kill him. Or worse, take him off for the King’s Circle.’
I locked eyes with her weary gaze, and she looked down as if ashamed. But she did not take her