Fool’s Errand. Robin Hobb
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of the others referred to themselves as Witted. That was the epithet flung by those that both hated and feared Beast magic; it was a taunt to be hung by. Amongst themselves, they spoke of their kind as Old Blood, and pitied any children born to them who could not bond with an animal, mind and spirit, as ordinary folk might pity a child born blind or deaf.
There were not many of the Old Blood; no more than five families, spread far and wide in the forests about Crowsneck. Persecution had taught them not to dwell too closely together. They recognized one another, and that was enough community for them. Old Blood families generally practised the solitary trades that permitted them to live apart from ordinary folk and yet close enough to barter and enjoy the benefits of a town. They were woodcutters and fur-trappers, and the like. One family lived with their otters near a clay bank, and made exquisitely graceful pottery. One old man, bonded with a boar, lived amply on the coin the richer folk of the town paid him for the truffles he foraged. By and large, they were a peaceful folk, a people who accepted their roles as members of the natural world without disdain. It could not be said that they felt the same about humanity in general. From them, I heard and sensed much disapproval for folk that lived cheek by jowl in the towns and thought of animals as mere servants or pets, ‘dumb’ beasts. They disparaged, too, those of Old Blood who lived amongst ordinary folk and denied their magic to do so. Often it was assumed I came of such a family, and it was difficult to dispel such ideas without revealing too much of the truth about myself.
‘And did you succeed in that?’ the Fool asked quietly.
I had the uneasy feeling he was asking the question because he knew I had not. I sighed. ‘In fact, that was the most difficult line I walked. In the months that passed, I wondered if I had not made a great error in coming back amongst them. Years before, when I had first met them, Rolf and Holly had known that my name was Fitz. They had known, too, of my hatred for Regal. From that knowledge to identifying me as Fitz the Wit Bastard was a tiny step. I knew that Rolf took it, for he attempted to talk of it with me one day. I told him flatly that he was mistaken, that it was a great and unfortunate coincidence both of name and bond-beast that had caused me a great deal of trouble in my lifetime. I was so adamant on the point that even that blunt soul soon realized he would never badger me into admitting otherwise. I lied, and he knew I lied, but I made it clear that it must be taken as truth between us, and so we left it. Holly, I am certain, knew as much but never spoke of it. I did not think the others in the community made the connection. I introduced myself as Tom, and so they all called me, even Holly and Rolf. Fitz, I prayed, would stay dead and buried.’
‘So they knew.’ The Fool confirmed his suspicion. ‘That group, at least, knew that Fitz, Chivalry’s bastard, did not die.’
I shrugged a shoulder. It surprised me that the old epithet still stung as it did, even from his lips. Surely I had grown past that. Once, I had thought of myself only as ‘the bastard’. But I had long ago got past that and realized that a man was what he made of himself, not what he was born. I recalled suddenly how the hedge-witch had puzzled over my disparate palms. I resisted the impulse to look at my own hands and instead poured us both more of the elfbark brew. Then I rose to rummage through my larder to see what I could find to drive the bitter taste from my mouth. I picked up the Sandsedge brandy, then determinedly set it back again. Instead, I found the last of the cheese, a bit hard but still flavourful, and half a loaf of bread. We had not eaten since breaking our fast that morning. Now that my headache was quieting, I found myself ravenously hungry. The Fool shared my appetite, for as I whittled hunks off the cheese, he sliced thick slabs off the bread.
My story hung unfinished in the air between us.
I sighed. ‘There was little I could do about what they knew or didn’t know, save deny it. Nighteyes and I needed what they knew. They alone could teach us what we had to learn.’
He nodded, and stacked cheese on top of bread before biting into it. He waited for me to continue.
The words came to me slowly. I did not like to recall that year. Nonetheless, I learned much, not just from Rolf’s deliberate teaching, but by simple exposure to the Old Blood community. ‘Rolf was not the best of teachers. He was short-tempered and impatient, especially around meal-times, much inclined to cuff and growl, and sometimes roar his frustration at a slow student. He simply could not grasp how completely ignorant I was of Old Blood ways and customs. I suppose by his lights I was as ill-mannered as a deliberately rude child. My “loud” Wit-conversations with Nighteyes spoiled hunting for other bonded predators. I had never known that we must announce our presence through the Wit if we shifted territory. In my days at Buckkeep, I had never even known that community existed among the Witted ones, let alone that they had customs of their own.’
‘Wait,’ the Fool interrupted me. ‘Then you are saying that Witted ones can share thoughts with each other, just as thoughts can be exchanged through the Skill.’ He seemed very excited at the idea.
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s not like that. I can sense if another Witted one is speaking with his bond-beast … if they are careless and free in their conversing, as Nighteyes and I used to be. Then I will be aware of the Wit being used, even though I am not privy to the thoughts they share. It’s like the humming of a harp string.’ I smiled ruefully. ‘That was how Burrich kept guard on me, to be sure I was not indulging in the Wit, once he was aware I had it. He kept his own walls firm against it. He did not use it, and he tried to screen himself from the beasts that reached towards him with it. For a long time, that kept him ignorant of my use of it. He had set Wit-walls, similar to the Skill-walls that Verity taught me to set. But once he realized I was Witted, I think he lowered them, to oversee me.’ I paused at the Fool’s puzzled gaze. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Not completely. But enough to take your meaning. But … can you overhear another Witted one’s beast speaking to that Witted one, then?’
I shook my head again, then nearly laughed at his baffled look. ‘It seems so natural to me, it is difficult to put it into words.’ I pondered a bit. ‘Imagine that you and I shared a personal language, one that only we two could interpret.’
‘Perhaps we do,’ he offered with a smile.
I continued doggedly. ‘The thoughts that Nighteyes and I share are our thoughts, and largely incomprehensible to anyone who overhears us using the Wit. That language has always been our own, but Rolf taught us to direct our thoughts specifically to one another, rather than flinging our Wit wide to the world. Another Witted one might be aware of us if he were specifically listening for us, but generally, our communication now blends with all the Wit-whispering of the rest of the world.’
The Fool’s brow was furrowed. ‘So only Nighteyes can speak to you?’
‘Nighteyes speaks most clearly to me. Sometimes, another creature, not bonded to me, will share thoughts with me, but the meaning is usually hard to follow; rather like trying to communicate with someone who speaks a foreign but similar language. There can be much hand waving and raised voices repeating words and gesturing. One catches the gist of the meaning with none of the niceties.’ I paused and pondered. ‘I think it is easier if the animal is bonded to another Witted one. Rolf’s bear spoke to me once. And a ferret. And between Nighteyes and Burrich … it must have been oddly humiliating to Burrich, but he let Nighteyes speak to him when I was in Regal’s dungeons. The understanding was imperfect, but it was good enough that Burrich and he could plot together to save me.’
I wandered for a time in that memory, then pulled myself back to my tale. ‘Rolf taught me the basic courtesy of the Old Blood folk but he did not teach us gently; he was as prone to chastise before we were aware of our errors as afterward. Nighteyes was more tolerant of him than I was, perhaps because he was more amenable to a pack hierarchy. I think it was more difficult for me to learn from him, for I had grown accustomed to a certain amount of adult dignity. Had I come to him younger, I might have accepted more blindly the roughness of his teaching. My experiences of the last few years had left me violent towards any person who showed aggression towards me. I think the first time I snarled back at him after he shouted at me for some error, it shocked him. He was cold and distant with me for the remainder of the day, and I perceived I must bow my head to his rough ways if I were to learn from