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

‘We’re not leaving yet,’ I observed stupidly.

‘No. There is a large dinner in my honour this evening. For us to abruptly leave before that would be insult. And when I hinted that I might have to cut my visit short and leave tomorrow morning, I was told that Lord Crias from across the river had planned a morning hunt for me, and an afternoon repast at his manor.’

‘They delay you on purpose. The Bresingas are involved in the Prince’s disappearance. I am sure they provided food for him and the cat last night. And Nighteyes is certain that those who attacked him are aware he is bonded to someone. They tried to flush me out.’

‘Perhaps. But even if we were certain, I could scarcely fling accusations about. And we are not certain. Perhaps they but seek social advancement at court, or to show me their various marriageable daughters. I gather that is why the girl was at dinner last night.’

‘I thought she was Civil’s companion.’

‘She was at great pains during the hunt to tell me that they were childhood friends with absolutely no romantic interests in one another.’ He sighed and sat down at the small table. ‘She told me that she, too, collects feathers. Tonight after dinner she wishes to show me her collection. I am certain it is an invention to spend more time with me.’

Had my own needs not been so pressing, I would have smiled at his dismay.

‘Well, I shall have to deal with it as best I may. And perhaps it can even be turned to our advantage, now that I think of it. Oh, I’ve an errand for you. It seems that while we were hunting today, I lost a silver chain. At lunch I noticed it was missing. It is one of my favourites. You will have to retrace our steps and see if you can find it. Take your time.’

As he spoke, he drew a necklace from his pocket, wrapped it in his kerchief, and handed it to me. I pocketed it. He opened his clothing-case, shot me an accusing look at the compressed jumble inside it, and then fished about until he discovered the pot of salve. He handed it to me.

‘Shall I lay out your clothing for dinner before I go?’

He rolled his eyes mockingly at me as he drew a crumpled shirt from his clothing bag. ‘I think you’ve already done enough for me, Badgerlock. Just go.’ As I moved towards the door, his voice stopped me. ‘Does the horse suit you?’

‘The black is fine,’ I assured him. ‘A good healthy beast and fleet, as we proved. You chose a good horse.’

‘But you would rather have chosen your own mount.’

I nearly said yes. But then, as I considered it, I realized that was not true. If I had been choosing the horse, I would have sought for a companion to bear me through the years. It would have taken me weeks, if not months, to select one. And now that I was unwillingly confronting the wolf’s mortality, I felt a strange reluctance to offer that much of myself to an animal. ‘No,’ I replied honestly. ‘It was much better that you chose one for me. She’s a good horse. You chose well.’

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. It seemed to matter to him a great deal. If the wolf had not been waiting, it would have given me pause.

EIGHTEEN Fool’s Kiss

Many are the tales told of Witted taking on their beasts’ shapes to wreak havoc upon their neighbours. The bloodier legends are of Witted in wolves’ skins, who in that guise rend their neighbours’ families as well as their flocks. Less sanguine are the tales who depict Witted suitors taking on the shapes of birds, or cats, or even dancing bears to gain access to a bedchamber in the course of a seduction.

All such tales are imaginative nonsense, perpetuated by those who seek to fuel hatred of the Witted. Although a Witted person can share the mind of his beast, and hence, its physical perceptions, he cannot metamorphose his Human form into that of an animal. It is true that some Witted who have been long in a partnership with their animal sometimes take on some of their habits of posture, diet, and mannerism. But a man who eats, dens, scavenges and smells like a bear does not become a bear. If that myth of shapechanging could be vanquished, it would go far to re-establishing trust between the Witted and unWitted.

Badgerlock’s Old Blood Tales

The wolf was not where I had left him. It rattled me, and I took some few moments convincing myself that I had not mistaken the spot. But there were the spatters of his blood where he had sprawled on last year’s leaves, and here were the spatters in the dust where he had lapped water from my hands. He had been here and now he was not.

It is one thing to track two shod horses with riders. It is another to follow the spoor of a wolf over dry ground. He had left no trace of his passage, and I feared to reach out towards him. I followed the tracks of the horses, believing that he would have done the same. As I trailed them through the sun-drenched hills, their tracks went down into a draw and crossed a small stream. They had stopped here to let the horses water. And then in the muddy bank was a wolf’s paw-print atop the horse’s hoof-mark. So. He was tracking them.

Three hills later, I caught up with him. He knew I was coming. He did not pause to wait for me, but moved on. That gait caught my eyes. It was not his purposeful trot. He walked. Myblack was not especially pleased to approach the wolf, but she didn’t fight me. As I drew closer, he stopped in the shelter of some trees and awaited me.

‘I brought meat,’ I told him as I dismounted.

I felt his awareness of me, but he sent no thought towards me. It was eerie. I took the meat out of my shirt and gave it to him. He wolfed it down and then came to sit beside me. I took the salve out of my pouch. He sighed and lay down.

The claw-swipes along his belly were livid ridges of lacerated flesh, and hot to the touch. When I applied the salve, the pain became an edged thing between us. I was as gentle as I could be and still be thorough. He tolerated it, but not gladly. I sat for a time beside him, my hand resting on his ruff. He sniffed at the salve I had applied. Honey and bear grease, I told him. He licked the long scratch and I let him. His tongue would push the ointment deeper into the wound and do him no harm. Besides, there was no way I could have stopped him. He already knew that I would have to go back to Galekeep.

It would be wisest for me to keep following them, even if I don’t go swiftly. The longer you are delayed, the colder the trail will be. Easier for you to come to me than to try to follow fading tracks.

There is no arguing with that. I gave no voice to my worries that he could neither hunt nor defend himself just now. He knew it, I knew it, and he had made his decision. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. He knew that too, but I could not refrain from the promise.

My brother. Be careful what you dream tonight.

I won’t seek to dream with them.

I fear they may seek you.

Fear smoked through my mind, but again there was nothing to say. I wished, vainly, that I had been brought up knowing more of the Wit. Perhaps if I had understood Old Blood better, I would know what I was dealing with now.

No. I think not. What you do, how you link to him, that is not just Skill. It is the crossing of your magic. You open the door with one and travel with the other. As when I attacked Justin after he had bridged into you with Skill. His Skill made the bridge, but I used my bond with you to run across it.

He had deliberately shared that thought with me, acknowledging a worry that had been growing in me for some time. Dog-magic, Justin had called my Wit, and told me that my use of the Skill stank of it. Verity had never complained of that. But Verity, I admitted unwillingly, shared my truncated education in the Skill. Perhaps he had not detected a staining of the Wit in my use of the Skill, or perhaps he had been too kind to ever rebuke me with it. Now I worried for my wolf. Do not follow them too closely. Try not to let them know that we track them.

What did you fear? That I would attack a cat, and two men on horseback? No. That battle belongs to you. I will trail this game; it is up to you to bring it to bay and down it.

His thought created unpleasant images in my mind all the way back to Galekeep. I had entered into this to track down a boy, runaway or perhaps kidnapped. Now I was facing not only a boy who did not wish to be returned to Buckkeep, but his confederates. How far would I go in my efforts to return him to the Queen, and what limits would he set in his determination to have his own way?

Would those with him have any constraints as to what they would do to keep him?

I knew Lord Golden was wise to continue our play. Much as I longed to drop all pretence and simply hunt down the Prince and drag him back to Buckkeep, I could see the consequences of that. If the Bresingas were certain that we pursued him, they would certainly get a warning to him. He would flee faster and hide deeper. Worse, they might directly interfere with our pursuit of him. I had no wish to meet with an untimely ‘accident’ as we tracked Prince Dutiful. As matters stood, we could still hope to move secretly to regain the Prince and discreetly convey him back to Buckkeep. He had fled Galekeep at our arrival, yet not gone far at first. Now he was on the move again, but still had no reason to connect Lord Golden to any pursuit. If the Fool could pry us loose of Lady Bresinga’s hospitality without arousing any suspicion, we could follow him unobtrusively and have a better chance of catching up with him.

I returned to Galekeep hot and dusty and parched. It still seemed odd to surrender my horse to a stableman. I found Lord Golden napping in his chambers. The curtains were drawn against the heat and light, putting the room in twilight. I went quietly past him to my own room to wash most of the dust and sweat away. I hung my shirt on the bedpost to dry and air and slung my fresh one over my shoulder.

Servants had replenished the bowl of fruit in Lord Golden’s chamber. I helped myself to a plum and ate it by the window, peering around the curtain at the garden outside. I felt both tired and restless. I could think of nothing constructive to do, and no way to pass the time. Frustration and worry chafed me.

‘Did you find my chain, Badgerlock?’ It was Lord Golden’s aristocratic tone that interrupted my thought.

‘Yes, my lord. Just where you thought you’d lost it.’

I drew the delicate jewellery from my pocket and carried it over to where he lounged on his bed. He accepted it as gratefully as if he were truly a nobleman and it had truly been lost. I lowered my voice. ‘Nighteyes follows the trail for us. When we can leave, we can go straight to the wolf.’

‘How is he?’

‘Stiff. Sore. But I think he will recover.’

‘Excellent.’ He sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’ve selected evening clothing for us, and laid it out in your room. Really, Badgerlock, you must learn to handle my garments more carefully.’

‘I’ll try, my lord,’ I muttered, but I could not get my heart back into the game. I was suddenly tired of the whole charade. ‘Have you thought of a way for us to leave discreetly?’

‘No.’ He strolled to the table. Wine had been left there for him. He poured a glass and drank it, then poured another. ‘But I’ve thought of an indiscreet one, and already laid the groundwork for it this afternoon. Not without regrets – I’ll be compromising Lord Golden’s reputation somewhat, but what is a nobleman without a bit of scandal to his name? It will probably just increase my popularity at court. Everyone will want to know my side of it, and will speculate on what truly happened.’ He sipped from his glass. ‘I think that if I succeed at this, it will convince Lady Bresinga that her fears that we are seeking the Prince are groundless. No proper emissary of the Queen would behave as I intend.’ He gave me a sickly smile.

‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing, just yet. But I fancy that by morning, our leaving will be facilitated as swiftly as we could wish.’ He drank again. ‘Sometimes I don’t care for the things that I must do,’ he observed, and there was a plaintive note in his voice. He finished the glass of wine as if girding himself for a task.

Not another word would he divulge to me. He arrayed himself carefully for dinner, and I had to suffer the indignity of the green jerkin and yellow leggings. ‘Perhaps it is a shade too bright,’ he conceded in response to my incensed gaze. His grin was too broad for me to believe any apology in his words. I did not know if it was the wine or one of his fey humours. ‘Stop glowering, Badgerlock,’ he rebuked me as he adjusted the cuffs of a muted green coat. ‘I expect my servants to maintain a pleasant demeanour. Besides, the colour does set off the darkness of your eyes and skin and hair – all of you. It rather reminds me of an exotic parrot. You may not appreciate such a show of yourself, but the ladies will.’

Obeying him taxed all my ability to dissemble. I walked behind him to where the nobility had gathered before dinner. This was a larger group than the night before, for Lady Bresinga had extended her hospitality to those who had hunted with her earlier. They might have been invisible for all the notice Lord Golden gave them. Sydel was seated at a low table with young Civil. An assortment of feathers was spread out before her on a cloth, and they seemed to be discussing them. She had obviously been watching the door, for the moment Lord Golden entered, her face was transfigured. She gleamed like a lantern in the darkness. Young Civil also underwent a transformation, but it was not so pleasant. He could not very well sneer at a guest in his mother’s home, but his features went very still and cold. Dismay clutched at my belly. No. I wanted no part of this.

But Golden, smiling and charming, made directly for the pair. His greetings to everyone else in the chamber were brief to the point of neglect. Without even a pretence of subtlety, he seated himself between them, obliging Civil to move over to make room for him. From that moment on, he virtually ignored everyone else in the room as he focused all of his allure on the girl. Their heads bent together over the feathers. His every movement was a seduction. His long fingers stroked the gaudy feathers on the cloth. He selected one, and touched its softness to his own cheek, and then leaned forwards to draw it gently down the length of Sydel’s arm. She giggled nervously and drew back from the touch. He smiled. She blushed. He set the feather back on the cloth and shook a reproachful finger at it as if it were at fault. Then he selected another one. Boldly he held it against the sleeve of her gown, murmuring some comparison of colour. He gathered others from the cloth, arranged them in a sort of feather bouquet. With the tip of one forefinger, he turned her face to look at his, and then, by a trick I could not see, fastened the feathers into her hair so that they hung down and followed the line of her cheek.

Civil rose abruptly and stalked away. His mother spoke to a woman at her side, who moved swiftly to intercept him before he left the chamber. There were low voiced words between them, and the young man’s tone was not calm. I could not follow what he said, for Lord Golden’s words rose over general conversation to proclaim, ‘Would that I had a looking-glass to show you, but you must be content to see how well this ornament becomes you by looking into my eyes.’

Earlier in the day, I had been appalled at how brazenly she had stalked Lord Golden and at how willing she had been to throw over her young suitor for the strange nobleman. Now I almost pitied Sydel. One hears of birds charmed by snakes, though I have never seen such a thing. What I witnessed now was more like a flower leaning towards light. She absorbed his attention and blossomed in its warmth. In the space of a few moments, her girlish infatuation with his age and wealth and fine ways had been transformed into a more womanly warmth and fascination with him. I knew with crawling certainty that she was his to bed, if he chose. Should he tap at her chamber door tonight, she would admit him without hesitation.

‘He goes too far.’ Laurel’s breathless whisper was tinged with horror as she strolled past me.

‘He excels at that,’ I murmured in reply. I shifted my shoulders in the confines of my gaudy jacket. My pretence at being Lord Golden’s bodyguard might become real tonight. Certainly the look Civil shot him promised murder.

When Lady Bresinga announced that it was time to dine, Civil made the foolish mistake of hesitating. Before he had even the chance churlishly to refuse to escort Sydel to the table, his rival had offered his arm and the girl had taken it. This left Civil duty-bound to escort his slighted mother as they followed their esteemed guest and his prey into the dining hall.

I tried to rein my emotions in and be a stoic observer of that dinner. Lord Golden’s tactic revealed much to me. Sydel’s parents were obviously torn between courtesy to Lady Bresinga and her son, and the enticing prospect of their daughter winning the attention of this extremely wealthy nobleman. Lord Golden was a far more desirable catch than young Civil, yet they were not unmindful of the danger to their young daughter. To catch a nobleman’s eye is not the same as to have the pledge of one. There was a danger that he might toy with her and ruin her for future marriage. It was a dangerous line for a young girl to walk, and in the way that Lady Grayling picked her bread to pieces I plainly saw her mother’s doubts that Sydel could toe it.

Avoin and Laurel tried desperately to kindle a conversation about the day’s hunt, and the talk lurched along, but Lord Golden and Sydel were too deeply engrossed in their own quiet talk to pay any attention. Civil, seated to the other side of Sydel, was ignored by both of them. Avoin was holding forth on the uses of rue in training cats, for all knew that a cat would avoid anything marked with the essence of the herb. Laurel said that onion was sometimes used for the same purpose. Lord Golden offered Sydel a titbit from his plate, and then stared in rapt fascination as the girl ate it. He was drinking heavily tonight, glass after glass, and to all appearances, he was actually pouring it all down his throat. I felt anxiety. The Fool, drunk, had always been both unpredictable and volatile. Would Lord Golden have more restraint when in his cups?

Civil’s anger must have flared, for I felt a querying Wit-echo from something. I could not catch the thought, only the emotion that accompanied it. Something was fully willing to rend Lord Golden to shreds on Civil’s behalf. I did not doubt that his hunting cat was his Wit-beast. For that unguarded moment of fury, the connection between them sang with bloodlust. It was quenched in an instant, but there was no mistaking what it was. The boy was Witted. And Lady Bresinga? I looked past her, watching her without seeming to. I felt no trace of the Wit from her, but she radiated maternal disapproval of her son’s lapse. Because he had betrayed his Old Blood to any who might be aware of such things? Or because his displeasure showed so plainly on his face? Betraying one’s emotions so blatantly was not genteel.

I stood, as I had the previous night, behind Lord Golden’s chair all through the meal. I learned little from the words exchanged that night, but much from the glances. Lord Golden’s scandalous behaviour both fascinated and horrified the other guests. Quiet words were exchanged, as were shocked glances. Lord Grayling, at one point, sat breathing through his white-pinched nostrils for several moments while his wife spoke frantically to him in an undertone. She appeared willing to gamble the Bresingas’ good will for the possible benefit of a better match. Through all this interplay, I sifted expressions and exchanges, looking for some sign of who was Witted. It was not information I could quantify, but before the dinner was over, I was satisfied that both Civil and Lady Bresinga were. I was equally certain their Huntsman was not. Of the other guests at their table, there were two I suspected of the Wit. A certain Lady Jerrit had something of the cat in her mannerisms. She was perhaps unaware of how she breathed in the scent of every dish before she ventured to taste it. Her spouse, a hale and hearty man, had a trick of turning his head sideways to the leg of fowl he was devouring, as if he had sharper teeth there with which to scissor the meat free. Small habits, but telling. As the Prince had fled Buckkeep to Galekeep, so he might, when driven from Galekeep, go to another Wit-friendly holding. These two lived to the south. The Prince’s trail led north, but that did not mean he would not circle back.

I noticed another thing as well. Lady Bresinga’s eyes came often to settle on me, and I did not think she was admiring my gaudy garments. She looked like a woman trying to recall something. I was almost certain I had never met her in my other life as FitzChivalry. But to be almost certain of something means that there is always a squirming of doubt in the back of the mind. For a time, I kept my head slightly lowered and my eyes cast to one side. Only after I observed the others did I realize what a wolf-like attitude that was. When next she looked at me, I met her eyes boldly and stared back. I was not so bold as to smile at her, but I deliberately widened my eyes, feigning an interest in her. Her affront at Lord Golden’s bold servant was plain. Catlike, she unfocused her eyes and looked through me. In that glance, I was finally sure of her. Old Blood.

I wondered if she was the woman that had captivated my prince’s fancy. Certainly, she was attractive. Her full lips hinted at sensuality. Dutiful would not be the first young man to fall victim to a knowledgeable older woman. Had that been her aim in giving the cat to him? To seduce him and win his young heart, so that no matter where he was wed, she would always keep his heart? It would explain why he had come here when he had fled Buckkeep. But, I reflected, it would not explain his unfulfilled passion. No. If she had intended to seduce the Prince, she would have moved swiftly to entangle him as deeply as possible. There was something else here, something strange, as the wolf had said.

A brief flip of Lord Golden’s hand at the end of the meal dismissed me. I went, but reluctantly. I wanted to witness whatever reactions his abominable behaviour might bring. The diners would move on to other amusements now; music, games of chance, and conversation. I went to the kitchen, and again was offered a choice of the feast’s remains. There had been a piglet tonight, cooked whole, and plenty of tender meat and crisp skin lay scattered among the bones on the platter. A sauce of sour apples and berries had accompanied it. This, with bread and soft white cheese and several mugs of ale made a more than adequate meal. It might have been more enjoyable if Lord Golden’s man had not been taken to task over his master’s behaviour.

Civil and Sydel, I was informed sternly by Lebven, had been affianced almost from birth. Well, if not formally, at least it was common knowledge among all the folk of both households that the two were intended for one another. His mother’s house and Lord Grayling’s family had always been on the best of terms, and the two estates were adjacent to one another. Why should not Grayling’s daughter benefit from Lady Bresinga’s rapid rise in the world? Old friends should help one another. What was my master thinking, to come between them? Could his intentions be honourable? Would he steal young Civil’s bride from him, to bear her off to court and wealth beyond her station? Did he womanize at Buckkeep, was he but toying with her affections? Was he good with a sword? For it was well known that Civil had a temper, and hospitality or no, the boy might challenge him over Sydel.

To all of this I professed ignorance. I was newly come to Lord Golden’s service, and to the court at Buckkeep. I knew little of my master’s ways or temperament yet. I was as curious as they were as to what would befall them all. The excitement that Golden had stirred was such that I could not steer the conversation to Dutiful or Old Blood or any useful topic. I lingered only long enough to purloin a large chunk of meat. Then I pleaded my duties and departed the kitchen for my room, frustrated of knowledge and deeply concerned for Lord Golden’s welfare. As soon as I was back in our rooms, I changed back into my humbler blue clothing. The green jerkin had rather suffered from concealing the meat. Then I sat down to await my master’s return. Anxiety roiled through me. If he carried this role too far, he might indeed find himself facing young Civil’s blade. I doubted that Lord Golden was any better with a sword than the Fool had been. It would, of course, be scandalous if it came to bloodshed, but young men in Civil’s position were not inclined to worry about such niceties.