Fool’s Assassin

So I tipped my head toward the “musicians” still standing by the door and told him, “I fear they’ve come a long way for nothing. Patience has told me that redheaded singers are for Winterfest, and she will save the blonds for summer.” I expected Web to share my amusement at Lady Patience’s eccentricities. The strangers had not ventured into the hall to join the merriment, but remained by the door, speaking only to one another. They stood as longtime companions do, closer together than one stands near an acquaintance. The tallest man had a weathered, craggy face. The woman at his side, with her face tilted toward him, had broad cheekbones and a high, lined forehead. “Blonds?” Web asked me, staring round.

I smiled. “The strangely dressed trio by the door. See them? In yellow boots and coats?”

He swept his eyes past them twice and then, with a start, stared at them. His eyes grew wider.

“Do you know them?” I asked at his look of dread.

“Are they Forged?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Forged? How could they be?” I stared at them, wondering what had alarmed Web. Forging stripped a man’s humanity from him, tore him from the network of life and connection that enabled all of us to care and be cared about. Forged ones loved only themselves. Once, there had been many of them in the Six Duchies, preying on their families and neighbors, tearing the kingdom apart from within as the Red-Ship Raiders released our own people as a foe among us. Forging had been the dark magic of the Pale Woman and her captain Kebal Rawbread. But we had prevailed and driven the raiders from our shores. Years after the Red-Ship Wars had ended, we had taken ships to her last stronghold on Aslevjal Island, where we made an end of them forever. The Forged ones they had created were long gone to their graves. No one had practiced that evil magic for years.

“They feel Forged to me. My Wit cannot find them. I can barely sense them except with my eyes. Where did they come from?”

As a Witmaster, Web relied on that beast-magic far more keenly than I did. Perhaps it had become his dominant sense, for the Wit gives one a tingle of awareness for any living creature. Now, alerted by Web, I deliberately extended my own Wit toward the newcomers. I did not have his level of awareness, and the crowded room muddled my senses even more. I could feel almost nothing from them. I dismissed that with a shrug.

“Not Forged,” I decided. “They huddle together too companionably. If they were Forged, each would be immediately seeking what they most needed, food, drink, or warmth. They hesitate, not wishing to be seen as intruders here, but uncomfortable not knowing our ways. So not Forged. Forged ones never care for such niceties.”

I suddenly realized I sounded far too much like Chade’s apprentice assassin in how I analyzed them. They were guests, not targets. I cleared my throat. “I do not know where they came from. Revel told me they came to the door as musicians for the feast. Or perhaps tumblers.”

Web was still staring at them. “They are neither,” he said decisively. Curiosity blossomed in his voice as he announced, “So. Let us speak to them and find out who and what they are.”

I watched as the three conferred with one another. The woman and the younger man nodded brusquely at what the taller man was saying. Then, as if they were herd dogs set to bringing in sheep, they abruptly left his side and began to move purposefully through the crowd. The woman kept her hand at her hip, as if her fingers sought a sword that was not there. Their heads turned and their eyes roved as they went. Seeking something? No. Someone. The woman stood on tiptoe, trying to peer over the heads of the gathered folk who were watching the change of musicians. Their leader faded back toward the door. Did he guard it lest their prey escape? Or was I imagining things? “Who do they hunt?” I heard myself ask softly.