Fool’s Quest

She spoke as if she were talking about seeds that would fail to sprout, not as if she were speaking of her grandchildren.

“I can get more,” I said unwillingly. “King Dutiful put the fate of the Rousters into my hands. If there’s anyone there worth having, you can take them.”

She made a face. “As men, they’re worth nothing. As swords, we’ll take them all. They won’t respect me, and in all honesty I’m not sure I can win their respect without killing one of them. I’ve never killed anyone wearing the blue, and I don’t want to start at this stage in my life.”

I stood up. I knew what she was asking me. I didn’t wait for her to put it in words. “I’ll put them on notice to be ready to ride tomorrow. And I’ll see that they respect us.”

She gave a tight nod.

The delay chafed. I’d already delegated my task from Chade. This was one I had to do myself. So do it swiftly, even if it has to be done dirty. Get clear of it and go. Failure to do it might result in losses for my guard. Do it. I owed this to Foxglove.

A pang of guilt. Dutiful was my king. Did not I owe him obedience? The prince did, I decided. Bee’s father did not.

As I walked away from her, I wondered if I were truly up to this anymore. Foxglove’s puppies were still battering me when I took up an axe, and I was just holding my own with a sword. Sixty years sat on my shoulders. I was many years out of practice at real fighting. All the discouragement I had felt earlier in the day came to whisper in my ears. Maybe Dutiful and Nettle were right to tell me that the best I could do was to comfort my child. I knew how far it was to Salter’s Deep. One man alone on a good horse, pushing himself and his animal and going cross-country instead of by the roads, could make it there in a day and a half. The younger Fitz would have been in the saddle as soon as he heard the name of the place.

And I, I calculated men and odds and knew with an old man’s experience that I’d likely be dead before I got near Bee. She would watch me die and then who would there be for her? Don’t be stupid, I counseled myself. At the head of my guard, leaving at dawn tomorrow, there was still a chance that we would be in time to at least lend our strength to the Ringhill Guard. Dutiful was giving me that.

Wisdom tasted as bad as rancid meat. I’d need the Rousters. I didn’t want them, but Foxglove would need them. I made a brief stop in my room and then went in search of them.

I did not find them on the practice yards or in the steams or even in the guards’ mess. I hated the wasted time so much that I took a horse from the stables and rode down the hill. I did not have to go all the way to Buckkeep Town. On the edge of the sprawling growth from the town, I entered the tavern called the Lusty Buck, just past the blackened ruins of the Bawdy Trout. It was exactly the sort of place I had expected it to be. The door did not fit tight in the jamb; a door can only be knocked off its hinges so many times before it always hangs askew. Inside, the candles were few and dark corners many. The air was ripe with cheap, coarse Smoke and the vinegary smell of spilled wine never completely mopped up. A woman smiled wearily at me as I came in; one of her eyes was swollen near shut and I could feel only pity for her. I wondered if debt had put her here. I shook my head at her and stood just within the door, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness.

The Rousters were scattered round the room. They were a small troop, and the losses Chade and I had inflicted on them had reduced them even more. There were perhaps twenty-seven troops in the dark-blue livery. There were a few sodden regulars mixed in with them, a handful of soldiers from other guard companies, and a scattering of weary whores, but the Rousters dominated with their dark jerkins and darker expressions. One or two had turned to look at me as I ran my eyes over them, trying to appraise them.

“Rousters. To me!”

The command should at least have brought them to their feet. Heads turned toward me and many who stared were blearily the worse for drink. Only a few lurched unsteadily upright. I suspected they had been here since they’d stabled their horses on their return from Withywoods. I didn’t repeat my order. Instead I asked of the air, “Who’s in charge, Rousters? I know some of your officers went down near Oaksbywater. Where is Sergeant Goodhand?”

I had expected one of the older guards to stand. Instead it was a youngster with a patchy beard who spoke without rising. The heels of his boots rested on the corner of his table. “I’m here.”

I waited for someone to laugh or contradict him. No one did. Very well. “Sergeant Goodhand, muster your troop and bring them up to the practice fields. I need to speak to them.” I turned to go.