Fool’s Quest

I looked down at the clothing that Ash had chosen for me that morning. Then I scooped an armful of extra clothing from the traveling trunk, triggered the door, and went back up to the lair. I did not have much time. I took the stairs two at a time and was speaking before I entered the room. “Fool, I need your help!”

Then I felt foolish. For both Ash and the Fool turned toward me. They had been seated at the table, feeding things to the crow. She had made a remarkable mess of bread bits and scattered grain and was now holding down a chicken bone as she stripped meat from it.

“Sir?” Ash responded as the Fool turned to me and said, “Fitz?”

I did not have time for subtleties. “I’m not sure my clothing is right. I’m to join the king and queen at the high table, with Lord Chade and Lady Nettle. There will be others there, looking on. And I must present myself as FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, returned from his sojourn among the Elderlings. Last night was one thing. They were taken by surprise. But tonight, Chade has said I must give them—”

“The hero,” the Fool said quietly. “Not the prince. The hero.” He turned to Ash and spoke as if I were incompetent to answer. “What is he wearing?”

Ash bristled, just a trifle. “The clothing I chose for him earlier in the day.”

“I’m blind,” the Fool reminded him tartly.

“Oh. I beg pardon, sir. He has on a brown vest decorated with buttons of horn over a white shirt, the sleeves cut full, with a dozen or so buttons on long cuffs. The collar is open at the throat. He is wearing no jewelry. His trousers are a darker brown, with a line of buttons, also horn, down the outer seams. He’s wearing heeled shoes with a plain but lifted toe.” He cleared his throat. “And his face is splotched with mud.”

“It’s ink!” I objected.

“As if that matters,” the boy muttered.

The Fool interrupted. “The buttons. How recent a fashion are they here?”

“A few folk were wearing them last summer, but now everyone—”

“Fitz, come here. Stand before me.”

I did as he told me, amazed to see that he almost looked animated. I wondered when anyone had last demanded his help. When he felt me standing before him, he lifted his hands and ran them over my garments as if I were a horse he was considering buying. He felt the fabrics, touched the rows of buttons, tugged at my collar, and then touched my chin.

“Don’t shave,” he instructed me abruptly, as if I had been poised with razor in hand. “Ash. Can you cut the buttons from the trousers and leave no trace they were ever there?”

“I think so.” The boy sounded a bit sullen.

“Come, Ash,” the Fool cajoled him. “You grew up in a bawdyhouse, where daily, women presented themselves to be what men fancied. This is the same thing. We must give them what they want to see. Not a fashionable gentlemen dressed to impress, but a hero returned from the outskirts of society. He has been hidden amongst us since he returned from the Elderlings, living as a humble rural landholder. Slice the buttons off the trousers! We must make him look as if he has not mingled in court society for close to twoscore years. Yet we must also make it appear that he has tried to dress to the style. I know that Chade knows well how to play this sort of a game. We will need powder and paint, to emphasize the old break in his nose and the scar on his face. Some jewelry, but nothing too fine. Silver suits him better than gold.”

“My fox pin,” I said quietly.

“Perfect,” the Fool agreed. “Ash?”

“A hat. Almost no one goes bareheaded anymore. But simpler. Without feathers, perhaps.”

“Excellent. Go fetch. I think you’ve the head for this game. Indulge yourself.”

As easily as that, he had stroked the boy’s pride smooth. The lad flashed a smile at me as he rose and then vanished, headed toward the crawlway that would exit into Lady Thyme’s chamber.

“The fox pin,” the Fool demanded of me.

“And there is now a silver narwhal button that the queen gave me last night,” I remembered.