Royal Assassin

“No. I am no traitor. But I am a bastard. And I’ve let that spill over onto you. Everything Patience warned me of, everything Ch— everyone warned me about, it’s all coming true. I’ve got you caught up in it.”

“What is happening?” she asked softly, eyes wide. Her breath suddenly caught. “You said . . . the guard wouldn’t let you out the gate. That you can’t leave Buckkeep? Why?”

“I don’t know, exactly. There’s a lot I don’t understand. But one thing I do know. I have to keep you safe. That means staying away from you, for a time. And you from me. Do you understand?”

A glint of anger came into her eyes. “I understand you’re leaving me alone in this!”

“No. That’s not it. We have to make them believe that they’ve scared you, that you’re obeying them. Then you’ll be safe. They’ll have no reason to come after you again.”

“They have scared me, you idiot!” she hissed at me. “One thing I know. Once someone knows you’re afraid of him, you’re never safe from that person. If I obey them now, they will come after me again. To tell me to do other things, to see how far I’ll obey them in my fear.”

These were the scars her father had left on her life. Scars that were a kind of strength, but also a vulnerability. “Now is not the time to stand up to them,” I whispered. I kept looking over her shoulder, expecting that at any moment the guard would come to see where we had vanished. “Come,” I said, and led her deeper into the maze of warehouses and outbuildings. She walked silently beside me for a ways, then suddenly jerked her hand from mine.

“It is time to stand up to them,” she declared. “Because once you start putting it off, you never do it. Why should not this be the time?”

“Because I don’t want you caught up in this. I don’t want you hurt. I don’t want people saying you are the Bastard’s whore.” I could barely force the words from my mouth.

Molly’s head came up. “I have done nothing I’m ashamed of,” she said evenly. “Have you?”

“No. But—”

“ ‘But.’ Your favorite word,” she said bitterly. She walked away from me.

“Molly!” I sprang after her, seized her by the shoulders.

She spun and hit me. Not a slap. A solid punch in the mouth that rocked me back and put blood in my mouth. She stood glaring, daring me to touch her again. I didn’t. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight back. Only that I didn’t want you caught up in it. Give me a chance to fight this my way,” I said. I knew blood was running over my chin. I let her look at it. “Trust that given time, I can find them and make them pay. My way. Now. Tell me about the men. What they wore, how they rode. What did the horses look like? Did they speak like Buck folk, or Inlanders? Did they have beards? Could you tell the color of their hair, their eyes?”

I saw her trying to think, saw her mind veer away from thinking about it. “Brown,” she said at last. “Brown horses, with black manes and tails. And the men talked like anybody else. One had a dark beard. I think . . . It’s hard to see face down in the dirt.”

“Good. That’s good,” I told her, though she had told me nothing at all. She looked down, away from the blood on my face. “Molly,” I said more quietly. “I won’t be coming . . . to your room. Not for a while. Because . . .”

“You’re afraid.”

“Yes!” I hissed. “Yes, I’m afraid. Afraid they’ll hurt you, afraid they’ll kill you. To hurt me. I won’t endanger you by coming to you.”

She stood still. I could not tell if she was listening to me or not. She folded her arms across her chest, hugged herself. . .

“I love you too much to see that happen.” My words sounded weak, even to myself.

She turned and walked away from me. She still hugged herself, as if to keep herself from flying apart. She looked very alone, in her draggled blue skirts with her proud head bowed. “Molly Redskirts,” I whispered after her, but I could no longer see that Molly. Only what I had made of her.

24 Neatbay

THE POCKED MAN Is the legendary harbinger of disaster for the folk of the Six Duchies. To see him, striding down the road, is to know that disease and pestilence will soon come to call. To dream of him is said to be a warning of a death to come. Often the tales of him show him appearing to those deserving of punishment, but sometimes he is used, most often in puppet shows, as a general omen of disaster to come. A marionette of the Pocked Man, hung dangling across the scenery, is a warning to all in the audience that soon they will witness a tragedy.

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