Royal Assassin

IF A HOUNDSMAN suspects that a dog boy is using the Wit to defile and divert the hounds to his own ends, he should be watchful for these signs. If the boy speaks not overmuch to his fellows, be wary. If the hounds perk up before the boy is in sight, or whine before he has left, be watchful. If a hound will leave off his snuffing for a bitch in season, or turn aside from a blood trail and lie quiet at the boy’s word, be certain. Let the boy be hanged, over water if possible, well away from the stables, and his body burned. Let every hound he has trained be drowned, as well as all sired by defiled hounds. A hound who has known the Wit use will neither fear nor respect any other master, but is sure to turn vicious when deprived of the Witted one. A Witted boy cannot be trusted to beat an unruly hound, nor will he suffer his Wit hound to be sold away, or used as bear bait, no matter how old the dog. A Wit boy will turn his master’s hounds to his own purposes, and never has any true loyalty to his master, but only to his Wit hound.

*

I woke up sometime. Of all the cruel jests fate had recently played on me, I decided that awakening was the cruelest. I lay still and cataloged my various discomforts. The exhaustion from my carris-seed frenzy combined well with the exhaustion from my Skill battle with Justin and Serene. I had taken some nasty sword cuts to my right forearm, and one to my left thigh that I recalled not at all. None of them had been dressed; my sleeve and trousers were matted to my skin with dried blood. Whoever had knocked me unconscious had made sure of his work with several more blows. Other than that, I was fine. I told myself this a number of times, ignoring the trembling in my left leg and arm. I opened my eyes.

The room I was in was small and stone. There was a pot in the corner. When I finally decided I could move, I craned my head enough to see that there was a door, with a small barred window in it. This was the light source, fed by a torch somewhere down a hallway outside. Oh. Yes. The dungeons. My curiosity satisfied, I closed my eyes again and slept. Nose to tail, I rested safe in a deep den covered over by the blowing snow. The illusion of safety was as much as Nighteyes could offer me. So weak I was that even his thoughts to me seemed misty. Safe. That was as much as he could convey.

I awoke again. I could tell time had passed by how much thirstier I was. Other than that, everything was remarkably the same. This time I determined that the bench I was lying on was also made of stone. There was nothing between me and the stone save the clothes I wore. “Hey!” I called. “Guards!” There was no answer. Everything seemed a bit vague. After a time I could not recall if I had already cried out, or if I was summoning the strength to do so. After a bit more time I decided I did not have the strength. I went back to sleep. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

I awoke to Patience’s voice arguing. Whoever she was arguing with wasn’t answering much, and wasn’t giving in. “It’s ridiculous. What are you afraid I’ll do?” A silence. “I’ve known him since he was a child.” Another silence. “He’s hurt. What possible damage can it do for me to at least look at his injuries? You can hang him whole as easily as you can wounded, can’t you?” Another silence.

After a time I decided I might be able to move. I had a lot of bruises and scrapes I couldn’t account for, probably gained on the journey between the Great Hall and here. The worst part of moving was that it tugged my clothing against the scabbed over cuts. I decided I could stand it. For such a small room, it was a very long way from the bed to the door. When I got there, I discovered I could just see out the little barred window. What I could see was the stone wall on the opposite side of the narrow corridor. I gripped the bars with my good left hand.

“Patience?” I croaked.

“Fitz? Oh, Fitz, are you all right?”