Royal Assassin

“Dead, too many of them, if you ask me. I do know.” The Fool interjected an answer to my unspoken question. I looked at him blankly. He stuck his tongue out at me, waltzed away from me a bit. He considered his scepter, chucked the rat lovingly under the chin. “You see, Ratsy. It is as I told you. None of them know. None of them are smart enough to ask.”

“Fool, cannot you ever speak plain?” I cried out in frustration.

He halted as suddenly as if struck. In mid-pirouette, he lowered his heels to the floor and stood like a statue. “Would it help any?” he asked soberly. “Would you listen to me if I came to you and did not speak in riddles? Would that make you pause and think and hang upon every word, and ponder those words later, in your chamber? Very well then. I shall try. Do you know the rhyme ‘Six Wisemen went to Jhaampe town’?”

I nodded, as confused as ever.

“Recite it for me.”

“’Six Wisemen went to Jhaampe-town, climbed a hill and never came down, turned to stone and flew away . . .’” The old nursery rhyme eluded me suddenly. “I don’t recall it all. It’s nonsense anyway, one of those rhyming things that sticks in your head but means nothing.”

“That, of course, is why it is enscrolled with the knowledge verses,” the Fool concluded.

“I don’t know!” I retorted. I suddenly felt irritated beyond endurance. “Fool, you are doing it again. All you speak is riddles, ever! You claim to speak plain, but your truth eludes me.”

“Riddles, dear Fitzy-fitz, are supposed to make folk think. To find new truth in old saws. But, be that as it may . . . Your brain eludes me. How shall I reach it? Perhaps if I came to you, by dark of night, and sang under your window:

“ ‘Bastard Princeling, Fitz my sweet,
You waste your hours to your own defeat.
You work to stop, you strive to refrain,
When all your effort should go to a gain.’ ”

He had flung himself to one knee, and plucked nonexistent strings on his scepter. He sang quite lustily, and even well. The tune belonged to a popular love ballad. He looked at me, sighed theatrically, wet his lips, and continued mournfully:

“ ‘Why does a Farseer look never afar,
Why dwells he completely in things as they are?
Your coasts are besieged, your people beset.
I warn and I urge, but they all say, “not yet!”
O Bastard Princeling, gentle Fitz,
Will you delay until chopped to bits?’ ”

A passing servant girl paused to stand bemused and listen. A page came to the door of one chamber and peeped out at us, grinning widely. A slow flush began to heat my cheeks, for the Fool’s expression was both tender and ardent as he looked up at me. I tried to walk casually away from him, but he followed me on his knees, clutching at my sleeve. I was forced to stand, or engage in a ridiculous struggle to free myself. I stood, feeling foolish. He simpered a smile up at me. The page giggled, and down the hall I heard two voices conferring in amusement. I refused to lift my eyes to see who was so enjoying my discomfort. The Fool mouthed a kiss up at me. He let his voice sink to a confidential whisper as he sang on:

“ ‘Will fate seduce you to her will?
Not if you struggle with all your Skill.
Summon your allies, locate the trained,
Consummate all from which you’ve refrained.
There’s a future not yet fashioned,
Founded by your fiery passions.
If you use your Wits to win,
You’ll save the Duchies for your kin.
Thus begs a Fool, on bended knee,
Let not a darkness come to be.
Let not our peoples go to dust
When Life in you has placed this trust.’ ”

He paused, then sang loudly and jovially:

“ ‘And if you choose to let this pass
Like so much farting from your ass,
Behold my reverence for thee,
Feast eyes on what men seldom see!’ ”