Fool's Quest (35 page)

Kicking.
The roan's warning was instantaneous with her action. I had no time to prepare for her sudden motion, but I did manage to stay in the saddle. Resourceful man, that Lord Derrick, and I suddenly knew he was very unlikely to forgive me the theft of such a horse. I'd seen warhorses trained for battle, but the roan was a palfrey that looked built more for running than fighting. She wheeled under me and kicked out powerfully with her hind legs. I held on and felt the blow impact solidly with the other horse. I gave less than a heartbeat's thought to the realization that I had not signaled her to do this: She had undertaken it herself. As her hind legs came down under her again, she gave a great leap forward. She'd carried me out of range of the swords. I scarcely needed to guide her as she swung tightly to face our attackers. I had a moment to see that Red was down and unmoving, and Chade's other opponent was draped forward on his mount with his blood running freely down his horse's neck, as his mount paced in a confused circle. Chade was off his horse, locked tight with Lieutenant Crafty. I was dimly aware of the captain sitting up in the snow, cursing at them.

The roan crashed chest-to-chest with one of the Rousters' mounts. I leaned in time and his sword sliced only the good wool of my cloak and glanced off the point of my shoulder. I was more accurate. This time I used the pointed end of my weapon, pushing it deep into the chest of the very young and very surprised guardsman. So satisfying to finally shed blood, to let the anger rage! My Wit shared his agony with me. I blocked it even as I took satisfaction in it. The attack had brought me close to him. As I seized his throat to push him off my blade, I smelled on his breath the breakfast he'd eaten at my table. His two front teeth overlapped slightly. Probably younger than Lant. And much deader as he fell from his horse.

“You bastard!” his partner shouted.

“Yes!” I responded. I turned in the saddle, ducked, and the tip of his blade etched fire across my brow instead of beheading me. The pain was shockingly sharp. We were knee-to-knee. Blood from my earlier blow ran over his chin, but I knew that in a moment the flowing blood from my brow would blind me and my sword would be useless. I nudged the roan. She responded. I kicked free of my stirrups as she wheeled into the other horse. I needed to get my hands on him while I could see. I dropped my sword and shook my hands out of my gloves, then launched myself at him.

It was possibly the last thing he'd expected me to do. I was inside the range of his sword. He kept hold of his weapon and hit me with the hilt, with little impact. He had stayed in his saddle but my sudden extra weight sent his horse staggering sideways. The Rouster fought to keep his balance. He had a fine beard and mustache and I seized two great handfuls of hair and let myself fall. He came after me, shouting curses and delivering several solid punches to my chest. He lost his sword as we went down. As we fell together from his horse into the deep snow, I twisted, hoping to land on top of him. I didn't. I heard a muffled shout and knew Chade's voice. “Wait!” I shouted stupidly, as if Chade and his enemy would delay their fight for me, and the man on top of me hit me in the jaw. Even as we fell, I had not released his beard and now I did my best to pull out as big a handful as I could. He roared with the pain, a very satisfactory sound. I let go of his beard and boxed both his ears as hard as I could with the heels of my hands.

Then I fastened my hands to his throat. Strangling a man with a heavy beard and a high collar is difficult. I worked my fingers through the beard, slid them under his collar. The warm column of his throat was mine, and I sank my fingers into it. Doing this while the man was on top of me, pummeling me while blood ran into my eyes, meant that it took much longer for me to kill the man than I care to recall. When he stopped hitting me and seized my wrists, I darted my head in and bit his hand as hard as I could. He roared and then screamed with pain and outrage. Assassins take no pride in fighting fairly. We take pride in winning. As I spat out a piece of finger, I told myself Nighteyes would have been proud. I'd kept my grip and I felt the flesh of his throat standing in ridges between my fingers. “BEE!” I gasped and squeezed harder. Throttling someone while being struck requires focus. I knew that as long as I had his throat and kept squeezing, there was a limit to how long he could do whatever painful things he could think of as I inexorably cut off his breath. I jerked him close enough to me that he couldn't make a large swing, while keeping his broken teeth away from my face. He tried to find my throat, but I locked my chin to my chest and hung on. It had been a long time since I'd had to fight this way, but some things a man does not forget. His blows began to lose force. He gripped my wrists.
Hold tight,
I reminded myself. All I had to do was keep squeezing. When he collapsed on me the first time, I knew he was feigning death. He did not fake it for long. He stirred enough to lift his hands and pry at mine. It was a feeble effort. The second time he collapsed, I knew he was truly unconscious. I squeezed. When I knew he was dead, I let go and pushed him off me.

I rolled away, my ribs aching, my jaw burning where I'd clenched it against his blows. I staggered to my knees and dragged my cuff across my bloodied vision. When I could see, I got to my feet and looked for Chade. The horses had scattered. The captain was curled on his side, calling faintly for help. The four guardsmen were down, three dead and one dying. Chade was still on his feet. Blood from his side had darkened his coat and dripped red on the snow. The tough old bastard was behind the lieutenant, his arm locked around the man's throat. The lieutenant was wasting time clawing at Chade's arm. I brought out my knife to make a quick end to him.

“No!” Chade forbade me breathlessly. “My kill.” Never before had my old mentor sounded so much like my wolf. I took a respectful two steps back and without remorse dispatched the fourth guardsman and then went to the captain's aid.

He was dying and he knew it. I didn't try to move him. I went down on my knees and leaned on my hand to look in his face. He could barely focus on me. He tried to lick his lips, then said, “Not traitor. Not me. Not the rest of my boys. My Rousters.”

I thought he was finished. “I'll tell Lord Chade,” I assured him.

“That son of a mangy bitch,” he said, anger lending him strength. “Leave their bodies … on the gibbet. That dung-eating bastard Crafty. Led them astray. My boys. Mine.”

“The others won't be punished,” I promised him, but knew I lied. The reputation of the Rousters, never sterling, would be dirtied. No one would want to join that guard company, and the other guardsmen would avoid them at table. But it was what I could say, and he closed his eyes and let go of life.

I went back to Chade. He knelt by Crafty. The man was not dead. He was unconscious from being choked, and Chade was hamstringing him. He'd pushed the man facedown, pulled up the legs of his trousers, and cut the big tendons behind his knees. As I watched, he trussed the man's wrists behind his back with a length of cord he materialized from his sleeve. Then with a grunt, he rolled Crafty onto his back. With those tendons cut, Crafty wasn't going to stand, run, or fight. Chade was pale and breathing hard as he settled back on his haunches. I didn't tell him to finish the man or ask him his intent. Assassins have a code of their own. Bee was at stake as well as Shun, and if this man's attempt on us had to do with her abduction, then whatever we had to do to extract his information was acceptable.

Crafty was drawing deeper breaths, a scratchy sound. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He gasped loudly and then looked up at us, me standing and Chade kneeling beside him with a bloody knife. Chade didn't wait for him to speak. He set his knife to the hollow of the man's throat.

“Who paid you? How much? What was your mission?” Chade spoke the words as if he were counting aloud.

Crafty didn't answer immediately. I observed the standing stone. My roan stood at a distance, watching me closely. The other horses had bunched together, confused and taking comfort in her company. I suspect Chade did something with his knife because Crafty gasped high. I muffled my Wit so as not to share what he felt. I heard him struggle and then demand, “What did you do to my legs, you bastard?”

Chade spoke again. “Who paid you? How much? What was your mission?”

“Don't know his name! He wouldn't say!” The man was breathless with pain. “What did you do to my legs?” He tried to sit up, but Chade pushed him roughly back. I eyed the old man critically. He was still bleeding, the red melting the snow beside him. Soon, I'd have to intervene, if only to bandage him.

“What did he tell you to do? How much did he offer you to do it?”

“Kill you. Five gold for me, and two for any man who helped. He came to us in a tavern in Buckkeep. Actually, he came to the captain, but he cursed him and said no. Is he dead? Captain Stout?”

I couldn't tell if it was fear or regret in his voice.

“Only me?” Chade asked him.

“Kill you. Kill you slow if we could, but kill you and bring back your hand. To prove it.”

“When?” I interrupted Chade's questioning. “When did you get this job?”

He rolled his eyes to look at me. “In Buckkeep. Before we left. Right after we got word that we were leaving, that we would miss Winterfest to come out here. No one was happy about that.”

I spoke. “It's not connected, Chade. Whoever bribed them had no way of knowing you'd be here: He'd have been hoping they could somehow kill you at Buckkeep. Bee and Shun were taken the same day they were bribed. And why send these traitors if they already had a force on its way here? It's two different things. Kill him and let me see to your side.”

Chade shot me a look that silenced me. “What did he look like, the man who offered the money?”

“My legs hurt so bad, I can't think. I want a healer before I talk any more. Sweet Eda!” He lifted his head a short way and then let it fall back in the snow. “You killed everyone? All four of them?”

“What did he look like?” Chade was relentless. The man was bleeding to death. Chade and I knew it, but Crafty seemed unaware of it.

“A tall man, but not thin. Tall, but with a stomach like a barrel. Just a Buckman, like any other. I don't know. It was an easy deal. Bring the hand with your ring on it, the innkeeper at the Bawdy Trout gives us the money. When you showed up, it was like the gods handed you to us. So damned easy. If the captain had said yes, you'd be a dead man, and him, too.”

“Tell me about his teeth.”

“I'm not saying nothing more until you take me to a healer. I'm getting cold, so cold. What did you do to my legs?”

Chade set the tip of his knife to the man's nostril. “Talk to me, or I cut your nose,” he said coldly. He inserted the blade up the man's nostril until he felt the edge of it.

Crafty's eyes went very wide. “His tooth, one of the front ones, was gray. Is that what you meant?

Chade nodded to himself. “Did he mention a girl?”

“The girl you stole. Yah. Said if we found her with you, we could have her. Or if we could make you tell us where she was. Said she'd make a good whore. Aaaaah!”

The nose is sensitive. Very sensitive. Chade had always maintained it was as good a target for torment as a man's genitals—or better. Not only is there pain, but disfiguring a man's face will affect him for the rest of his life. Crafty was writhing in the snow, one of his nostrils sliced open and bleeding profusely. He began to weep. Abruptly, I wanted this to be over.

“He said it.” The blood and the pain of his sliced nose thickened his voice. “Not me. And no one even saw the girl, so no one did her. Eda, help me!” He called on the goddess, as I doubted he'd ever done before, and snorted wildly, spraying blood.

I was fairly certain this was all about Shun, and Chade's vendetta with her stepfather, but I would be certain. “Did he mention a little girl?” I demanded of him. “A child?”

He halted his thrashing and stared up at me. “A little girl? No. Gods, we're not monsters!”

“Liar,” Chade said. Crafty had thrashed away from him. Chade hitched himself closer, and very slowly, almost gently, drew his blade across the man's throat. Crafty's eyes flew wide open in the sudden knowledge that he was dead. His mouth worked but the sounds were not words. Cutting a man's throat isn't an instant death for him, but it's a certain one. Chade knew that. So did Crafty. He was still moving when Chade said to me, “Give me a hand up.”

I held my hand out to him. “All of that to confirm what you already knew?”

“I got a bit extra. The name of the inn.” He took my hand. His was slippery with blood. I stooped, slid my arm around him, and pulled him upright. He grunted with pain as he came to his feet. “It wasn't about information, Fitz. It was payback. For Captain Stout. Treachery deserves great pain.” He made a bad sound. I stood very still until he could catch his breath. “And daring to think he could try to kill me.”

My bared hand felt the warmth of the blood on his clothing. “I'll sit you down and catch a horse. There's a healer in—”

“The stone,” Chade said decisively. “Better healers in Buckkeep.”

Nettle once compared having the Skill to having a sense of smell. One does not mean to intrude on people any more than one wants to sniff someone, but in proximity, you sense the smell of someone. Or Skill tells you of his pain. In this case, the Wit that told me Chade was a creature in desperate need of healing. And he was right. The best healers would be in Buckkeep. I reached out to Nettle.
We were attacked. Chade is injured. Coming through the stones in a few moments. Please have a healer ready to tend him. He's taken a sword wound to his side.

We knew of the attack. And then you both blocked us out! What is going on? Were they Bee's kidnappers? Have you found her, is she safe?
Anger and frantic questions that I had no time for.