Fools Errand

  . badgerlock's “old blood tales”

  Let me just see you.

  You have. I have shown myself to you. Stop nagging me for that, and pay attention. You said you would learn this for me. You promised it to me. It is why I have brought you here, where there are no distractions. Be the cat.

  It's too hard. Let me see you with my eyes. Please.

  When you are ready. When you can be the cat as easily as you are yourself. Then you will be ready to know me.

  She was ahead of me. I toiled up the hill behind her, every bush scratching me, every dip and every stone catching at my feet. My mouth was dry. The night was cool, but as I pushed my way through the brush, dust and pollen rose to choke me. Wait!

  Prey does not wait. A cat does not cry out “wait” to the one she hunts. Be the cat.

  For an instant, I almost caught a glimpse of her. Then the tall grass closed around her and she was gone. Nothing stirred, I heard no sound. I was no longer sure which way to go. The night was deep beneath the golden moon, the lights of Galeton lost behind me in the rolling hills. I took a breath, and then closed my mouth, resolving to breathe silently if it choked me. I moved forward, a single gliding step at a time. I did not push branches out of my way, but swayed around them. I eased through the grass, striving to part it with my stride rather than push through it. I eased my weight from one carefully set footstep to the next. What had she bade me? “Be the night. Not the wind that stirs the trees, not even the soundless owl a'Wing or the tiny mouse crouched motionless. Be the night that flows over all, touching without being felt. For night is a cat. ” Very well, then. I was night, sleek and black and soundless. I halted under the sheltering branches of an oak. Its leaves were still. I opened my eyes as wide as they would go, striving to capture every bit of light I could. Slowly I turned my head. I flared my nostrils and then took in a deep silent breath through my mouth, trying to taste her on the air. Where was she, which way had she gone?

  I felt a sudden weight, as if a brawny man had clapped both his hands to my shoulders and then sprung back from me. I spun around, but it was only Cat. She had dropped on me like a falling leaf, and then let herself drop to the ground. Now she crouched in the dry grass and ancient leaves under the tree. Belly to the ground, she looked up at me and then away. I crouched down beside her. “Which way, Cat? Which way did she go?”

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  Here. She is here. She is always here, with me.

  After my love's deep throaty voice, Cat's thought in my mind was a reedy purr. I was fond of her, but to have her thoughts touch mine when I was longing instead for my love was almost intolerable. Gently I put her aside from me. I tried to ignore her injured protest that I should do so.

  “Here,” I breathed. “I know she is close. But where?”

  Closer than you know. But you shall never know me as long as you set the cat aside. Open to the cat. Be the cat. Prove yourself tome.

  Cat flowed soundlessly away from me. I could not see where she had gone. She was night flowing into night, and it was like trying to discern the water you had poured into a stream. I drew a soundless breath and poised myself to follow, not just with my feet but with my heart. I pushed fear aside and opened myself to the cat.

  Cat was back suddenly, easing out of the darkness to become a richer shadow. She pressed close against my legs. Hunted.

  “Yes. We hunt, we hunt for the woman, my love. ” No. We are hunted. Something scents us, something follows CatandBoy through the night. Up. Climb.

  She suited her words to her thoughts, flowing up the oak tree. Tree to tree. He cannot track us up here. Follow tree to tree. I knew that was what she was doing, and she expected me to follow. I tried. I flung myself at the oak, but the trunk was too large for me to shinny up and yet not coarse enough for my clawless fingers to find purchase. For an instant, I clung, but I could not climb. I slid back, nails bending and clothing snagging as the tree refused me. I could hear the predator coming now. It was a new sensation, one I did not like, to be hunted thus. I'd find a better tree. I turned and ran, sacrificing stealth for speed, but finding neither.

  I chose to go uphill. Some predators, such as bears, could not run well on an uphill slope. If it was a bear, I could outdistance him. I could not think what else it might be that dared to hunt us. Another oak, younger and with lower branches, beckoned me. I ran, I leapt and caught the lowest branch. But even as I pulled myself up, my pursuer reached the bottom of the tree below me. And I had chosen foolishly. There were no other trees close by that I could leap to. The few that touched branches with mine were slender, unreliable things. I was treed.

  Snarling, I looked down at my stalker. I looked into my own eyes looking into my own eyes looking into my own eyes

  I sat bolt upright, flung from sleep. Sweat sheathed me and my mouth was dry as dust. I rolled out of bed and stood, disoriented. Where was the window, where was the door? And then I recalled that I was not in my own cottage, but in a strange room. I blundered through the darkness to a washstand. I lifted the pitcher there and drank the tepid water in it. I dipped my hand in what little was left and rubbed it around on my face. Work, mind, I bade my struggling brain. It came to me. Nighteyes had Prince Dutiful treed somewhere in the hills behind Galeton. While I had slept, my wolf had found the Prince. But I feared that the Prince had discovered us, as well. How much did he know of the Skill? Was he aware that we had been linked? Then all wondering was pushed aside. As the lowering storm is suddenly loosed by a bolt of lightning, so did the flash of light that seemed to fill my eyes herald the clanging of the Skillheadache that dropped me to my knees. And I had not a scrap of elfbark with me.

  But the Fool might.

  It was the only thought that could have brought me to my feet again. My groping hands found the door and I c-a, stumbled out into his chamber. The only light came from a small nest of dying coals in the hearth and the uncertain light of the night torches burning on the grounds outside the open window. I staggered toward his bed. “Fool?” I called out softly, hoarsely. “Fool, Nighteyes has Dutiful treed. And. . . ”

  The words died on my lips. The dream had forced the earlier events of the night from my mind. What if that huddled shape beneath the blankets were not one body but two? An arm flung back a coverlet to reveal only one form occupying the great bed. He rolled to face me and then sat up. Concern furrowed his brow. “Fitz? Are you hurt?”

  I sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, set one hand to each side of my head and pushed, trying to hold my skull together. “No. Yes. It's the Skill, but we haven't time for that. I know where the Prince is. I dreamed him. He was nighthunting with a cat in the hills behind Galeton. Then something was hunting us, and the cat went up one tree and I . . . the Prince went up another. And then he looked down and he saw Nighteyes under the tree. The wolf has him treed somewhere in those hills. If we go now, we can take him. ”

  “No we can't. Use your common sense. ”

  “I can't. My head is cracking like an eggshell. ” I hunched forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. “Why can't we go get him?” I asked piteously.

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  “Walk your thoughts through it, my friend. We dress and creep out of this room, get past the stable folk to take our horses out, ride through unfamiliar country by night until we come to where the Prince is up a tree with a wolf at the foot of it. One of us climbs the tree and forces the Prince down. Then we coax him to come back with us. Lord Golden miraculously appears at breakfast with, I imagine, a very disgruntled Prince Dutiful, or Lord Golden and his man simply disappear from Lady Bresinga's hospitality without a word of explanation. In any case, in a few days a lot of very uncomfortable questions are going to be asked about Lord Golden and his man Tom Badgerlock, not to mention Prince Dutiful. ”

  He was right. We already suspected the Bresingas were involved in the Prince's “disappearance. ” Bringing him back to Galekeep
would be foolish. We had to recover him in such a way that we could take him straight back to Buckkeep and no one the wiser. I pressed my fingers to my eyeballs. It felt as if the pressure inside my skull would force them out of their sockets. “What do we do, then?” I asked thickly. I didn't even really want to know. I wanted to fall over on my side and huddle into a miserable ball.

  “The wolf keeps track of the Prince. Tomorrow, during our hunt, I will send you back for something I've forgotten. Once you are on your own, you will go to where the Prince is and persuade him to return to Buckkeep. I chose you a big horse. Take him with you immediately and return him to Buckkeep. I'll find a way to explain your absence. ”

  “How?”

  “I haven't thought of it yet, but I will. Don't be concerned about it. Whatever tale I tell, the Bresingas will have to accept for fear of offending me. ”

  I picked at the next largest hole in the plan. It was hard to keep my thoughts in order. “I . . . persuade him to come back to Buckkeep?”

  “You can do it,” the Fool replied with great confidence. “You will know what to say. ”

  I doubted it, but had run out of strength to object. There were painfully bright lights behind my closed eyes. Knuckling them made them worse. I opened my eyes to the dim room, but zigzags of light still danced before my vision, sharding it. “Elfbark,” I pleaded quietly. “I need it. ”

  “No. ”

  My mind could not encompass that he had refused me. “Please. ” I pushed the word out. “The pain is worse than I can explain. ” Sometimes I could tell when a seizure was coming on. I hadn't had one in a long time. Was I imagining that odd tension in my neck and back?

  “Fitz, I can't. Chade made me promise. ” In a lower voice, as if he feared it was too little to offer, he added, “I'll be here with you. ”

  Pain tumbled me in a wave. Fear mingled with it.

  Should come?

  No. “Stay where you are. Watch him. ” I heard myself say the words out loud as I thought them. There was something I was supposed to worry about in that. I recalled it. “I need elfbark tea,” I managed to say. “Or I can't hold the limits. On the Wit. They'll know I'm here. ”

  The bed moved under me as the Fool clambered out of it, a terrible jostling that pounded my brain against the inside of my skull. I heard him go to the washstand. A moment later, he was back, damp cloth in hand. “Lie back,” he told me.

  “Can't,” I muttered. Any movement hurt. I wanted to get back to my own room, but could not. If I was going to have a fit, I didn't want to do it in front of the Fool.

  The cold cloth on my brow was like a shock. I retched with it, then took short panting breaths to get my stomach under control. I more felt than saw the Fool crouch down before me as I sat on the edge of the bed. He took my hand in gloved ones and his fingers fumbled over mine. An instant later, they bit down, pinching hard between the bones of my hand. I gave an inarticulate cry and tried to pull free of him, but as ever he was stronger than I expected.

  “Just for a moment,” he muttered as if reassuring me. The pain in my hand became a racing numbness. A moment later, he seized my arm just above my elbow in both his hands, and again his fingers sought and then pinched down hard.

  “Please,” I begged him, and tried to move away from him. He moved with me and the pain in my head was such I couldn't escape. Why was he hurting me?

  “Don't struggle,” he begged me. “Trust me. I think I can help. Trust me. ” Again his hands moved, this time to my shoulder, and again those relentless fingers jabbed down hard. I gasped, and then his hands were on either side of my neck, his fingers pressing in and up as if he wished to detach my head. I grasped his wrists but could find no strength in my hands. “A moment,” he begged me again. “Fitz, Fitz, trust me. Trust me. ”

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  Then something went out of me. My head dropped forward on my chest, lolling on my neck. The pain was not gone, but it was much diminished. I fell over on my side and he rolled me onto my back. “There. There,” he said, and for a moment I stared into blessed darkness. Then the gloved hands were back, thumbs on my brow, spread fingertips seeking spots on my temples and the sides of my face, and then they pressed mercilessly, his smallest fingers digging in at the hinge of my jaw.

  “Take a breath, Fitz,” I heard him tell me, and I then realized that I was not breathing. I gasped for air, and everything suddenly eased. I wanted to weep for relief. Instead, I sank instantly into a bottomless sleep. I dreamed a strange dream. I dreamed I was safe.

  I came to a hazy wakefulness before dawn. I took a deep breath, and realized I was in the Fool's bed. I think he had just arisen. He was moving quietly about the room, selecting clothing for himself. I think he felt me watching him, for he came back to the bedside. He touched- my brow, pushing my head back onto the pillow. “Go back to sleep. You have a little more time to rest, and I think you need it. ” Two gloved fingers traced twin lines from the top of my head to the bridge of my nose. I slept again.

  When next I woke, it was because he was gently shaking me. My servantblue clothing was laid out on the bed beside me. He was already fully dressed. “Time to hunt,” he told me when he saw I was awake. “I'm afraid you'll have to hurry. ”

  I moved my head cautiously. I ached all along my spine and neck. I sat up stiffly. I felt as if I had been in a fistfight . . . , or had a seizure. There was a sore spot inside my cheek as if I'd bitten it. I looked away from him as I asked, “Did I have a fit last night?”

  A small silence preceded his words. He kept his voice casual. “A small one, perhaps. You tossed your head about and trembled for a time in your sleep. I held you still. It passed. ” He did not want to speak of it any more than I did.

  I dressed slowly. My whole body ached. My left arm bore the marks of the Fool's fingers, small dark circles of bruising. So I had not imagined the strength of his grip. He saw me inspecting my arm, and winced sympathetically. “It leaves bruises, but sometimes it seems to work,” was all he offered by way of explanation.

  Hunt mornings at Galekeep were very similar to hunt mornings at Buckkeep Castle. Suppressed excitement was tingling in the air. Breakfast was a hurried affair, taken standing in the courtyard, and the painstaking efforts of the kitchen folk were scarcely noticed. I had only a mug of beer for I dared face no more than that. I did, however, have the foresight to do as Laurel had noted, and store some food in my saddle pack and make sure my waterskin was freshly filled. I glimpsed Laurel in the hubbub of folk, but she was very busy, talking to at least four people at once. Lord Golden strolled through the crowd, greeting each person with a warm smile. Lord Grayling's daughter was always at his elbow. Sydel's smile and chatter were constant, and Lord Golden replied with attentive courtesy. Did young Civil look a bit irritated with that?

  The horses were brought, saddled and gleaming, from the stables. Myblack seemed unimpressed with the excitement in the air, and again I wondered at her seeming lack of spirit. The gathering seemed oddly muted to me, and then I smiled to myself. There was no excited baying to lift the heart and infect the horses with excitement. I missed hounds. The hunters and their attendants mounted, and then the cats were brought forth on their leads.

  The cats were sleek, shortcoated creatures, with elono!rÊ

  gated bodies. Their heads appeared small to me at first glance. Their coats were tawny, but in certain angles of the light, subdued dappling could be distinguished. Each cat's long, graceful tail seemed to harbor an independent life. They padded through the thronging horses as calmly as dogs among sheep. These were the gruepards, and they knew very well what the milling, mounted folk meant. With little guidance each cat sought out its mounted master. I watched in stunned surprise as leads were loosed, and each cat leapt nimbly into place. I watched Lady Bresinga turn in her saddle to mutter fond words to her cat, while Civil's gruepard put a heavy paw on his shoulder and pulled the boy back so the cat could bump faces wit
h him. I waited in vain for some manifestation of the Wit. I was almost certain both the Bresingas possessed it, but it was controlled to an extent I had not imagined possible. Under the circumstances, no matter how I longed for the touch, I dared not quest out toward Nighteyes. His silence to me was so absolute it was like an absence. Soon, I promised myself, soon.

  We set out for the hills where Avoin promised us good groundbirds and much sport in the taking of them. I rode in back with the other attendants, breathing dust. Despite the early hour, the day already promised to be unseasonably warm. The fine dust of our passing hung thick in the still air. The soil of the hills was strange stuff, for once the thin surface turf was broken by a trail, it became a track of fine powdery soil. I soon wished for a kerchief to cover my mouth and nose, and the hanging dust discouraged conversation. The hooves of the horses were muffled by the stuff, and with the absence of baying dogs, I felt that we rode in near silence. Soon we left the riverside and the trail behind us and rode across the face of the sundrenched hill through crisping graygreen brush. We wended our way through rolling hills and draws that all looked deceptively alike.

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  The hunters were well ahead of us and moving steadily when we crested a hill. I think the flock of birds we rousted there surprised even Avoin, but everyone reacted quickly. I was too far back to see if a signal released the cats, or if the beasts simply reacted to the game. These were large, heavybodied birds that ran, wings open and beating, before they could lift from the ground. Several never made it into the air, and I saw at least two brought down on the wing by the leaping gruepards. The speed of the cats was heartstopping. They flowed from their cushions, leaping to the ground impactlessly and shooting after the fleeing birds with a speed like a striking snake. One cat actually brought down two birds, seizing one in her jaws even as her clutching paws clasped one to her breast. I had noticed four or five boys on ponies riding behind us. They came forward now, game bags open, to take up the prey. Only one gruepard was reluctant to relinquish her kill, and I understood that she was a young hunter, her training still incomplete.