Fool's Fate (Tawny Man #3)

Fool's Fate (Tawny Man #3) Page 31

And that was it. There was nothing else to pack, and precious little else in the world that belonged to me. There was my horse, Myblack, but she had little interest in me beyond doing what she must. She preferred her own kind, and would not miss me at all. A stable boy would exercise her regularly, and as long as Hands was in charge of Buckkeep's stables, I had no fear that she would be neglected or ill-used.

Gilly emerged from the heap of clothing and came romping across the bed to challenge me. “Small chance you'll miss me, either,” I told him as he menaced my hand playfully. There were plenty of mice and rats in the walls of Buckkeep to keep him well fed. He'd probably enjoy having the whole bed to himself. He already believed that the pillow belonged to him. My gaze wandered over the room. Chade had taken possession of all the scrolls I'd brought back from my cabin. He'd sorted them, adding the harmless ones to the Buckkeep library and securing in his cabinets any that told too many truths too plainly. I felt no sense of loss.

I carried the armload of clothing over to one of Chade's old wardrobes, intending to stuff it all inside. Then my conscience smote me, and I carefully shook out and folded each garment before putting it away. In the process, I realized that, taken individually, many of the garments were not as ostentatious as I had imagined them. I added the warmly lined cloak to my sea chest. When all of the clothing was stored or packed, I set the jeweled sword on top of the chest. It would go with me. Despite its showy hilt, it was well made and finely balanced. Like the man who had given it to me, its glittering appearance obscured its true purpose.

There was a courteous tap and the wine rack swung out of the way. As Dutiful stepped wearily into the room, Gilly leaped from the bed and sprang to confront him, menacing him with white teeth as he made abortive springs at his feet.

“Yes, I'm glad to see you, too,” Dutiful greeted him and swept the little animal up in one hand. He scratched the ferret's throat gently and then set him down. Gilly immediately attacked his feet. Being careful not to tread upon him, Dutiful came into the room, saying, “You had something extra for me to pack?” With a heavy sigh, he dropped down on the bed beside me. “I'm so tired of packing,” he confided. “I hope it's something small.”

“It's on the table,” I told him. “And it's not small.”

As he walked toward the worktable, I knew a moment of intense regret and would have undone the gift if I could. How could it possibly mean to this boy what it had to me? He looked at it, and then looked up at me, shock on his face. “I don't understand. You're giving me a sword?”

I stood up. “It's your father's sword. Verity gave it to me, when last we parted. It's yours, now,” I said quietly.

The look that overtook Dutiful's face in that moment erased any regret I might have felt. He put out a hand toward it, drew it back, and then looked at me. Incredulous wonder shone in his face. I smiled.

“I said it was yours. Pick it up and get the feel of it. I've just cleaned and sharpened it, so be careful.”

He reached his hand down and set it on the hilt. I waited, watching, for him to lift it and discover its exquisite balance. But he drew his hand back.

“No.” The word shocked me. Then, “Wait here. Please. Just wait.” And then he turned and fled the room. I heard the scuff of his running footsteps fade in the hidden corridor.

His reaction puzzled me. He had seemed so delighted at first. I walked over and looked again at the blade. Freshly oiled and wiped, it gleamed. It was both beautiful and elegant, yet there was nothing in its design that would interfere with its intended function. It was a tool for killing other men. It had been made for Verity by Hod, the same Weaponsmaster who had taught me to wield both blade and pike. When Verity had gone on his quest, she had gone with him, and died for him. It was a sword worthy of a king. Why had Dutiful rejected it?

I was sitting before the hearth, a cup of hot tea between my two hands, when he returned. He carried a long, wrapped bundle with him. He was talking and untying the leather thongs that bound it as he came through the door. “I don't know why I didn't think of this a long time ago, when my mother first told me who you were. I guess because it was given to me so long ago, and then my mother put it away for me. Here!”

The wrappings fell away from it and he flourished it aloft. Grinning widely, he suddenly reversed his grip on it, and proffered it to me, the hilt resting on his left forearm. He grinned at me, his eyes blazing with delight and anticipation. “Take it, FitzChivalry Farseer. Your father's sword.”