Fool's Quest (The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy #2)

Fool's Quest (The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy #2) Page 74

My heart beat twelve times before he responded. It is what will be expected, yes. Your absence today has been rather dramatic and suspenseful for some. A few nobles who had planned to depart early today, now that Winterfest is over, have delayed their departures. I think they hope for a second glimpse of the mysteriously young and alive FitzChivalry Farseer. Given all that happened last night, it will cause far more speculation if you do not appear at dinner. And your question makes sense to me now. For me, the only difficulty was to ease back into society rather than exploding into it. I was a rat lurking behind the walls for many years. Longing for society, for light and moving air. My transition was less abrupt and strange than yours will be. But as I told you last night, Fitz, it is time and past time. I will expect to see you at dinner.

I veiled my thoughts from him. Anxiety twisted my guts.

Dress appropriately, he suggested.

What? I felt a rush of dismay.

I could almost hear his sigh. Fitz. Straighten your thoughts. Tonight you will be FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, abruptly revealed as the hidden hero of the Red-Ship War. It’s your new role here at Buckkeep Castle, just as Lord Chade is mine. And Dutiful is the king. We all parade our roles, Fitz. Sometimes, in the comforts of our own chambers, we are who we are with old friends. Or at least who our old friends expect us to be. So, think well on it, and live up to the expectations of the folk of Buckkeep Castle, both noble and humble. It is not a time for you to be unremarkable. Prepare.

I found your note. And the crown.

Do not wear that!

I laughed out loud. It had not even crossed my thoughts to do so! I just wanted to thank you. And to let you know I understand.

He sent me no words, only a shared emotion that I had no name for. Snapping my teeth after meat I could not kill, Nighteyes might have named it. The poignant regret of nearly claiming something. I wondered what Chade had dreamed of claiming. A throne? Or perhaps a woman named Laurel.

He departed from my mind. I sat, blinking. Slowly it came to me that Chade was completely right. So, my role was the mysterious returning Witted Bastard, wronged all those years ago. What part of that was untrue? So why was I so acutely uncomfortable at being that? I put my elbows on my knees and lowered my face into my hands, then jerked upright when my fingers touched my swollen eyes. I got up and fetched my looking-glass and studied my reflection again. Could I have chosen a worse time to look peculiar?

I looked down at the clothing that Ash had chosen for me that morning. Then I scooped an armful of extra clothing from the traveling trunk, triggered the door, and went back up to the lair. I did not have much time. I took the stairs two at a time and was speaking before I entered the room. “Fool, I need your help!”

Then I felt foolish. For both Ash and the Fool turned toward me. They had been seated at the table, feeding things to the crow. She had made a remarkable mess of bread bits and scattered grain and was now holding down a chicken bone as she stripped meat from it.

“Sir?” Ash responded as the Fool turned to me and said, “Fitz?”

I did not have time for subtleties. “I’m not sure my clothing is right. I’m to join the king and queen at the high table, with Lord Chade and Lady Nettle. There will be others there, looking on. And I must present myself as FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, returned from his sojourn among the Elderlings. Last night was one thing. They were taken by surprise. But tonight, Chade has said I must give them—”

“The hero,” the Fool said quietly. “Not the prince. The hero.” He turned to Ash and spoke as if I were incompetent to answer. “What is he wearing?”

Ash bristled, just a trifle. “The clothing I chose for him earlier in the day.”

“I’m blind,” the Fool reminded him tartly.

“Oh. I beg pardon, sir. He has on a brown vest decorated with buttons of horn over a white shirt, the sleeves cut full, with a dozen or so buttons on long cuffs. The collar is open at the throat. He is wearing no jewelry. His trousers are a darker brown, with a line of buttons, also horn, down the outer seams. He’s wearing heeled shoes with a plain but lifted toe.” He cleared his throat. “And his face is splotched with mud.”

“It’s ink!” I objected.

“As if that matters,” the boy muttered.

The Fool interrupted. “The buttons. How recent a fashion are they here?”

“A few folk were wearing them last summer, but now everyone—”

“Fitz, come here. Stand before me.”

I did as he told me, amazed to see that he almost looked animated. I wondered when anyone had last demanded his help. When he felt me standing before him, he lifted his hands and ran them over my garments as if I were a horse he was considering buying. He felt the fabrics, touched the rows of buttons, tugged at my collar, and then touched my chin.