Assassin's Apprentice

Not that night, but the next, Chade called me. Burning with curiosity, I raced up the stairs. But when I reached the top, I halted, knowing that my questions would have to wait. For there sat Chade at the stone table, Slink perched atop his shoulders, and a new scroll half-unwound on the table before him. A glass of wine weighted one end as his crooked finger traveled slowly down some sort of listing. I glanced at it as I passed. It was a list of villages and dates. Beneath each village name was a tally—so many warriors, so many merchants, so many sheep or casks of ale or measures of grain, and so on. I sat down on the opposite side of the table and waited. I had learned not to interrupt Chade.

“My boy,” he said softly, without looking up from the scroll. “What would you do if some ruffian walked up behind you and rapped you on the head? But only when your back was turned. How would you handle it?”

I thought briefly. “I’d turn my back and pretend to be looking at something else. Only I’d have a long, thick stick in my hands. So when he rapped me, I’d spin around and break his head.”

“Hm. Yes. Well, we tried that. But no matter how nonchalant we are, the Outislanders always seem to know when we are baiting them and never attack. Well, actually, we’ve managed to fool one or two of the ordinary raiders. But never the Red-Ship Raiders. And those are the ones we want to hurt.”

“Why?”

“Because they are the ones that are hurting us the worst. You see, boy, we are used to being raided. You could almost say that we’ve adapted to it. Plant an extra acre, weave another bolt of cloth, raise an extra steer. Our farmers and townsfolk always try to put a bit extra by, and when someone’s barn gets burned or a warehouse is torched in the confusion of a raid, everyone turns out to raise the beams again. But the Red-Ship Raiders aren’t just stealing, and destroying in the process of stealing. They’re destroying, and what they actually carry off with them seems almost incidental.” Chade paused and stared at a wall as if seeing through it.

“It makes no sense,” he continued bemusedly, more to himself than to me. “Or at least no sense that I can unravel. It’s like killing a cow that bears a good calf every year. Red-Ship Raiders torch the grain and hay still standing in the fields. They slaughter the stock they can’t carry off. Three weeks ago, in Tornsby, they set fire to the mill and slashed open the sacks of grain and flour there. Where’s the profit in that for them? Why do they risk their lives simply to destroy? They’ve made no effort to take and hold territory; they have no grievance against us that they’ve ever uttered. A thief you can guard against, but these are random killers and destroyers. Tornsby won’t be rebuilt; the folk that survived have neither the will nor the resources. They’ve moved on, some to family in other towns, others to be beggars in our cities. It’s a pattern we’re seeing too often.”

He sighed, and then shook his head to clear it. When he looked up, he focused on me totally. It was a knack Chade had. He could set aside a problem so completely you would swear he had forgotten it. Now he announced, as if it were his only care, “You’ll be accompanying Verity when he goes to reason with Lord Kelvar at Neatbay.”

“So Burrich told me. But he wondered, and so do I. Why?”

Chade looked perplexed. “Didn’t you complain a few months ago that you had wearied of Buckkeep and wished to see more of the Six Duchies?”

“Certainly. But I rather doubt that that is why Verity is taking me.”

Chade snorted. “As if Verity paid any attention as to who makes up his retinue. He has no patience with the details; and hence none of Chivalry’s genius for handling people. Yet Verity is a good soldier, and in the long run, perhaps that will be what we need. No, you are right. Verity has no inkling as to why you are going . . . yet. Shrewd will tell him you are trained as a spy. And that is all, for now. He and I have consulted together upon this. Are you ready to begin repaying all he has done for you? Are you ready to begin your service for the family?”

He said it so calmly and looked at me so openly that it was almost easy to be calm as I asked, “Will I have to kill someone?”

“Perhaps.” He shifted in his chair. “You’ll have to decide that. Deciding and then doing it . . . it’s different from simply being told, “That is the man and it must be done.’ It’s much harder, and I’m not all that sure you’re ready.”

“Would I ever be ready?” I tried to smile, and grinned like a muscle spasm. I tried to wipe it away, and couldn’t. A strange quiver passed through me.