I had to look aside from him for a time. When I looked back, he was rubbing the tips of his scarred fingers together, as if recalling when they were silvered with magic.
Chapter Thirty
Prince FitzChivalry
In contrast with the days of King Shrewd, when Skillmaster Galen judged that the Skill and all knowledge of its use be confined to as few practitioners as possible, Lady Nettle, from the beginning of her service as Skillmistress, suggested that even those with lesser levels of ability be retained and given whatever tasks they could do. Under her leadership, the summons to Skill-students has been sounded every ten years and coteries formed as soon as practitioners reached journeyman status.
Thus over a dozen coteries now exist in service to the Farseer reign, and nearly a score of Solos. Each of the watchtowers along the coast and Chalcedean borders includes a Skilled one among their troops, and every duchy has a coterie devoted to its needs. Skilled ones have been included in diplomatic parties sent to the Out Islands, Bingtown, and Jamaillia. The ability to swiftly communicate information about threats to the kingdom has facilitated the dispatching of troops. Flood-destroyed bridges, highwaymen, and pirates are but a few of the menaces that have been swiftly met because quick communication was available.
—Scribe Tattersall, An Account of Skillmistress Nettle’s Use of the Skill
In my room I found my cooling breakfast and clothing laid out for me. I stared at the food with no appetite, then moved it around a bit so it would appear I had eaten some. Even as I did it, I wondered why I bothered. Did I think Spark or Ash would report that I wasn’t eating? To whom? Ridiculous.
I went down to the Buckkeep steams, my clean clothing under my arm. The steams were a grand tradition in Buckkeep, a place where roaring flames met icy water. There was a chamber for washing, a chamber for steaming and sweating, and then a place to wash off that sweat and clothe oneself. There was a section for guardsmen and servants. And another set of chambers that I had never visited, for nobility, including the royal family. Today I ventured there.
I was both disturbed and annoyed to find there was an attendant waiting to take my garments, both clean and dirty, to pour warm water over me in the bathing pool and offer me soap and a scrubbing cloth, to douse me again, to rinse me, and then to offer to dash the water onto the red-hot sides of the iron firebox to create steam for me. I greeted his earnest ministrations with silence for the most part. I tried not to be surly and resentful. It was difficult. The steams had once been a place where I could be alone with my thoughts, or enjoy the rough camaraderie of the guardsmen. Gone.
Clean and dry, I assured the man I could clothe myself and waved him out of the small dressing chamber. There was a bench there, and even a looking-glass and brushes. I put myself into reasonable order.
The antechamber of Dutiful’s audience chamber was a comfortable room with a fire in the hearth and benches and chairs with cushions. Large paintings of hunting scenes in gilt frames enlivened the stone walls. One could smoke or have a cup of tea. Two servants stood ready to bring whatever the waiting guest might request. I was not the only person waiting for time with Dutiful. One elderly woman in a button-cluttered gown and an elaborate hat was already deep in her cups. A simply clad fellow had spread several scrolls out on a table and was adding notes to them as he waited. Two young nobles were seated at opposite ends of a bench and glaring at each other. A dispute for Dutiful to resolve.
Eventually, the door opened and the Duke of Farrow emerged with his advisor. He was greeted by his two serving men, afforded me a hasty bow, and hurried on his way. I was surprised, as were the others who were waiting, when the page immediately indicated that I should enter. One cleared his throat loudly, but the page ignored him cheerily and escorted me in.
This chamber was elaborately appointed and featured a more martial aspect than the antechamber had. The paintings were of battles and heroes, and the spaces between were occupied by weapons won in conquest. There was a throne for the king situated in the middle of the room, on a dais. At the other end of the room there was an area with a small table and comfortable chairs arranged around it. It was close to a cozy hearth, and light refreshments were set out on the table.
That was not where Dutiful was.
He sat on his throne, robed and crowned, and I could not mistake that my audience was with King Dutiful of the Six Duchies, not my cousin. I advanced slowly into the room. When I glanced back, the page had vanished. But there was no welcoming smile on Dutiful’s face to put me at ease, and no casual greeting.
When I reached what I judged was the proper distance, I bowed. “My king.”
