Golden Fool (Tawny Man #2)

I was still pondering an answer to that when Thick pushed the mantel-side door open. The entry was an even tighter fit for the stout-bodied man than for me, and he was festooned with cobwebs and powdered with dust. For a moment he stood blinking his sleepy-looking eyes at the startled Prince and me. His jaw was thrust forward, his tongue protruding thoughtfully. Then he spoke. “I come for my whistle.”

“And you shall have it,” I said. I scooped it up from the table and held it out to him, dangling by its green string. Gently, I added, “And that was good Skilling, Thick. You followed my directions and here you are.”

He shuffled forward suspiciously. I doubt that he recognized Prince Dutiful, out of context of his throne and robes of state. He included him in his scowl as he said, “You made me come a long way.” He snatched the whistle and held it close to his peering little eyes. Then he frowned, “This isn’t my whistle!”

“It is now,” I told him. “It’s a new one, made especially for you. Did you see the birds on it?”

He turned it in his hands, then grudgingly admitted, “I like birds.” Then he turned to go, the whistle clutched to his chest.

The Prince was staring at him with dismay bordering on disgust. I knew the Mountain way for such babes as Thick had been; he would have been exposed to a swift and perhaps merciful death, much as Burrich would have drowned a deformed puppy. But Queen Kettricken had commanded that I train this man. Would his Mountain values prevent Dutiful from accepting Thick? I tried not to hope that the Prince would refuse him as a coterie member. I wanted to delay Thick’s leaving. “Aren’t you even going to try it, Thick?”

“No.” Thick was shuffling toward the door.

“Try that tune you Skill to yourself. The one that goes la-da-da-da-de—” Even as I tried to mimic back to him the music I had come to know by heart, Thick spun around to face me. Outrage glittered in his little eyes.

“Mine!” he roared. “My song! My mam’s song!” He came at me with murder in his eyes. He lifted the whistle as if it were a knife that he could plunge into my heart.

“I’m sorry, Thick. I didn’t realize that was private.” But I should have, I suddenly knew. I gave ground before him. His body was thick, his limbs short and awkward, and his belly pudgy. I knew that in a physical struggle, I could master him. I also knew it would involve hurting him, because that would be the only way to defeat him. I didn’t want to do that. I needed his goodwill. I darted behind the table.

“My song!” Thick repeated. “Dog poop stink stealer!”

An unwilling bubble of laughter burst from the Prince’s lips. I think he was both horrified and fascinated by the spectacle of the dimwit attacking me over a song. Then a sudden frown divided his brow. Even as I circled the table, trying to keep it between Thick and me until I could find a way to calm him, the Prince suddenly exclaimed, “I know that song!” He hummed a short bit of it, making Thick’s scowl deepen. “It’s the first thing that I always hear when I try to Skill. It comes from you?” His question was incredulous.

“My song!” Thick asserted again. “My mam’s song! You can’t hear it. Only me!” He diverted his steps and suddenly charged the Prince in a wild run. As he went, he caught up the brandy bottle, lifting it like a club, heedless of the liquor that galloped out of it and down his arm. The Prince’s eyes went wide, but he was too foolishly proud to retreat before Thick’s onslaught. He stood his ground, dropping into the fighter’s crouch I’d taught him. His hand moved to his belt knife. In response, I felt Thick’s mind-numbing cloud of Don’t see me, don’t see me, don’t see me even as he closed on the Prince. I saw Dutiful struggle against the little man’s Skill and felt him begin to mount a blast of his own to thrust through it.

“No!” I roared in dismay. “Don’t hurt each other!”

And my command shimmered with an edge of Skill. I saw them both flinch to it, saw them both spin to confront me, arms upraised as if that would ward off the magic. I could almost see it rebound from them, but just for an instant it dizzied them both. The backwash of my command as they instinctively repulsed it giddied me, but I recovered faster than they did. The Prince staggered back a step, while Thick dropped the bottle and lifted his pudgy hands to cover his eyes. I was horrified at what I had done; yet when they stood still and for a moment docile, I added, “That’s enough. You must never attack one another that way. Not if you are going to work together to master the Skill.” I was proud that I kept my voice from shaking.