Golden Fool (Tawny Man #2)

Dutiful shook his head and then spoke in a dazed voice. “You did it again! You dared to use the Skill against me!”

“That I did,” I admitted, and then demanded, “What else would you have me do? Watch you blast the sense from one another? Have you ever met your cousin August, Dutiful? That drooling, doddering old man? What happened to him was an accident. Yet there have been instances of Skill-users maiming one another in a battle such as you both nearly engaged in. Yes, and there have been deaths as well, deaths that seared the ones who wrought them almost as severely as the ones that died.”

Dutiful leaned against the table. Thick slowly lowered his hands from his eyes. He’d bitten his tongue and it dripped blood. Dutiful spoke to both of us. “I am your prince. You are sworn to me. How dare you attack me?”

I took a breath and reluctantly stepped up to the task Chade had laid upon me. “Not here,” I said quietly. “It is true that I am sworn to the Farseers. I serve them, as best I may. And to serve them best in this, know this well, Dutiful. In this room, you are not my prince, but my student. And just as your swordmaster deals you bruises with a blunt blade to teach you, so will I use whatever force is necessary.” I swung my eyes to Thick, who was pouting sourly at us both. “In this room, Thick is not a servant. Here, he is my student.” I looked from one to another and buckled them into the harness they must share. “Here you are equals. Students. I will respect you as such, and I will demand that you respect each other as such. But make no mistake. Within this chamber, during the hours of our lessons, my authority is absolute.” I looked from one to the other. “Do you both understand this?”

The Prince looked stubborn, and Thick suspicious. “Not a servant?” he asked slowly.

“Not if you choose to be a student here. To learn what I have to teach. So that, eventually, you can help the Prince.”

He scowled, working through it slowly. “Help the Prince. Work for him. Servant. More work for Thick.” His little eyes glittered maliciously as he exposed what he thought was my hidden intention.

I shook my head again. “No. Help the Prince. As his coterie. His friend.”

“Oh, please,” the Prince groaned disdainfully.

“Not a servant.” This obviously pleased Thick. It gave me yet another insight into him. I would have thought him too dull to care what his position was in the world. Yet plainly, he would prefer not to be a servant.

“Yes. But only if you are a student. If you do not come here, every day, and try to learn what I teach, then you are not a student. Thick is the servant again. Haul the wood, fetch the water.”

He set the empty bottle down on the table. Hastily he looped the string of the whistle around his neck. “I’m keeping the whistle,” he insisted, as if that were an important part of the bargain.

“Servant or student, the whistle belongs to Thick,” I told him. This seemed to set back his understanding of the situation. His fat little tongue pushed farther out of his mouth as he considered it.

“You cannot be serious,” the Prince said in an undertone. “That is to be a member of my coterie?”

I knew both an instant of sympathy for him and a strong irritation with his disdain for Thick. I spoke levelly. “He is the best candidate that Chade and I have discovered so far. Unless, of course, you have encountered others with his natural predilection for the Skill?”

He stood silent, and then shook his head unwillingly. In some corner of my mind, I was amused that he was more distressed at the idea of Thick being his fellow student than he was by my declaration that I would treat them both the same during lessons. I decided to take advantage of his temporary distraction. “Good. That’s settled, then. And I believe we’ve all learned enough for one morning. I shall expect you both to be on time tomorrow. For now, you are dismissed.”

Thick was just as happy to leave. Still clutching his whistle, he scuttled for the mantel door. As he shut it behind him, the Prince asked in a low voice, “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I am sworn to the Farseer reign. To serve it as best I can. And you, Dutiful, are now dismissed.”

I hoped he would turn toward the door, but he did not. Not until there was a sharp rap at it. We both started. I glanced at the Prince, who loudly called out, “What is it?”

The voice of a young page reached us through the stout timbers of the door. “A message for you, Prince Dutiful, sir, from Councilor Chade. He bade me beg your pardon, but also said to let you know it was immediately urgent.”