Golden Fool (Tawny Man #2)

Thick scowled at me. For an instant, his tongue stuck out even farther than usual, and his lower lip sagged pendulously. Then, “No. Prince is a sad song today. Stupid girls. A sad song. La-la-la-le-lo-lo-lo-o.” The dimwit sang a mournful little dirge.

I glanced at Chade. He was watching our exchange closely. His eyes never left me as he asked Thick, “And how is Nettle today?”

I kept my face expressionless. I tried hard to breathe normally, but suddenly I could not quite remember how.

“Nettle is worried. The dream man won’t talk to her anymore, and her father and brother argue. Yah, yah, yah, yah, her head hurts with it, and her song is sad. Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na.” It was a different tune for Nettle’s sadness, one fraught with tension and uneasiness. Then suddenly Thick stopped in mid-note. He looked at me and then jeered triumphantly, “Dogstink doesn’t like this.”

“No. He doesn’t,” I agreed flatly. I crossed my arms on my chest and moved my glare from Thick to Chade. “This isn’t fair,” I said. Then I clenched my jaw over how childish that sounded.

“Indeed, it isn’t,” Chade agreed blandly. Then, “Thick, you may go if you wish. I think you’ve finished your chores here.”

Thick pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Bring the wood. Bring the water. Take the dishes. Bring the food. Fix the candles.” He picked his nose. “Yes. Chores done.” He started to go.

“Thick,” I said, and when he halted, scowling, I asked, “Do the other servants still hit Thick, take his coins? Or is it better now?”

He frowned at me, his brow wrinkling. “The other servants?” He looked vaguely alarmed.

“The other servants. They used to ‘hit Thick, take his coins,’ remember?” I tried to copy his inflection and gesture. Instead of jogging his memory, it made him draw back from me in panic. “Never mind,” I said hastily. My effort to remind him that perhaps he owed me a favor had instead worsened his opinion of me. Thrusting out his lower lip, he backed away from me.

“Thick. Don’t forget the tray,” Chade reminded him gently.

The serving man scowled, but he came back for a tray of dishes that held the remains of Chade’s breakfast. He took it up and then crabbed hastily from the room as if I might attack him.

When the wine rack swung back into place behind him, I sat down in my chair. “So?” I asked Chade.

“So, indeed,” he replied agreeably. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“No.” I leaned back in my chair, and then decided there was nothing more to say about it. Instead, I settled on a distraction. “Earlier I told you that Dutiful has something urgent to speak about with you. You should be available.”

“What is it?”

I gave him a look. “I think what my prince wishes to tell you would come best directly from him.” I bit down on my tongue before I could add, “Of course, you could always ask Thick what it is about.”

“Then I’ll go to my own chambers. Shortly. Fitz. Is Nettle in any danger?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

I saw him rein in his temper. “You know what I mean. She’s Skilling, isn’t she? Without guidance of any kind. Yet she seems to have found you. Or did you initiate that contact?”

Had I? I didn’t know. Had I intruded on her dreams when she was younger, as I had on Dutiful’s? Had I unwittingly laid the foundation for the Skill bond that she sought to build now? I pondered it, but Chade took my silence for mulishness. “Fitz, how can you be so shortsighted? In the name of protecting her, you’re endangering her. Nettle should be here, at Buckkeep, where she can be properly taught to master her talent.”

“And she can be put into service for the Farseer throne.”

He regarded me levelly. “Of course. If the magic is the gift of her bloodlines, then the service is her duty. The two go hand in hand. Or would you deny it to her because she too is a bastard?”

I strangled on sudden anger. When I could speak, I said quietly, “I don’t see it so. As denying her something. I’m trying to protect her.”

“You see it that way only because you are stubbornly focused on keeping her away from Buckkeep at all costs. What is the terrible threat to her if she comes here? That she could know music and poetry, dance and beauty, in her life? That she might meet a young man of noble lineage, marry well, and live comfortably? That your grandchildren might grow up where you could see them?”

He made it all sound so rational on his part and so selfish on mine. I took a breath. “Chade. Burrich has already said no to his daughter coming to Buckkeep. If you press him, or worse, force the issue, he will suspect there is a reason. And how can you reveal to Nettle that she is Skilled without leading her to ask, Where did this magic come from? She knows Molly is her mother. That leaves only her father’s lineage in question—”