“Motley?”
“The crow,” he seemed embarrassed to reply. “Before she went down to you, we were talking, well, not really, though she knows quite a few words and almost seems to make sense sometimes. I asked her, ‘What’s your name?’ Because, well, because it was so quiet up here. At first she said random things in reply. ‘Stop that!’ and ‘It’s dark’ and ‘Where’s my food?’ And finally she said back to me, ‘What’s your name?’ It rattled me for a moment, until I realized she was just mimicking me.” A tentative smile dawned on his face.
“So you named her Motley?”
“I just started calling her Motley. And shared my food with her. You said she came down to you and you painted her. Where is she now?”
I hated to tell him. “She came down the stairs and tapped at the secret door. I let her into my room, where she ate half my breakfast. I left the window open for her; I suspect she’s gone by now.”
“Oh.” The depth of disappointment in his tone surprised me.
“I’m sorry.” He said nothing. “She’s a wild creature, Fool. It’s for the best.”
He sighed. “I am not certain you are correct about that. Eventually, the ink will fade, and then what? Her own kind attacks her, Fitz. And crows are flock birds, unaccustomed to being solitary. What will become of her?”
I knew he was right. “I don’t know,” I said quietly. “But I also don’t know what else I can do for her.”
“Keep her,” he suggested. “Give her a place to be and food. Shelter from storms and her enemies.” He cleared his throat. “The same things that King Shrewd offered to a misfit creature.”
“Fool, I scarcely think that’s a valid comparison. She’s a crow, not a youngster alone in the world.”
“A youngster. In appearance. Young in terms of my kind, yes. Naïve and unlearned in the wider world in which I found myself. But almost as different from King Shrewd as a crow is from a man. Fitz, you know me. You’ve been me. You know that you and I are as much unlike as we are alike. As like and unlike as you and Nighteyes were. Motley, I think, is as like me as Nighteyes was like you.”
I pinched my lips shut for a moment and then relented. “I’ll go and see if I can find her for you. And if I can find her, and if she will come, I’ll bring her up here to you. And set out water and food for her.”
“Would you?” His scarred smile was beatific.
“I will.” And I rose in that moment, and went down the steps and opened the door to my room. Where I found Motley waiting.
“Dark,” she informed me gravely. She hopped up a step, then the next one, and on the third one she turned to look back at me. “What’s your name?” she demanded of me.
“Tom,” I said reflexively.
“Fitz—Chivalry!” she squawked derisively, and continued her hopping ascent.
“FitzChivalry,” I agreed, and found myself smiling. I followed her to make her comfortable.
I rubbed the sleep from my face, wincing at the tenderness around my eyes, then went to the looking glass and discovered that indeed I looked as bad as I felt. I had feared to find darkness and bruising. Instead my face was puffy and swollen, with a few spatters of ink still. Well, I supposed that was better than looking as if I’d had both eyes blacked in a tavern brawl. I went to the window, opened the shutters, and looked out on the setting sun. I felt rested, hungry, and reclusive. The idea of leaving my room and venturing out into Buckkeep Castle to find food daunted me.
What was my role to be, now that I was FitzChivalry once more? Even now that I was rested, my efforts to put what had happened into political, social, and familial context had failed. In truth, I’d been expecting that someone would summon me. I’d expected a missive from Kettricken, or a Skill-nudge from Chade or Nettle or Dutiful, but there had been nothing. Slowly it came to me that perhaps my relatives were waiting to hear from me.
I dampened a towel in my ewer and put the cool bandage over my swollen face. Then I sat down on the edge of my bed, composed myself, stiffened my resolve, and reached out to Nettle.
I had to think about that for a long moment.
We shared a time of quiet awareness of each other. Her thoughts touched me hesitantly.
Wryly she added,
I admitted. I pulled my thoughts away from Molly before my sorrow could rise. Then I thought again of Bee. Now was not the time to insist to Nettle that I could be a good father and that I was determined to keep Bee at my side, because all of that would be balanced on the issue of what happened next to the resurrected FitzChivalry Farseer. Back to the matter at hand.
The quiet had begun to seem ominous to me.
Who was there?
Of course? That last name had not seemed obvious to me at all.
I sat and silently pondered that. Bitter mixed with the sweet. Kettricken was right. In the Mountains, the rulers were not named king or queen, but Sacrifice. And they were expected to be willing to do anything, even to accept death, in the service of those they ruled. Had not Riddle done that, and more than once? And yet he had been judged too common to marry a Farseer daughter, even one that was a bastard. Denied for years. And in a night, solved. Why had it taken so long? Anger rumbled through me like thunder in the distance. Useless anger. Let it go.
Impulsively, I Skilled to Chade.
It is what will be expected, yes
I veiled my thoughts from him. Anxiety twisted my guts.
he suggested.
He departed from my mind. I sat, blinking. Slowly it came to me that Chade was completely right. So, my role was the mysterious returning Witted Bastard, wronged all those years ago. What part of that was untrue? So why was I so acutely uncomfortable at being that? I put my elbows on my knees and lowered my face into my hands, then jerked upright when my fingers touched my swollen eyes. I got up and fetched my looking-glass and studied my reflection again. Could I have chosen a worse time to look peculiar?
I looked down at the clothing that Ash had chosen for me that morning. Then I scooped an armful of extra clothing from the traveling trunk, triggered the door, and went back up to the lair. I did not have much time. I took the stairs two at a time and was speaking before I entered the room. “Fool, I need your help!”
Then I felt foolish. For both Ash and the Fool turned toward me. They had been seated at the table, feeding things to the crow. She had made a remarkable mess of bread bits and scattered grain and was now holding down a chicken bone as she stripped meat from it.
“Sir?” Ash responded as the Fool turned to me and said, “Fitz?”
I did not have time for subtleties. “I’m not sure my clothing is right. I’m to join the king and queen at the high table, with Lord Chade and Lady Nettle. There will be others there, looking on. And I must present myself as FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, returned from his sojourn among the Elderlings. Last night was one thing. They were taken by surprise. But tonight, Chade has said I must give them—”
“The hero,” the Fool said quietly. “Not the prince. The hero.” He turned to Ash and spoke as if I were incompetent to answer. “What is he wearing?”
Ash bristled, just a trifle. “The clothing I chose for him earlier in the day.”
“I’m blind,” the Fool reminded him tartly.
“Oh. I beg pardon, sir. He has on a brown vest decorated with buttons of horn over a white shirt, the sleeves cut full, with a dozen or so buttons on long cuffs. The collar is open at the throat. He is wearing no jewelry. His trousers are a darker brown, with a line of buttons, also horn, down the outer seams. He’s wearing heeled shoes with a plain but lifted toe.” He cleared his throat. “And his face is splotched with mud.”
“It’s ink!” I objected.
“As if that matters,” the boy muttered.
The Fool interrupted. “The buttons. How recent a fashion are they here?”
“A few folk were wearing them last summer, but now everyone—”
“Fitz, come here. Stand before me.”
I did as he told me, amazed to see that he almost looked animated. I wondered when anyone had last demanded his help. When he felt me standing before him, he lifted his hands and ran them over my garments as if I were a horse he was considering buying. He felt the fabrics, touched the rows of buttons, tugged at my collar, and then touched my chin.
“Don’t shave,” he instructed me abruptly, as if I had been poised with razor in hand. “Ash. Can you cut the buttons from the trousers and leave no trace they were ever there?”
“I think so.” The boy sounded a bit sullen.
“Come, Ash,” the Fool cajoled him. “You grew up in a bawdyhouse, where daily, women presented themselves to be what men fancied. This is the same thing. We must give them what they want to see. Not a fashionable gentlemen dressed to impress, but a hero returned from the outskirts of society. He has been hidden amongst us since he returned from the Elderlings, living as a humble rural landholder. Slice the buttons off the trousers! We must make him look as if he has not mingled in court society for close to twoscore years. Yet we must also make it appear that he has tried to dress to the style. I know that Chade knows well how to play this sort of a game. We will need powder and paint, to emphasize the old break in his nose and the scar on his face. Some jewelry, but nothing too fine. Silver suits him better than gold.”