child as she complained, ‘Dear Lord Golden, Lord Capable has just told me that there is little chance you will pay me our wager. Do tell him how wrong he is!’
Lord Golden lifted one elegant shoulder. ‘How rumours do fly, if one is but a day or so late in honouring a friendly wager. Surely one should never bet more than one can afford to lose … or afford to do without until paid. Don’t you agree, Lord Capable?’
‘Or, perhaps, that one should not wager more than one can immediately afford to pay,’ Lord Capable suggested snidely.
‘Dear, dear. Would not that limit our gaming to whatever a man could carry in his pockets? Small stakes, those. In any case, sweet lady, why do you think I was seeking you, if not to make good our bet? Here, I think, you will find a good part of what I owe you. I do hope you won’t mind if it is in pearls rather than coin.’
She tossed her head, dismissing the surly Lord Capable. ‘I don’t mind at all. And if there are those that do, well, then they should simply be content to wait for crass coin. Gaming should not be about money, dear Lord Golden.’
‘Of course not. The risk is the relish, as I say, and the winning is the pleasure. Don’t you agree, Capable?’
‘And if I did not, would it do me any good?’ Capable asked sourly. He and I had both noticed that the woman made no immediate effort to pay him his due.
Lord Golden laughed aloud, the melodic sound cutting the cool air of the spring night. ‘Of course not, dear fellow. Of course not! Now, I hope both of you will step within and sample a new wine with me. Standing out here in this chill wind, a man could catch his death of cold. Surely friends can find a warmer place to speak privately?’
The others had already turned to re-enter the well-lit chamber. Yet Lord Golden paused a moment longer and gazed pensively at the spot where I had thought myself so well concealed. Then he inclined his head slightly to me before he turned and departed.
I waited a few moments longer, then stepped from the shadows. I felt annoyed with him because he had noticed me so effortlessly and because his offer to meet me somewhere else had been too vague for me to comprehend. Yet as much as I longed to sit down and talk with him, greater was my dread that he would uncover my treachery. Better, I decided, to avoid my friend than have to confront that in his eyes. I strode sullenly through the dark streets, alone. The night wind on the back of my neck chilled me as it pushed me back toward Buckkeep Castle.
Then Hoquin was enraged with those who questioned his treatment of his catalyst, and he resolved to make a show of his authority over her. ‘Child she may be,’ he declared. ‘And yet the burden is hers and it must be borne. And nothing must make her question her role, or sway her to save herself at the expense of condemning the world.’
And then he required of her that she go to her parents, and deny them both, saying, ‘I have no mother, I have no father. I am only the Catalyst of the White Prophet Hoquin.’ And further she must say, ‘I give you back the name you gave me. I am Redda no longer, but Wild-eye, as Hoquin has made me.’ For he had named her thus for her one eye that always peered to one side.
This she did not wish to do. She wept as she went, she wept as she spoke the words and she wept as she returned. For two days and two nights, the tears did not cease to flow from her eyes, and he allowed her this mourning. Then Hoquin said to her, ‘Wild-eye, cease your tears.’
And she did. Because she must.
Scribe Cateren, of the White Prophet Hoquin
When a journey is twelve days away, that can seem plenty of time to put all in readiness. Even at seven days away, it seems possible that all preparations will be completed on time. But as the days dwindle to five and four and then three, the passing hours burst like bubbles, and tasks that seemed simple suddenly become complex. I needed to pack all I would require to be assassin, spy and Skillmaster, while appearing to carry only the ordinary gear of a guardsman. I had farewells to make, some simple and some difficult.
The only part of the trip that I could look forward to with pleasure was our eventual return to Buckkeep. Dread can weary a man more than honest labour, and mine built with each passing day. Three nights before we were to sail, I felt exhausted and half-sick with it. That tension woke me long before dawn and denied me any more sleep. I sat up. The embers in the tower room’s fireplace illuminated little more than the shovel and poker leaning to one side of the hearth’s mouth. Then my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom of the windowless chamber. It was a place familiar to me from my days as the assassin’s apprentice. Little had I thought that I would ever make it my own. I rose from Chade’s old bed, leaving behind the nightmare-rucked blankets and the warmth of sleep.
I padded over to the fireplace and added a small log. I hung a pot of water from the hook and swung it over the low flames. I thought of putting on a kettle for tea but felt too weary still. I was too worried to sleep and too tired to admit that I was now awake for the day. It was a miserable place, one that had become achingly familiar as our departure date grew closer. I kindled a taper from the fire’s dancing flames. I lit the waiting candles in the branched candelabrum on the scarred old worktable. The chair was cold beneath me as I sat down with a groan.
I sat at the worktable in my nightshirt and stared at the various charts I had assembled last night. They were all of Outislander origin, but so varied in size and composition that it was difficult to see their relationship to one another. It is their peculiar custom that charts of the sea can only be made on sea-mammal or fish skin. I suspected these charts had been cured in urine, for they had a peculiar and clinging odour. Out Island custom also decrees that each island must be presented as one of their gods’ runes, on its own chart. This means that there were curious flourishes and fillips on the representations that had nothing to do with the island’s physical characteristics. These additions had great significance to an Outislander, denoting what anchorage or currents might be present, and if the ‘luck’ of an island were good, bad or neutral. To me, the embellishments were only confusing. The four scrolls I had obtained were drawn by different hands and to different scales. I had spread them out on the table in their approximate relation to each other yet they still gave me only a hazy idea of the distance we would cross. I traced our route from chart to chart, with the burns and circles on the old table’s top representing the unknown dangers and seas that lay between them.
We would sail first from Buckkeep Town to Skyrene. It was not the largest of the Out Islands, but it boasted the best port and the most arable land of the isles, and hence the largest population. Peottre, mother-brother to the Narcheska, had spoken of Zylig with disdain. He had explained to Chade and Kettricken that Zylig, the busiest Out Island port, had become a haven for all sorts of folk. Foreigners came there to visit and trade, and in Peottre’s opinion, far too many stayed, bringing their crude customs with them. It was also a supply port for the vessels that came north to hunt sea mammals for hides and oil, and those rough crews had corrupted many an Outislander youth and maiden. He made Zylig sound like a dingy and dangerous port town with the flotsam and jetsam of humanity making up a good part of its population.
There we would dock first. Arkon Bloodblade’s mothershouse was on the other side of Skyrene, but they had a stronghouse in Zylig for when they visited there. Here we would meet with the Hetgurd, a loose alliance of Outislander headmen, for a discussion of our quest. Chade and I were both leery of that
