In contrast, the Prince was garbed nearly as simply as I was. I attributed it to Queen Kettricken’s austere Mountain Kingdom traditions and her innate thrift. At fifteen, Dutiful was shooting up. What sense was there in creating fine garments for everyday wear when he either outgrew them or tore out the shoulders while practising on the weapons court? I studied the young man who stood grinning before me. His dark eyes and curling black hair mirrored his father’s, but both his height and his developing jawline reminded me more of my father Chivalry’s portrait.
The squat man accompanying him was a complete contrast. I estimated Thick to be in his late twenties. He had the small tight ears and protruding tongue of a simpleton. The Prince had garbed him in a blue tunic and leggings which matched his own, right down to the buck crest on the breast, but the tunic strained across the little man’s pot belly and the hose sagged comically at his knees and ankles. He cut an odd figure, both amusing and slightly repulsive, to those who could not sense, as I did, the Skill-magic that burned in him like a smith’s forge-fire. He was learning to control the Skill-music that served him in place of an ordinary man’s thoughts. It was less pervasive and hence less annoying than it had once been, yet the strength of his magic meant that he shared it with all of us, constantly. I could block it, but that meant also blocking my sensitivity to most of the Skill, including Chade’s and Dutiful’s weaker sendings. I could not block him and still teach them, so for now I endured Thick’s music.
Today it was made from the snickings of scissors and the clack of a loom, with the high-pitched giggle of a woman winding through it. ‘So. Had another fitting this morning, did you?’ I asked the Prince.
He was not dazzled. He knew how I had deduced it. He nodded with weary tolerance. ‘Both Thick and I. It was a long morning.’
Thick nodded emphatically. ‘Stand on the stool. Don’t scratch. Don’t move. While they poke Thick with pins.’ He added the last severely, with a rebuking look at the Prince.
Dutiful sighed. ‘That was an accident, Thick. She told you to stand still.’
‘She’s mean,’ Thick ventured in an undertone, and I suspected he was close to the truth. Many of his nobles found it difficult to accept the Prince’s friendship with Thick. For some reason, it affronted some servants even more. Some of them found small ways to vent that displeasure.
‘It’s all done now, Thick,’ Dutiful consoled him.
We took our customary places around the immense table. Since Chade had announced that he and the Prince were beginning Skill-lessons together, this room of the Seawatch Tower had been furnished well. Long curtains framed the tall windows, now unshuttered to admit a pleasant breeze. The stone walls and floor of the chamber had been well scrubbed and the table and chairs oiled and polished. There were proper scroll-racks to hold Chade’s small library as well as a stoutly locked cabinet for those he regarded as highly valuable or dangerous. A large writing desk offered inkpots and freshly cut pens and a generous supply of both paper and vellum. There was also a sideboard with bottles of wine, glasses and other necessities for the Prince’s comfort. It had become a comfortable, even an indulgent room which reflected Chade’s taste more than Prince Dutiful’s.
I enjoyed the change.
I surveyed the faces around me. Dutiful was looking at me alertly. Thick was pursuing something inside his left nostril. Chade was sitting bolt upright, fairly shivering with energy. Whatever he had taken to bring him back to alertness had done nothing for the threads of blood in his eyes. The contrast with his green gaze was unsettling.
‘What I’d like to do today … Thick. Please stop that.’
He looked at me blankly, his finger still wedged in his nose. ‘Can’t. It’s poking me in there.’
Chade rubbed his brow, looking aside. ‘Give him a handkerchief,’ he suggested to no one in particular.
Prince Dutiful was closest. ‘Here, blow your nose. Maybe it will come out.’
He handed Thick a square of embroidered linen. Thick regarded it doubtfully for several seconds, and then took it. Over the deafening sounds of his attempts to clear his nose, I asked, ‘Last night, each of us was to try Skill-walking in our dreams.’ I had been nervous about suggesting this, but I had felt both Dutiful and Chade were ready to attempt it. Thick routinely forgot what he was to do in the evenings, so I’d had small concern for him. When one Skill-walked, one could leave one’s own body and for a short time experience life through someone else. I had managed it several times, most often by accident. The Skill-scrolls had suggested that it was not only a good way to gather information but also to locate those who were open enough to be used as King’s Men, sources of strength to a Skill-user. Those sufficiently open sometimes proved to possess the Skill themselves. Chade had been enthused yesterday, but a glance at him today showed none of the triumph he would have displayed if he had managed the feat. Dutiful likewise looked gloomy. ‘So. No success?’
‘I did it!’ Thick exulted.
‘You Skill-walked?’ I was astounded.
‘No-o-o. I got it out. See?’ He displayed his greenish trophy trapped in the middle of the Prince’s handkerchief. Chade turned aside with an exclamation of disgust.
Dutiful, being fifteen, laughed aloud. ‘Impressive, Thick. That’s a big one. Looks like an old green salamander.’
‘Yah,’ Thick agreed with satisfaction. His mouth sagged wide with pleasure. ‘I dreamed a big blue lizard last night. Bigger than this!’ His laughter, like a dog’s huffy panting, joined the Prince’s.
‘My prince and future monarch,’ I reminded Dutiful sternly. ‘We have work to do.’ In reality, I was struggling to keep a straight face. It was good to see Dutiful laugh freely, even over something puerile. Since I had first met the boy, he had always seemed weighted by his station and his perpetual duties. This was the first time I had seen him acting like a youngster in springtime; I regretted my rebuke when the smile faded so abruptly from his face. With a gravity that far exceeded my own, he turned to Thick, seized the handkerchief and balled it up.
‘No, Thick. Stop. Listen to me. You dreamed a big blue lizard? How big?’
The intensity of the Prince’s question drew Chade’s glance. But Thick was confused and offended by how quickly Dutiful’s tone and attitude towards him had changed. His brow furrowed and both bottom lip and tongue jutted as a sulk settled onto his face. ‘That wasn’t nice.’
I recognized the phrase. We’d been working on Thick’s table manners. If he was to accompany us on the trip to Aslevjal, he had to learn at least a modicum of courtesy. Unfortunately, he seemed to recall the rules only when he could rebuke someone else with them.
‘I’m sorry, Thick. You’re right. Grabbing isn’t nice. Now tell me about the big lizard you dreamed.’
The Prince was smiling earnestly at Thick, but the change of topic was too fast for the little man. Thick shook his heavy head and turned away. He folded his stubby arms on his chest. ‘Na,’ he declined gruffly.
‘Please, Thick,’ Dutiful began, but Chade interrupted. ‘Can’t this wait, Dutiful? We’ve not that many days before we sail, and we still have so much ground to cover if we are to function as a Skill-coterie.’ I knew the old man’s anxiety. I shared it. The Skill might be essential to the Prince’s success. Neither of us put much weight on him truly slaying some buried ice-dragon. The true value of the Skill would be that Chade and I could gather information and convey it to Dutiful
