“The wig is ruined. And with it, my identity as Lord Feldspar. I must go to my room, sort through clothing, dress, and go down as someone entirely different. I can do it. But I do not delight in it as Chade does.”
“And as I once did.” It was his turn to sigh. “How I would love to have your task tonight! To choose clothing and go down well dressed, with rings and earrings and scent, and mingle with a hundred different folk, and eat well-prepared food. Drink and dance and make jests.” He sighed again. “I wish I could be alive again before I have to die.”
“Ah, Fool.” I began to reach for his hand, and then stopped. He would startle back in terror if I touched him, and when he did that, it woke hurt in both of us.
“You should go right now. I’ll keep the bird company.”
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. I hoped she would not panic suddenly and dash herself against the chamber walls. As long it was mostly darkened, I thought she would be fine. I had nearly reached the top of the stairs when his query reached me.
“What does she look like?”
“She’s a crow, Fool. A grown crow. Black beak, black feet, black eyes. The only thing that sets her apart from a thousand other crows is that she was hatched with some white upon her feathers.”
“Where is she white?”
“Some of her pinions are white. When she opens her wings, they are almost striped. And there were a few tufts of white on her back or head, I think. The others ripped out some of her feathers.”
“Ripped,” the Fool said.
“White! White! White!” the bird cried out in the darkness. Then, in a soft little mutter, so that I was barely sure I heard it, she muttered, “Ah, Fool.”
“She knows my name!” he exclaimed in delight.
“And mine. More’s the pity. It was how she forced me to stop for her. She was shouting ‘FitzChivalry! FitzChivalry!’ in the middle of Tailors Street.”
“Clever girl,” the Fool murmured approvingly.
I snorted my disagreement and hurried down the stairs.
Chapter Eight
Farseers
And back-to-back those brothers stood
And bade farewell their lives,
For round them pressed the Red Ship wolves,
A wall of swords and knives.
They heard a roar and striding came
The bastard Buckkeep son.
Like rubies flung, the drops of blood
That from his axe-head spun.
A path he clove, like hewing trees,
As bloody axe he wielded.
Blood to his chest, the bastard came,
And to his blade they yielded.
’Twas Chivalry’s son,
His eyes like flame,
Who shared his blood
If not his name.
A Farseer son,
But ne’er an heir
Whose bloodied locks
No crown would bear.
—“Antler Island Anthem,” Starling Birdsong
I was pulling off my clothes before I was halfway down the stairs. I emerged into my room, shut the door, and hopped from one foot to the other as I pulled off my boots. None of what I had worn today could I wear down to the gathering in the Great Hall. All it would take was one style-obsessed idiot to recognize a garment he had earlier seen on Lord Feldspar.
I began to drag clothing from his wardrobe, then forced myself to stop. I closed my eyes and visualized last night’s gathering. What had they had in common, all those peacocks parading their finery? The long-skirted jackets. A plenitude of buttons, most of them decorative rather than functional. Fussy lace at throat and wrist and shoulder. And the clash of bright colors. I opened my eyes.
Scarlet trousers, with rows of blue buttons down the outsides of the legs. A white shirt with a collar so high it near-choked me. A long blue vest with tufts of red lace at the shoulders and red buttons like a row of sow’s nipples down the chest. A massy silver ring for my thumb. No. None of that. My own trousers from Withywoods, laundered and returned, thanks to Ash. The plainest of the fussy shirts in a foresty green. A brown vest, long, with buttons, but ones of horn. And that was all I had time for. I looked in the glass and ran my hands through my rain-damp hair. It lay down, for now. I chose the plainest of the small hats: To go bareheaded would attract more stares than any hat. It would have to do. I hoped to look poor enough that no one would seek to be introduced to me. I chose the least uncomfortable of the shoes and pulled them on. Then, with the re-woken expertise of my youth, I rapidly loaded my concealed pockets, transferring my small weapons and envelopes of poison and lock picks from the jacket I had worn earlier today, trying not to wonder if I would use them if Chade ordered me to. If it came to that, I’d decide then, I promised myself, and turned away from that stomach-churning question.
On my way! My Skilling to Chade was tight and private.