at work. If I reached toward it at all, I could feel the tiny fissuring of stone as it flaked away. It truly seemed as if the dragon had been hidden in the stone, and that Verity's task was to reveal it, one gleaming scale at a time.
'Fitz. Stop it.' I could hear annoyance in his voice. Annoyance that I was Skill-sharing with him, and annoyance that I was distracting him from his work.
'Let me help you,' I begged again. Something about the work drew me. Before, when Verity had been scraping at the stone with his sword, the dragon had seemed an admirable Work of stone-carving. But now there was a shimmering of Skill to him as both Verity and Kettle employed their powers. It was immensely attractive, in the way that a sparkling creek glimpsed through trees draws the eye, or the smell of fresh-baked bread wakes hunger. I longed to put hands on, and help shape this powerful creature. The sight of their working awakened a Skill hunger in me such as I had never known. 'I have been Skill-linked with you more than anyone has. In the days when I pulled an oar on the Rurisk, you told me I was your coterie. Why do you turn me away now, when I could help, and you need help so badly?'
Verity sighed and rocked back on his heels. The toe was not done, but I could see the faint outline of scales upon it now, and the beginning of the sheath for the wickedly curved talon. I could feel how the claw would be, striated like a hawk's talon. I longed to reach down and draw forth those lines from the stone.
'Stop thinking about it,' Verity bade me firmly. 'Fitz. Fitz, look at me. Listen to me. Do you remember the first time I took strength from you?'
I did. I had fainted. 'I know my own strength better now,' I replied.
He ignored that. 'You didn't know what you were offering me, when you told me you were a King's Man. I took you at your word that you knew what you were doing. You didn't. I tell you plainly right now that you don't know what you are asking me for. I do know what I am refusing you. And that is all.'
'But Verity …'
'In this, King Verity will hear no buts, FitzChivalry.' He drew that line with me as he had so seldom before.
I took a breath and refused to let my frustration become anger. He placed his hand carefully on the dragon's toe again. I listened a moment to the clack, clack, clack of Kettle's chisel working the dragon's tail free of the stone. She was singing as she worked, some old love ballad.
'My lord, King Verity, if you would tell me what it is I don't know about helping you, then I could decide for myself, perhaps, if … '
'It is not your decision, boy. If you truly wish to help, go get some boughs and make a broom. Sweep the rock chips and dust away. It is damnable stuff to kneel in.'
'I would rather be of real help to you,' I muttered disconsolately as I turned away.
'FitzChivalry!' There was a sharp note to Verity's voice, one I had not heard since I was a boy. I turned back to it with dread.
'You overstep yourself,'' he told me bluntly. 'My queen keeps these fires going and sharpens my chisels for me. Do you put yourself above such work?'
At such times, a brief answer suffices best. 'No, sir.'
'Then you shall make me a broom. Tomorrow. For now, much as I hate to say it, we all should rest, at least for a time.' He stood slowly, swayed, then righted himself. He placed a silver hand affectionately on the dragon's immense shoulder: 'With the dawn,' he promised it.
I had expected him to call to Kettle, but she was already standing and stretching. Skill-linked, I thought to myself. Words were no longer necessary. But they were for his queen. He walked around his dragon to where Kettricken sat near one of the fires. She was grinding at a chisel's edge. The rough rasping of her work hid our soft footsteps from her. For a time, Verity looked down at his queen as she crouched at this chore. 'My lady, shall we sleep awhile?' he asked her quietly.
She turned. With a gray-dusted hand she wiped the straggling hair from her eyes. 'As you wish, my lord,' she replied. She was able to keep almost all her pain from her voice.
'I am not that tired, my lord king. I would continue working, if you will it.' Kettle's cheerful voice was almost jarring. I marked that Kettricken did not turn to look at her at all. Verity only said, 'Sometimes it is better to rest before you are tired. If we sleep while it is dark, we will work better by the day's light.'
Kettricken winced as if criticized. 'I could build the fires larger, my lord, if that is what you wish,' she said carefully.
'No. I wish to rest, with you beside me. If you would, my queen.'
It was no more than the bones of his affection, but she seized on it. 'I would, my lord.' It hurt me to see her content with so little.
She is not content, Fitz nor am I unaware of her pain. I give her what I can. What it is safe for me to give her.
My king still read me so easily. Chastened, I bid them good night and went off to the tent. As we drew near, Nighteyes rose up, stretching and yawning.
Did you hunt?
With all this meat left, why would I hunt? I noticed then the tumble of pig bones all round him. He lay down amongst them again, nose to tail, rich as any wolf could ever be. I knew a moment's envy of his satisfaction.
Starling sat watch outside the tent by the fire, her harp nestled in her lap. I started to go past her with a nod, then halted to peer at her harp. With a delighted smile, she held it up for my inspection.
The Fool had outdone himself. There were no gilt or curlicues, no inlays of ivory or ebony such as some would say set a harp apart. Instead there was only the silken gleam of curving wood, and that subtle carving that highlighted the best of the wood's grain. I could not look at it without wanting to touch it and hold it. The wood drew the hand to it. The firelight danced upon it.
Kettle stopped to stare also. She folded her lips tightly. 'No caution. It will be the death of him someday,' she said ominously. She then preceded me into the tent.
Despite my long nap earlier, I sank into sleep almost as soon as I lay down. I do not think I had slept long before I became aware of a stealthy noise outside. I Wit-quested toward it. Men. Four. No, five of them, moving softly up the hillside toward the hut. I could know little more about them than that they came in stealth, like hunters. Somewhere in a dim room, Burrich sat up soundlessly. He rose barefoot and crossed the hut to Molly's bed. He knelt by the side of it, then touched her arm softly.
'Burrich?' She caught her breath on his name, then waited in wonder.
'Make no sound,' he breathed. 'Get up. Put on your shoes and wrap Nettle well, but try not to wake her. Someone is outside, and I do not think they mean us well.'
I was proud of her. She asked no questions, but sat up immediately. She pulled her dress on over her nightgown and thrust her feet into her shoes. She folded up the bedding around Nettle until she looked like little more than a bundle of blankets. The baby did not wake.
Meanwhile Burrich had drawn on his own boots and taken up a shortsword. He motioned Molly toward the shuttered window. 'If I tell you to, go out that window with Nettle. But not unless I say to. I think there are five of them.'
Molly nodded in the firelight. She drew her belt knife and stood between her child and danger.
Burrich stood to one side of the door. The entire night seemed to pass as they waited silently for their attackers to come.
The bar was in place, but it had little meaning on such an old doorframe. Burrich let them slam into it twice, then, as it started to give, he kicked it out of its brackets, so that on their next onslaught the door was flung wide. Two men came staggering in, surprised at the sudden lack of resistance. One fell, the other fell over the first, and Burrich had put his sword in and out of both of them before the third man was in the door.
The third man was a big man, redheaded and red-bearded. He came in the door with a roar, trampling right over the two injured men who squirmed under his boots. He carried a long sword, a lovely weapon. His size and blade gave him almost twice Burrich's reach. Behind him, a stout man bellowed, 'In the name of the King, we've come for the WitBastard's whore! Put down your weapon and stand aside.'
He'd have been wiser not to rouse Burrich's anger any brighter than it was. Almost casually, Burrich dropped his blade to finish one of the men on the floor, and then brought the blade back up inside Red-beard's guard. Red-beard retreated, trying to get space for the advantage of his blade. Burrich had no choice but to follow him,
