A silence thick as congealing blood filled up the room. The minstrel came and set a hand on the slight man’s sleeve. “Bosk. She cannot help us with that. That is for us to deal with. All you would do is put yourself at greater risk, yes, and your wife and daughters, too.” The minstrel glanced about the room, almost fearfully. And my heart sank at what I realized. The Old Bloods feared their own. There might be Piebald informers in that very room. The thought spread silently, chilling all of them. Soon some of them made excuses to go visit their own chambers, and in a short time the room was nearly empty. Silvereye sat silently staring into the fire. The minstrel wandered about the room aimlessly. There was little talk amongst the few who remained.
I heard a scuffling noise down the passage behind me, and in a moment Chade crept up to join me. “Anything important?” he whispered.
I set my hand to his wrist and conveyed all I had seen. His face grew thoughtful. After a moment he said softly, “Well. That sets my thoughts in a new track. It would not be the first time I had turned an error to an advantage. Keep your watch here, Fitz.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Are you getting hungry?”
“A bit. But I’ll be fine.”
“And our prince?”
“I’ve no reason to think he is otherwise.”
“Ah, but you do. If there may be Piebald informers in that room, then there may be Piebalds amongst those who hold him hostage. Warn him, lad. And keep watch.”
And then he was gone, shuffling along bent almost double in the passage. I watched him go and wondered what he had in mind. Then I reached for Dutiful. All was well with him. He was cold, he was bored, but no one had offered him insult let alone injury. Most of the talk today had been about what might be happening at Buckkeep. Evidently a bird, perhaps Risk or the hawk, had been ferrying notes back and forth. So far, all tidings had been reassuring. But Dutiful said that the air was one of waiting and worry.
The cow had an easy labor and dropped a fine bull calf. Cow-woman was just as glad that she’d had the benefit of a tight stable and a warm stall for the calf was born unseasonably early. By the time she and Web returned to the east gathering hall, it was time for another meal. I watched the Old Bloods congregate again as their meal was brought in, and watched them as they unmasked after the servants had left. I studied every face more carefully, but if there were any who had been in Laudwine’s band, I did not recognize them.
The meal was almost finished when there was a tap at the door. Several of the Old Bloods cried out to the supposed servants that they were not yet finished eating. Then a voice at the door said quietly, “Let me in. Old Blood greets Old Blood.”
Web was the one who rose and went to the door. He unlatched it and opened it to admit both Civil Bresinga and his cat. The squirrel on the table chittered in panic and then ran up his partner to hide under her hair. Pard didn’t bat an eye, but strolled into the room, glanced about, and then went over to the hearth where he made himself comfortable. No one could have watched the cat’s entrance and doubted that he was Wit-partnered to the boy who closed the door quietly behind himself and then turned to face the assembly.
The gazes he met would have daunted anyone. But again Web rose to the challenge, setting a friendly hand to Civil’s shoulder and loudly exclaiming, “Old Blood welcomes Old Blood. Come in and join us, lad. And you might be?”
He took a breath and squared his shoulders. “I am Civil Bresinga. Lord Civil Bresinga, now, of Galekeep. I am a loyal subject of Queen Kettricken, and friend and companion to Prince Dutiful Farseer. I am Old Blood. And both my queen and my prince know that I am.” He let them have a moment to consider that they looked at a Witted noble of the Farseer court. “I have come, at Councilor Chade’s behest, to tell you of how I am treated here. And to tell you too of my dealings with the Piebalds. And how I would have died at their hands, were it not for Farseer intervention.”
I watched in a sort of awe. The boy’s story was obviously unrehearsed. He wandered through it, often having to go back and explain earlier events. When he spoke of what his mother had endured and how she had died, he choked and could not go on. Web sat him down then and gave him a glass of wine and patted his back soothingly as if he were no more than a child. And I blinked and saw myself at fifteen, plunged into intrigue far beyond my ability to manage. Civil was little more than a child, I suddenly saw. Witted and constantly at risk, maneuvered into spying in a desperate bid to save his mother and his family fortune. He’d failed. Now he was deprived of parent and home, adrift: a very minor noble in a very political court. And the only reason he was alive, truly, was that he possessed the friendship of a Farseer. One whom he had betrayed not once, but twice, and yet each time, he had been forgiven.
