Golden Fool (Tawny Man #2)

Golden Fool (Tawny Man #2) Page 148

He gave me a look from under lowered brows. Then he got up and with ponderously slow steps he walked to his scroll rack “I suppose that, eventually, all of my secrets must pass on to you,” he observed reluctantly. Then, by a means I did not discern, he did something to release a catch. The decorative crown piece atop the scroll rack folded down. He reached inside, and after a moment he drew out three scrolls. They were all small and rolled tightly into cylinders that could be concealed in a man’s closed fist. I stood, but he shut the rack front before I could see what else might be concealed there.

“How did you open that?” I demanded.

His smile was very small. “I said ‘eventually,’ Fitz. Not ‘today.’ ” His tone was that of my erstwhile mentor. He seemed to have set aside his earlier annoyance with me. He came back to me and offered me the three rolled scrolls on his outstretched palms. “Kettricken and I had our reasons. I hope you will think them good enough.”

I took the scrolls, but before I could open even one, the scroll rack swung to one side again and Thick entered. I flipped all three scrolls up my sleeve with a move so practiced it was almost instinctive. “And now I must be going, FitzChivalry.” He turned from me to Thick. “Thick. You were to meet with Tom earlier. Now that you are both here, I want you to spend some time together. I want you to be friends.” The old assassin gave me a final withering look. “I’m sure that you’ll have a pleasant chat now. Good night to both of you.”

And with that he left us. Did he sound relieved to leave? He hastened out before the rack could even close behind Thick. The dim-witted serving man carried a double load of wood in a canvas sling over one shoulder. He looked around, perhaps surprised to see Chade leave so swiftly. “Wood,” he told me. He dumped his burden to the floor, straightened up, and turned to go.

“Thick.” My voice stopped him. Chade was right. I should at least teach the man to obey me. “You know that is not what you are supposed to do. Stack the wood in the holder by the hearth.”

He glared at me, flexing his shoulders and rubbing his stubby hands together. Then he seized one end of the sling and dragged the wood toward the hearth, spilling logs, bits of bark, and dirt as he went. I said nothing. He crouched down beside it, and with a great deal more vehemence and noise than was required, he began to stack the wood. He looked over his shoulder at me frequently as he worked, but I could not decipher if his squint was antagonism or fear. I poured myself a glass of wine and tried to ignore him. There had to be a way out of dealing with Thick each day. I did not want him around me, let alone to teach him. In truth, I found his malformed body and dim ways somewhat revolting.

As Galen had me. Just as Galen had not wanted to teach me.

That thought nudged me in a bruised place that had never quite healed. I felt a moment of shame as I watched him labor sullenly at his task. He hadn’t asked to become a tool for the Farseer crown, any more than I had. Like me, the duty had fallen upon him. Nor had he chosen to be born malformed and dim-witted. It grew in my mind that there was a question that no one had asked yet, one that suddenly seemed important to me. One that might put the entire question of a coterie for Dutiful in a different light.

“Thick,” I said. He grunted. I said nothing more until he stopped in his wood tantrum and turned to glare at me. It was, perhaps, not the best time to ask him anything. But I doubted that there would ever be a favorable time for Thick and me to have this conversation. When I was sure he was paying attention, his small eyes beetling at me, I spoke again. “Thick. Would you like me to teach you to Skill?”

“What?” He looked suspicious, as if he expected me to make him the butt of a joke.

I took a breath. “You have an ability.” His scowl deepened. I clarified. “A thing you can do that others can’t. Sometimes you use it to make people ‘not see’ you. Sometimes you use it to call me names, names that Chade can’t hear. Like ‘dogstink.’ ” That made him smirk. I ignored it. “Would you like me to teach you to use it in other ways? In good ways that could help you serve your prince?”

He didn’t even think about it. “No.” He turned back and resumed thunking the wood chunks onto the pile.

The swiftness of his reply surprised me a bit. “Why not?”

He rocked back on his heels and looked over at me. “I got e-nough work.” He glared meaningfully from me to the firewood. Dogstink.

Don’t do that. “Well. We all have work we have to do. That’s life.”