Assassin's Quest

"No, it's a hundred, for him alone, and another hundred for the manwolf that dogs his heels. I heard it cried anew just this afternoon. They crept into the King's Mansion at Tradeford, and slew some of his guard with Beast magic. Throats torn right out that the wolf might drink the blood. He's the one they want bad now. Dresses like a gentleman, they said, with a ring and a necklace and a silver dangle at his ear. Streak of white in his hair from an old battle with our king, and a scar down his face and a broken nose from the same. Yes, and a nice new sword-slash up his arm is what the King give him this time."

There was a low mutter of admiration from several of them at this. Even I had to admire Regal's audacity at claiming that, even as I turned my face back into my bundle and burrowed down as if to sleep. The gossip continued.

"Supposed to be Wit-bred, he is, and able to turn himself into a wolf whenever the moon is on him. They sleep by day and prowl by night, they do. It's said it's a curse put on the King by that foreigner queen he chased out of Buck for trying to steal the crown. The Pocked Man, it's told, is a half-spirit, charmed from the body of old King Shrewd by her Mountain magic, and he travels all the roads and streets, anywhere in the Six Duchies, bringing ill wherever he goes, and wearing the face of the old King himself."

"Dung and rot," Creece said disgustedly. He took another swig himself. But some of the others liked this wild tale and leaned closer, whispering for him to go on, go on.

"Well, that's what I heard," the storyteller said huffily. "That the Pocked Man is Shrewd's half-spirit, and he can't know any rest until the Mountain queen that poisoned him is in her grave as well."

"So, if the Pocked Man is Shrewd's ghost, why is King Regal offering a hundred golds' reward for him?" Creece asked sourly.

"Not his ghost. His half-spirit. He stole part of the King's spirit as he was dying, and King Shrewd can know no rest until the Pocked Man is dead so the King's spirit can be rejoined. And some say," and he dropped his voice lower, "that the Bastard was not killed well enough, that he walks again as a man-wolf. He and the Pocked Man seek vengeance against King Regal, to destroy the throne he could not steal. For he was in league to be king to the Vixen Queen once they'd done away with Shrewd."

It was the right sort of night for such a tale. The moon was swollen and orange and riding low in the sky, while the wind brought us the mournful lowing and shifting of the cattle in their pens mixed with the stench of rotting blood and tanning hides. High tattered clouds drifted from time to time across the face of the moon. The storyteller's words put a shiver up my back, probably for a different reason than he thought. I kept waiting for someone to nudge me with a foot, or cry out, "Hey, let's have a better look at him." No one did. The tone of the man's tale had them looking for wolf eyes in the shadows, not for a weary workman sleeping in their midst. Nonetheless, my heart was thudding in my chest as I looked back down my trail. The tailor where I'd traded clothes would recognize that description. Possibly the earring woman. Even the old rag woman who had helped me tie the kerchief over my hair. Some might not want to come forward, some might want to avoid dealing with the King's guards. Some would, though. I should behave as if they all would.

The speaker was going on, embroidering his tale of Kettricken's evil ambitions and how she had lain with me to conceive a child we could use to claim the throne. There was loathing in the storyteller's voice as he spoke of Kettricken, and no one scoffed at his words. Even Creece at my side was acquiescent, as if these bizarre plots were common knowledge. Confirming my worst fears, Creece spoke up suddenly.

"You tell it like it's all new, but all knew her big belly came not from Verity but from the Wit-Bastard. Had Regal not driven off the Mountain whore, we would eventually have had one like the Piebald Prince in line for the throne."