Fool’s Assassin

I watched him ride up to the door, his posture very stiff. My instincts warred in me. He was a handsome man, smelling of violets and rather battered. I had been prepared to fear and hate him. Now I wasn’t sure what to make of him. He had no servant to dash ahead of him; nor did he shout for anyone to come and take his horse. Instead he dismounted stiffly. He gave a small grunt of pain as his foot touched the ground, and once he had both feet on the ground he leaned his head against his saddle, catching his breath. When he straightened, he stood for a time, stroking his horse’s neck and looking around. Dread, I decided, was what he felt. He did not come as a man hired to tutor a girl, but as someone expelled from one life into another. I wondered if he had come of his own will. I remembered something I had read in my father’s writing. “Chade, you old spider,” I whispered softly, and was shocked when he flinched a look in my direction. I sat very still, my legs tucked tight to my body, peering through a tiny gap in the cloak’s shelter. His gaze went right past me. Still, I held my breath and remained motionless. He turned back to look at the door of the house. And still he hesitated.

A servant emerged suddenly, to ask courteously, “May I be of service, sir?”

FitzVigilant had a boy’s voice still. “I’m the new scribe,” he announced uncertainly, as if he could not quite believe it himself. “I’ve come to be Lady Bee’s tutor.”

“Of course. We’ve been expecting you. Please, do come in. I’ll call a boy to take your mount and mule, and see that your things are carried up to your room.” The servant stepped aside and gestured him toward the open door. With the cautious dignity of a man in pain, my tutor carefully ascended the steps.

The door closed behind him. I sat still, watching the space where he had been. I had the feeling that something momentous had happened in my life. I had a very tiny awareness that I should hurry inside and make myself presentable. I suspected that my father would soon be summoning me to meet my new tutor. Uneasiness roiled in me. Was I afraid? Eager to meet him? Likely he would be a part of my life now for many years.

Unless he killed me.

When common sense asserted itself, I clambered down, folded my cloak carefully, stuffed it under my tunic, and dashed for the servant’s entrance. I tiptoed past the kitchen door and then sped down the hall. I reached the pantry and slipped inside.

Someone was waiting for me there. I stopped dead and stared.

The mice? He was sitting in the middle of the pantry, his kinked tail curled neatly around his mismatched feet.

“How did you know to come here?” I whispered.

He stared at me, mice dancing in his green gaze.

“This way,” I told him. I dropped to my knees and crawled behind the stacked crates of fish. He followed. When I turned around to shut the hatch to the secret corridor, he darted back out of it. “No. Come in,” I told him. He did. I reached to shut the door. He darted out. “I can’t leave it open wide.”

He sat down outside the entrance and stared at me with stubborn patience. I waited. But he was content to sit there and exist until I was tired of waiting. At last I said, “Just this first time, I’ll leave it open more than a crack. Until you trust me.” I crawled back inside, he followed, and I left the door ajar. I seldom shut it all the way, as I’d never discovered how to open it from the other side. As I moved slowly away from it, I more felt than saw that he was following.

Much as I wanted the mice and rats banished from my domain, I wished he had not come today. I had things to do. My black-and-white shadow dogged my steps as I threaded the maze within the walls. I traveled by touch and memory now, and he seemed to have no qualms about ghosting after me in the darkness.

When we reached my den, I put my cloak in its hiding place. I had wrapped biscuits stored in a bowl on my shelf. I took them out of the bowl, and filled it with water from the stoppered bottle I now kept there. “Here is water,” I told him. “Whatever you do, you must not meow, nor make much noise of any kind. And I’ve left the pantry door ajar, so if you wish to go back out, you’ll be able to do so. But don’t let Cook or any of the kitchen girls catch you in the meat pantry. They’ll take a broom to you!”

He was so motionless that I wondered if he had followed me this far. Then I felt a head bump against me, and then he wound himself past my legs. I reached down, and his fur sleeked by under my touch. I crouched down, and on his second pass he allowed me to stroke his sides. He was a lean barn cat, half-grown and ribby and long. He turned and suddenly pressed his bared teeth against my hand. “I’ll bring you fish and meat, too,” I promised him. “So you don’t get tired of eating mice.”

He head-bumped his agreement to my offer. I suddenly felt he had honored me somehow. I stayed crouched in the darkness, thinking. “You’ll need a name,” I told him.

Not really.