Golden Fool

“Chade. I am not at all certain that those pillars were the work of Skill-users. Perhaps some have used them, but each time I’ve passed through one, the disorientation and the . . .” I groped for words. “Foreignness,” I hazarded at last. “The foreignness makes me wonder if Skill-users are the ones who built them. If they were built by humans at all.”

“Elderlings?” he had suggested after a moment.

“I don’t know,” I had replied.

The conversation echoed through my mind as I gazed at the racked scrolls and the locked chests in the Skill tower. The answers might be here, waiting for me.

I selected three scrolls from the rack from amongst the ones that looked most recent. I’d start with the ones in letters and languages that I knew well. I found none by Solicity, which struck me as odd. Certainly, our last Skillmistress must have committed something of her wisdom to paper; it was generally assumed that one who achieved master status would have something unique to pass on to their followers. But if Solicity had ever written anything, it was not amongst these scrolls. The three I finally chose were by someone named Treeknee, and were labeled as a translation of an older manuscript by Skillmaster Oklef. The translations had been done at the behest of Skillmaster Barley. I had never heard of any of them. I tucked the three scrolls under my arm and departed by way of the false panel in the hearth mantel.

I intended to leave the scrolls in Chade’s tower room. They did not belong in Tom Badgerlock’s chamber. But before I went there, I made a brief detour through the hidden corridors until I reached an irregular crack in the wall. I approached it silently and peeped through it. Civil Bresinga’s chamber was empty. This confirmed what Chade had told me last night, that young Civil would ride out with a party accompanying the Prince and his intended. Good. Perhaps I’d have the opportunity for a quick tour of his rooms, not that I expected it would yield much. Other than his clothes and the small daily possessions of a man, he kept nothing there. In the evenings, his chamber was either empty or he was alone in it. When he was there, his most common diversion was playing a small pipe, badly, or indulging in Smoke and staring out the window afterward. In all the spying I’d ever done, Civil was the most boring subject I’d ever had.

I headed up to Chade’s tower room, but paused before triggering the hidden catch, to listen and then peep into the room. I heard a soft-mouthed muttering, the thud of firewood being unloaded. I nearly turned aside, thinking I could leave the scrolls in the corridor until later. Then I decided there were too many laters in my life, and that I was leaving too much up to Chade. Only I could do this, really. I took a slow and calming breath, focused myself, and then eased my walls down.

Please don’t be startled. I’m coming into the room.

It didn’t help. Almost as soon as I got through the door, the wave hit me. Don’t see me, stinkdog! Don’t hurt me! Go away!

But my walls were up and I was braced.

“Stop that, Thick. By now you should know that it doesn’t work on me, and that I have no intention of hurting you. Why are you so afraid of me?” I set the scrolls down on the worktable.

Thick had stood to meet me. At his feet was a hod of firewood. Half had been loaded into the box by the hearth. He squinted his sleepy-looking eyes at me. “Not afraid. I just don’t like you.”

There was an oddness to his voice, not a lisp, but an unfinished edge to his words, as if a very young child spoke them. Afterward, he stood glaring at me, the end of his tongue resting on his lower lip. I decided that despite his short stature and childish voice and ways, he was not a child. I would not speak to him as one.

“Really? I try to know people before I decide I don’t like them. I don’t think I’ve given you any reason to dislike me.”

He scowled at me, his brow furrowing. Then he gestured around the room. “Lots of reasons. You make more work. Water for baths. Bring up the food, take away the dishes. A lot more work than the old man only.”

“Well, I can’t deny that.” I hesitated, then asked, “What would make it fair?”

“Fair?” He squinted at me suspiciously. Very cautiously, I lowered my guard and tried to sense what he was feeling. I needn’t have bothered. It was obvious. All his life, he had been mocked and teased. He was sure this was more of it.

“I could give you money for the things you do for me.”

“Money?”

“Coins.” I had a few loose in my pouch. I lifted it and jingled it at him.

“NO. No coins. I don’t want coins. He hit Thick, take the coins. Hit Thick, take the coins.” As he repeated himself, he mimed the motion, swinging a meaty fist on his short arm.