Fool's Assassin - Страница 62

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“Kittens?”

“There’s a litter back there under one of the mangers. Got their eyes open two weeks ago and now they’ve started to explore.”

Indeed they had. And the litter of four kits was exploring my daughter as she lay on her belly in the damp straw and let them climb on her. An orange-and-white one sat on her back and pulled her hair, his pin teeth set in her scruffy hair and his small feet braced. Two calicos were in the curve of her arms under her chin. At a short distance a black-and-white kit with a kink in his tail glared at her as she stared back at him. “Bee, it’s time to go,” I warned her.

She moved slowly, reluctantly. I reached down to unfasten the orange kitten from her hair. It smacked me experimentally. I set it on the straw beside her. “We need to go now,” I prodded her.

She sighed. “I like the kittens. I’ve never held one before. These ones are nice, but that one won’t let me touch him.”

Lin spoke. “Oh, that blackie is like his father. Full of piss and vinegar already. He’ll be a good ratter, but I wouldn’t choose him, Mistress Bee.”

“We’re not choosing any of them,” I corrected him. “She just wanted to hold one.”

Lin cocked his head at me. At his side, his dog mimicked him. “Well, I’m just saying she’s welcome to one if you want him. They’re the right age to find a new home. Their mother is tired of them and they’ve started to hunt. And a little friend might be a comfort to the little girl, sir. A warm little bit of company.” He cleared his throat and added, “Though I think a pup would be better for her.”

I knew a moment of impatience. A kitten or puppy would not cure her grief over her mother’s death. Then a sharp memory of a pup named Nosy intruded into my mind. But another young creature to be her friend could help. A lot. And perhaps in all the wrong ways. I spoke firmly.

“Thank you, but no, Lin. Perhaps when she’s a bit older, but not now. Come, Bee. We need to get back to the house.”

I expected a plea from her. Instead she sat up, gently letting the pair of calicos slide back into the straw. A moment longer she stared at the black kitten. She pointed one finger at him, as if to warn him, but then stood up the rest of the way and followed obediently as I left the sheep sheds. I slowed my pace even more on our walk back to the house. “So. What did you hear?” I asked Bee.

She was silent for a long time. I was on the point of pushing for a response when she admitted, “I wasn’t really paying attention. It was just about sheep. It wasn’t about me. And there were the kittens.”

“We talked about sheep that belong to your sister, with a man who makes his living taking care of those sheep. Someday you may have to walk down there to talk to him, or to his daughter or grandchild, about those sheep. Next time, you listen.” I paused to give her a moment to mull that, and then asked, “So you didn’t hear this time. What did you see?”

She surprised me in what she had heard me say. My question had not entered her mind at all. She spoke hesitantly in a voice full of trepidation. “So. Withywoods does not belong to you, or to me. It’s Nettle’s house and they are Nettle’s sheep. They’ll never be mine. Or the grapes or the orchards. None of it is really mine. Nettle was Mama’s eldest, and she now owns it all. But someday I may have to take care of all of it for her, just as you do.” She pondered a moment. “Papa, when I am grown and you are dead, what will belong to me?”

An arrow to my heart. What would belong to this odd child of mine? Even if I set aside a good marriage portion for her, would she grow to be a woman that a man would wish to wed? A good man? How would I find him, or know him when I had? When I was dead and gone, what would befall her? Years ago, Chade had asked me the same thing, and I had replied she was but a baby, and it was too soon to worry. Nine years had passed since then. Another nine and she would be eligible for marriage.

And I was a procrastinating idiot. I spoke quickly to fill my long silence. “I am sure that your sister and brothers would never allow you to live in want,” I told her, and I was confident that I spoke truth to her.

“That’s not the same as knowing there would be something that was mine,” she said quietly.

I knew she was right. Before I could assure her that I would do my best to see that she was provided for, she spoke again. “This is what I saw. I saw sheep, and sheep dung, and straw. I saw lots of wool on the lower rungs of the fence, and lots of little spiders, red and black, on the bottom sides of the rungs. I saw one ewe lying down, and she had rubbed all the wool and some of her skin off her rump. Another ewe was rubbing her hip on a fencepost and licking her lips while she did it.” I was nodding, pleased at her observation. She gave me a glance, looked aside and added, “And I saw Lin looking at me and then looking away, as if I was something he’d rather not see.”

“He was,” I agreed. “But not in dislike. He’s sad for you. He liked you enough to think you should have a kitten or a puppy of your own. Look at how he is with his own dog, and you’ll see that isn’t something he’d suggest for a child he disliked.”

She made a skeptical noise in her throat.

“When I was a boy,” I told her calmly, “I hated being a bastard. I thought that whenever anyone looked at me, that was the first thought he had. So I made being a bastard the most important thing about me. And whenever I met anyone, the first thing I thought of was how he was thinking about meeting a bastard.”

We walked for a time in silence. I could tell she was already tired. I caught myself thinking that I’d have to build her endurance with regular challenges and then reminded myself that she was not a dog nor a horse, but my child.

“Sometimes,” I added carefully, “I decided that people didn’t like me before they had had a chance to decide for themselves. So I didn’t speak to them or make any effort to have them like me.”

“Being a bastard is something that doesn’t show unless you make it show,” she said. She gestured at herself. “I can’t hide this. Being small and looking younger than I am. Being pale where most folk are dark. Being able to talk as if I am older than I am is something I can hide. But you said I shouldn’t do that.”

“No. Some of your differences you can’t hide. Little by little, you can let people see that you are a lot more intelligent than most children of your age. And that will make you less frightening to them.”

Again that sound of disdain.

“Were you scared of Daisy?” I asked her.

“Daisy?”

“The herd dog. Did she scare you?”

“No. Of course not! She does like to poke me with her nose. But Daisy’s nice.”

“How do you know?”

A hesitation before she replied. “She wagged her tail. And she wasn’t afraid of me.” A pause. “May I have a puppy?”

Not where I’d wanted the conversation to go, but again it was inevitable. “It would be hard for me to let you have a dog just now.” Not while my heart was so desperately lonely still. Not while I reached out, whether I would or not, to any creature that looked at me with sympathetic eyes. Even if I did not bond, the dog would be drawn to me, not her. No. “Perhaps in the future we can talk about it again. But what I wanted you to see … Are you tired? Shall I carry you?”

Her walk had slowed to a trudge, and her cheeks were bright red with effort and the chill wind’s kiss.

She straightened her spine. “I’m nearly ten. I’m too old to be carried,” she said with great dignity.

“Not by your father,” I said, and swooped her up. She went stiff in my arms, as she always did, but I was relentless. I set her up high on my left shoulder and lengthened my stride. She perched there, speechless and stiff as a stick. I thought I perceived her problem. I took a breath and walled myself in tighter. It wasn’t easy. For a moment I was as disoriented as if I had suddenly discarded my sense of smell or sight. When one has the Wit, to use it is instinctive, and the Skill wells over and out of the untrained. But I was rewarded by her relaxing a trifle, and then exclaiming, “I can see so far! Can you see this far all the time? Well, I suppose you can! How wonderful it is!”

She was so pleased and excited that I hadn’t the heart to drag her back to my lecture. Another time would be soon enough, I promised myself. She had just lost her mother, and she and I were just discovering how to reach out to each other. Tomorrow I would talk with her again about how to put others at ease. For now I would enjoy a moment when she seemed an ordinary child and I could simply be her father.

Chapter Twelve
Explorations

...

Once there was an old woman who lived all alone in the middle of a busy city. She made her living as a washerwoman for several wealthy merchant families. Each day she would go to one of their homes, gather the dirty clothing, and take it to her own home where she would scrub and pound it clean, spread it to dry on her thatched roof, and do whatever mending might be required. It did not afford her a good livelihood, but she liked her work because she could do it by herself.

She had not always been alone. Once she had had a dog. The dog had been her Wit-beast and her friend. But no dog lives forever, and few live as long as a human, and so the sad day came when the woman found herself alone. And alone she had been ever since then. Or so she thought.

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