I should have known that this would happen. Once I plunged back into Buckkeep’s court and politics and intrigue, I had become vulnerable to all the plotting and schemes that power attracted. I had known this would happen, I admitted bitterly. And for some fifteen years, that knowledge had kept me away from Buckkeep. Only Chade and his plea for help in recovering Prince Dutiful had lured me back. Cold reality seeped through me now. There were only two courses open to me. I either had to sever all ties and flee, as I had once before, or I had to plunge fully into the swirling intrigue that had always been the Farseer court at Buckkeep. If I stayed, I would have to start thinking like an assassin again, always aware of the risks and threats to myself, and how they affected those around me.
Then I wrenched my thoughts into a more truthful path. I’d have to be an assassin again, not just think like one. I’d have to be ready to kill when I encountered people that threatened my prince or me. For there was no avoiding the connection: those who came to taunt Tom Badgerlock about his Wit and the death of his wolf were folk who also knew that Prince Dutiful shared their despised Beast Magic. It was their handle on the Prince, the lever they would use not just to end the persecution of those with the Wit, but also to gain power for themselves. It was no help to me that my sympathies in part were with them. In my own life, I had suffered from the taint of being Witted. I had no desire to see anyone else labor under that burden. If they had not presented such a threat to my prince, I might have sided with them.
My furious striding carried me up to the sentries at the gate to Buckkeep. There was a guardhouse there, and from within came the sound of men’s voices and the clatter of soldiers at food. One, a lad of about twenty, lounged by the door, bread and cheese in one hand and a mug of morning beer in the other. He glanced up at me, and then, mouth full, nodded me through the gates. I halted, anger coursing through me like a poison.
“Do you know who I am?” I demanded of him.
He started, then peered at me more closely. Obviously he was afraid he had offended some minor noble, but a glance at my clothing reassured him.
“You’re a servant in the keep. Aren’t you?”
“Whose servant?” I demanded. Foolishness, to call attention to myself this way, and yet just now I could not stop the words. Had others come this way before me last night, were they inside the keep even now? Had a careless sentry admitted folk bent on killing the Prince? It all seemed too possible.