I thanked him, and as I turned away, I tugged my collar closed.

Chapter XIII

BARGAINS

"The Queen wishes to see you."

"When?" I asked, startled. It was hardly the greeting I had expected from Chade. I had opened the panel that admitted me to his tower to find him sitting in his chair before the hearth, waiting for me. He immediately stood.

"Now, of course. She wants to know what progress we have made, and is naturally anxious to hear from you as soon as possible."

"But I haven't made any progress," I protested. I had not even reported my day's work to Chade yet. I probably stank of sweat from the weapons court.

"Then she'll want to hear that," he replied relentlessly. "Come. Follow me." He triggered the door and we left the tower chamber.

JB-, It was evening. I had spent my afternoon doing as the Fool had advised me, playing the role of a servant learning his way about a new place. As such, I'd talked to quite a number of my fellow servitors, introduced myself to Weaponsmaster Cresswell, and successfully arranged it that he would suggest I freshen my blade skills against Delleree. She proved to be a formidable swordswoman, nearly as tall as I was, and both energetic and light-footed. I was pleased she could not get past my guard, but I was soon panting with the effort of maintaining it. Trying to penetrate her defenses was not yet an option for me. The weapons training Hod had enforced on me long ago stood me in good stead, but my body simply could not react as swiftly as my mind. Knowing what to do under an attack is not the same thing as being able to do it.

Twice I begged leave for breathing space and she granted it to me with the satisfaction of the insufferably young. Yet my leading questions about the Prince availed me little, until at my third rest interlude I loosened my collar and opened my shirt wide to the cool air. I almost felt guilty doing it, yet I will not deny that I wanted to test if the charm would coax her to be more loquacious with me.

It worked. Leaning on the wall in the shade of the weapons shed, I caught my breath, and then looked up into her face. As our gazes met, her brown eyes widened, in the way that a person's eyes widen at the sight of something pleasantly anticipated. Like a rapier rushing to its target, I thrust my question past her guard. "Tell me, do you press Prince Dutiful so hard when he practices with you?"

She smiled. "No, I fear I do not, for I am usually more occupied with maintaining my own defenses against him. He is a skilled swordsman, creative and unpredictable in his tactics. No sooner do I devise a new trick to use against him than he learns it and tries it against me."

"Then he loves his blade-work, as good fighters usually do."

She paused. "No. I do not think that is it. He is a youth who makes no half- measures in anything he does. He strives to be perfect in all he attempts."

"Competitive, is he?" I tried to make my query casual. I busied my hands in smoothing my wayward hair back into its tail.

Again she considered. "No. Not in the usual sense, There are some I practice with who think only of beating their opponents. That preoccupation can be used against them. But I do not think the Prince cares if he wins our matches, only that he fights each one perfectly. It is not the same thing as competing with my skills…" Her voice trailed away as she pondered it.

"He competes with himself, against an ideal he imagines."

My prompting seemed to startle her for an instant. Then, grinning, "That is it, exactly. You've met him, then?" "Not yet," I assured her. "But I've heard a great deal about him, and look forward to meeting him."

"Oh, that won't be soon," she informed me guilelessly. "He has his mother's Mountain ways in some things. Often he goes apart from the whole court for a time, to spend time just thinking. He isolates himself in a tower. Some say he fasts, but I have never seen signs of it when he returns to his routine."

"So what does he do?" I asked in hearty puzzlement.

"I've no idea."

"You've never asked him?"

She gave me an odd look, and when she spoke, her voice had cooled. "I am only his training partner, not his confidante. I am a guardsman and he is a prince. I would not presume to question my Prince on his private time alone. He is, as all know, a private person, with a great need for solitude."

Necklace or not, I knew I had pushed her too hard. I smiled, I hoped disarmingly, and straightened up with a groan. "Well, as a training partner, you're the equal of any I've ever had. The Prince is fortunate to have someone such as you to sharpen his skills against. As am I."

"You are welcome. And I hope we can measure ourselves against one another again."

I left it at that. I had as much success with the other servants. My queries, whether direct or indirect, yielded little information. It was not that the servants refused to gossip; they were as willing to chatter about Lord Golden or Lady Elegance as one could wish, but on the topic of the Prince, they simply seemed to know nothing. The picture I formed of Dutiful was of a boy who was not disliked, but was isolated not only by his rank but by his nature. It did not encourage me. I feared that if he had run, he had divulged his plans to no one. His solitary habits would have left him singularly vulnerable to kidnappers, as well.

My mind went back to the note the Queen had received. It had told her that the Prince was Witted and demanded she take suitable action. What had the writer intended as "suitable action"? Revealing his Wit and proclaiming that the Witted must be accepted? Or purifying the Farseer line with his demise? Had the writer contacted the Prince, too?

Chade's old workbench had yielded me the lock-picks I needed for my dinner-hour adventure. The Prince had Prince Regal's former grand chambers. That lock and I were old friends and I anticipated that I could slip it easily. While the rest of the keep was at table, I approached the Prince's rooms. Here again I saw his mother's influence, for there was not only no guard at his door, but it was not locked. I slipped silently within, closing it softly behind me. Then I stared about me in perplexity. I had expected the same clutter and disorder that Hap tended to leave in his wake. Instead the Prince's sparse possessions were all stored in such an orderly fashion that the spacious room looked nearly empty. Perhaps he had a fanatical valet, I mused.

Then, recalling Kettricken's upbringing, I wondered if the Prince had any body servants at all. Personal servants were not a Mountain custom.

It took me very little time to explore his rooms. I found a modest assortment of clothing in his chests. I could not determine if any were missing. His riding boots were still there, but Chade had already told me that the Prince's horse was still in his stall. He possessed a neat array of brush, comb, washbasin, and looking glass, all precisely aligned in a row. In the room where he pursued his studies, the ink was tightly stoppered and the tabletop had never suffered any blots or spills. No scrolls had been left out. His sword was on the wall, but there were empty pegs where other weapons might have hung. There were no personal papers, no ribbons or locks of hair tucked into the corner of his clothing chest, not even a sticky wineglass or an idly tossed shirt under his bed. In short, it did not strike me as a boy's bedchamber at all.