— VENTURN'S “HISTORIES”

With only five days remaining until our departure date, the journey began to seem real to me. Up to that point, I had been able to push it out of my mind and consider it an abstract thing. I had prepared for it, but only as an eventuality. I had studied their writing symbols, and spent many of my evenings in a tavern frequented by Outislander traders and sailors. There I had worked on learning as much of the language as I could. Listening was my best technique for that. Outislander shared many roots with our own tongue, and after a number of evenings, it no longer rang so strange against my ears. I could not speak it well, but I could make myself understood and, more important, understand most of what I heard. I hoped that would be enough.

My lessons with Swift had progressed well. In some ways, I would miss the boy when we sailed. In others, I'd be just as glad to be free of him. True to his word, he was a superb bowman for a boy of ten. Once I'd alerted Cresswell to this, the Weaponsmaster had been very glad to take him in hand. “He's got a feel for it. He isn't one to stand and take a long and careful aim. With this lad, the arrow flies from his eye as much as from his bow. He'd be wasted on the axe. Let's build his strength instead, and move him into a longer and more powerful bow as he grows.” So Cresswell evaluated him, and when I passed on his words to Chade, the old assassin agreed in part.

“We'll start him on the axe, as well,” Chade directed me. “It cannot hurt him.”

Less time with the boy was more of a relief than I cared to admit. He was a bright lad, and pleasant to deal with in all ways save two: he reminded me far too much of both Molly and Burrich, and he could not leave the topic of his magic alone. No matter what lesson I began with, he found a way to transform it to a discussion of the Wit. The depth of his ignorance appalled me, and yet I was not comfortable correcting his misconceptions. I decided to consult with Web about him.

Finding Web alone was the initial difficulty. Since he had first arrived at the Buckkeep court as a speaker and advocate for his people and their maligned magic, he had gained the respect of many who had once despised the Wit and those who practiced it. He was often referred to now as the Witmaster. The title that had once been a mockery of the Queen's acceptance of the outlawed magic was rapidly becoming an accepted honorific. Many sought his advice now, and not just on matters relating to his magic or his Old Blood people. Web was an affable man, interested in everyone and able to converse animatedly on almost any topic; but for all that he was not so much garrulous as an active listener. Folk react well to a man who hangs on their words. Even if he had not been our unofficial ambassador from the Witted folk of the realm, I think he would have become a court favorite. But this odd connection put him even more in regard, for if one wished to demonstrate to the Queen that one shared her politics about the Witted, how better than to invite Web to dine or partake of other amusement? Many nobles sought to curry the Queen's favor this way. I am sure that nothing in Web's previous experience had prepared him to be such a social novelty, and yet he took it in stride, as he seemed to do all things. Nor did it change him that I could tell. He was still as enraptured by the chatter of a serving girl as by the sophisticated discussions of the most elevated noble. I seldom saw him alone.

But there are still a few places where polite society does not follow a man. I was waiting for Web when he emerged from a backhouse. I greeted him and added, “I'd like to ask your advice on something. Have you time for a word or two, and a quiet stroll about the Women's Gardens?”

He raised one graying eyebrow in curiosity, then nodded. Without a word, he followed me as I led the way, easily matching his rolling sailor's gait to my stride. I'd always enjoyed the Women's Gardens, ever since I was a boy. They supply much of the herbs and fresh greens for Buckkeep's kitchens in summer, but are arranged to be a pleasure to stroll in as well as yielding a practical bounty. They are called the Women's Gardens for no other reason than that they are mostly tended by women; no one would look askance at our being there. I plucked several leafy new fronds of copper fennel as we passed and offered one to Web. Above us, a birch tree was uncurling its leaves. There were beds of rhubarb around the bench that we chose. Fat red nubs thrust through the earth. On a few plants, the crinkling leaves were opening to the light. The plants would need boxing soon, if the stems were to grow long enough to be useful. I mentioned this to Web.

He scratched his trimmed gray beard thoughtfully. There was a touch of merriment in his pale eyes as he asked me, “And rhubarb was what you wished to consult me about?” He put the end of the fennel stem between his teeth and nibbled at it as he waited for me to answer.