Golden Fool by Hobb Robin Read Free Book Online

the Narcheska pretend a bosom she did not yet possess. Elliania reddened as she stared at it. Peottre was more direct. He stepped between Elliania and the dress as if he would protect her from it. “No. She will not.”
    “Yes. She will. The Lady prefers it. The young Prince will find it most attractive.” She offered, not an opinion, but a directive.
    “No. She will not. It is a mockery of who she is. That is not the garb of a God’s Runes narcheska. For her to wear that is an insult to our mothers’ house.” With a sudden step and a slash of his hand, Peottre knocked the dress from her hands to the floor.
    I expected the servant woman to cower back from him or beg his pardon. Instead she just gave him a flat-eyed stare. She spoke after a brief pause. “The Lady says, ‘It has nothing to do with the God’s Runes. This is a dress that Six Duchies men will understand. She will wear it.’ ” She paused as if thinking, then added, “For her not to wear it would present a danger to your mothers’ house.” As if Peottre’s action had been no more than a child’s willful display, she stooped and lifted the dress again.
    Behind Peottre, Elliania gave a low cry. It sounded like pain. As he turned to her, I caught a quick glimpse of her face. It was set into a determined stillness, but sweat suddenly misted her brow and she had gone as pale as she had been flushed before.
    “Stop it!” he said in a low voice, and I first thought that he spoke to the girl. Then he glanced over his shoulder. Yet when he spoke again, he did not appear to be addressing the servant at all. “Stop it!” he repeated. “Dressing her like a whore was not a part of our arrangement. We will not be driven into it. Stop it, or I will kill her, and you will lose your eyes and your ears here.” And he drew his belt knife, and advancing to the serving woman, he laid the edge of it along her throat. The woman did not blanch or shrink away. She stood still, her eyes glittering, almost smirking at his threat. She made no response to his words. Then suddenly Elliania drew a deeper, ragged breath, and her shoulders sagged. A moment later, she squared them and stood upright. No tears escaped her.
    In a fluid motion, Peottre snatched the dress from the woman’s arm. His knife must have been honed to a razor’s edge, for it slashed effortlessly down the front of the gown. He threw the fluttering ruins to the floor and trod upon them. “Get out!” he told the woman.
    “As you will, my lord, I am sure,” she muttered. But the words were a mockery as she turned and retired. She did not hurry, and he watched her leave until the door closed behind her. Then he turned back to Elliania. “Are you much hurt, little fish?”
    She shook her head, a quick gesture, chin up. A brave lie, for she looked as if she would faint.
    I stood up silently. My forehead was gritty with dust from leaning against the wall as I spied on them. I wondered if Chade knew the Narcheska did not wish to wed our prince. I wondered if he knew that Peottre did not consider the betrothal to be a binding gesture. I wondered what illness ailed the Narcheska, and wondered too who “the Lady” was and why the servant was so disrespectful. I tucked my bits of information away alongside my questions, gathered up my clothing, and resumed my trek to Chade’s tower. At least my spying had made me forget my own concerns for a short time.
    I climbed the last steep stair to the tiny room at the top, and pushed on the small door there. From some distant part of the castle, I caught a strain of music. Probably minstrels limbering their fingers and instruments for tonight’s festivities. I stepped out from behind a rack of wine bottles into Chade’s tower room. I caught my breath, then shouldered the rack silently back into place and set my bundle down beside it. The man bent over Chade’s worktable was muttering to himself, a guttural singsong of complaints. The music came louder and