The Golden Fool
'Fantasy as it ought to be written' George R.R. MartinThe second book in Robin Hobb’s thrilling fantasy series returns readers to the Six Duchies and the magical world of the Fitz and the Fool.Fitz has been persuaded back to court, posing as a servant to the decadent Lord Golden (who is the Fool in disguise). In secret, he will train Prince Dutiful in the magic known as the Skill.The peace remains fragile, so the diplomatic wedding between Dutiful and the Outislander princess is a crucial alliance. But when Elliania arrives she challenges the prince to undertake an impossible quest before she will accept him.He must kill Icefyre, one of the last true dragons. And Fitz and the Fool must go with him…
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2002
Copyright © Robin Hobb 2002
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 2014
Illustration © Jackie Morris. Calligraphy by Stephen Raw.
Robin Hobb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007585908
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007370481
Version: 2018-03-02
Table of Contents
Chapter Two: Chadeâs Servant
Chapter Eleven: Tidings from Bingtown
Chapter Eighteen: Pink Sugar Cake
Chapter Twenty-One: Convalescence
Chapter Twenty-Two: Connections
Chapter Twenty-Three: Revelations
Chapter Twenty-Four: Connections
Chapter Twenty-Five: Convocation
Chapter Twenty-Six: Negotiations
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Spring Sailing
The Liveship Traders
The Rain Wild Chronicles
The loss of a bond beast is a difficult event to explain to the non-Witted. Those who can speak of the death of an animal as âIt was only a dogâ will never grasp it. Others, more sympathetic, perceive it as the death of a beloved pet. Even those who say, âIt must be like losing a child, or a wifeâ are still seeing only one facet of the toll. To lose the living creature that one has been linked with is more than the loss of a companion or loved one. It was the sudden amputation of half my physical body. My vision was dimmed, my appetite diminished by the insipid flavour of food. My hearing was dulled and
The manuscript, begun so many years ago, ends in a flurry of blots and angry stabbings from my pen. I can recall the moment at which I realized I had slipped from writing in generalities into my own intimate rendering of pain. There are creases on the scroll where I flung it to the floor and stamped on it. The wonder is that I only kicked it aside rather than committing it to the flames. I do not know who took pity on the wretched thing and shelved it on my scroll rack. Perhaps it was Thick, doing his tasks in his methodical, unthinking way. Certainly I find nothing there that I would have saved.
So it has often been with my writing efforts. My various attempts at a history of the Six Duchies too often meandered into a history of myself. From a treatise on herbs my pen would wander to the various treatments for Skill-ailments. My studies of the White Prophets delve too deeply into their relationships with their Catalysts. I do not know if it is conceit that always turns my thoughts to my own life, or if my writing is my pathetic effort to explain my life to myself. The years have come and gone in their scores of turnings, and night after night I still take pen in hand and write. Still I strive to understand who I am. Still I promise myself, âNext time I will do betterâ in the all-too-human conceit that I will always be offered a ânext timeâ.
Yet I did not do that when I lost Nighteyes. I never promised myself that I would bond again, and do better by my next partner. Such a thought would have been traitorous. The death of Nighteyes gutted me. I walked wounded through my life in the days that followed, unaware of just how mutilated I was. I was like the man who complains of the itching of his severed leg. The itching distracts from the immense knowledge that one will ever after hobble through life. So the immediate grief at his death concealed the full damage done to me. I was confused, thinking that my pain and my loss were one and the same thing, whereas one was but a symptom of the other.
