“They followed me last night . . . this morning. To scare me and to let me know they knew me. That they could find me anytime. Chade. Set that aside for a moment. Did you know your servant—what is his name? Thick? Did you know Thick is Skilled?”

“At what? Breaking teacups?” The old man snorted as if I had made a bad jest. He heaved a sigh and gestured at the cold fireplace in disgust. “He’s supposed to set a small fire in the hearth each day. Half the time he forgets to do that. What are you talking about?”

“Thick is Skilled. Strongly Skilled. He nearly dropped me in my tracks when I accidentally startled him here. If I had not been keeping up my walls to ward my mind from Dutiful, I think he would have blasted away every thought in my head. ‘Go away,’ he told me, and ‘Don’t see me.’ And ‘Don’t hurt me.’ And Chade, you know, I think he’s done that before. To me, even. Once, in the stableyard, I saw some of the boys teasing him. And I heard, almost as if someone said it aloud, ‘Don’t see me.’ And then the stable boys were all going about their business and after that, I don’t recall that I did see him there. Anymore, I mean.”

Chade slowly sank down into my chair. He reached out to take one of my hands in his as if that would make my words more comprehensible. Or perhaps he sought to feel if fever had taken me. “Thick has the Skill magic,” he said carefully. “That’s what you’re telling me.”

“Yes. It’s raw and untrained, but it burns in him like a bonfire. I’ve never encountered anything like it before.” I shut my eyes, put my palms flat to my temples, and tried to push my skull back together. “I feel like I’ve taken a beating.”

A moment later, Chade said gruffly, “Here. Try this.”

I took the cold wet cloth he offered me and placed it across my eyes. I knew better than to ask him for anything stronger. The stubborn old man had made up his mind that my pain drugs would interfere with my ability to teach Dutiful to Skill. No good to long for the relief that elfbark could bring. If there were any left in Buckkeep Castle, he’d hidden it well.

“What am I going to do about this?” he muttered, and I lifted a corner of the cloth to peer at him.

“About what?”

“Thick and his Skill.”

“Do? What can you do? The half-wit has it.”

He resumed his seat. “From what I’ve translated of the old Skill scrolls, that makes him something of a threat to us. He’s a wild talent, untaught and undisciplined. His Skilling can inadvertently disrupt Dutiful just as he is trying to learn. Angered, he can use his Skill against people; apparently, he has already done so. Worse, you say he is strong. Stronger than you?”

I lifted one hand in a futile gesture. “I have no way of knowing. My talent has always been erratic, Chade. And I know no way of measuring it. But I have not felt so besieged since all of Galen’s coterie turned their collective strength on me.”

“Mmh.” He leaned back in his chair and considered the ceiling. “The most prudent course might simply be to put him down. Kindly, of course. It is not his fault he is a threat to us. Less radical would be to begin dosing him with elfbark to dampen or destroy his talent. But as your reckless abuse of that herb over the last decade has not completely scoured the Skill ability from you, I have less faith in its efficacy than the writers of the Skill scrolls did. Yet I tend toward a third path. More dangerous, perhaps. I wonder if that is not why it appeals to me, because the possibilities are as great as the hazard.”

“Teach him?” At Chade’s tentative smile, I groaned. “Chade, no. We don’t know enough between the two of us to be certain that we can teach Dutiful safely, and he is a tractable boy with a bright mind. This Thick of yours is already hostile to me. His insults make me fear that somehow he has detected that I am Witted. And what he has learned on his own is potent enough to be dangerous to me if I try to teach him more.”

“Then you think we should kill him? Or cripple his talent?”

I didn’t want that decision to be mine. I didn’t even want to know that such a decision was being made, yet here I was again, neck deep in Farseer plotting. “I don’t think either of those things,” I muttered. “Cannot we just send him very far away?”

“The weapon we throw away today is the one at our throats tomorrow,” Chade returned implacably. “That is why King Shrewd chose, long ago, to have his bastard grandson close to hand. We must make the same sort of decision with Thick. Use him, or render him useless. There is no middle path.” He held one hand out toward me, palm up, and added, “As we have seen with the Piebalds.”