“Chade,” I asked, “have you ever killed a man for your own sake?”
He looked startled. “For my own sake?”
“Yes.
“To protect my own life?”
“Yes. I don’t mean when on the King’s business. I mean killed a man to … make your life simpler.”
He snorted. “Of course not.” He looked at me strangely.
“Why not?” I pressed.
He looked incredulous. “One simply does not go about killing people for convenience. It’s wrong. It’s called murder, boy.”
“Unless you do it for your king.”
“Unless you do it for your king,” he agreed easily.
“Chade. What’s the difference? If you do it for yourself, or if you do it for Shrewd?”
He sighed and gave up on the mixture he was making. He moved around the end of the table, sat on a tall stool there. “I remember asking these questions. But of myself, as my mentor was gone by the time I was your age.” He met my eyes firmly. “It comes down to faith, boy. Do you believe in your king? And your king has to be more to you than your half brother, or your grandfather. He has to be more than good old Shrewd, or fine honest Verity. He has to be the King. The heart of the kingdom, the center of the wheel. If he is that, and if you have faith that the Six Duchies are worth preserving, that the good of all our people are furthered by dispensing the King’s justice, then, well.”
“Then you can kill for him.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you ever killed against your own judgment?”
“You have many questions this night,” he warned me quietly.
“Perhaps you have left me alone too long to think of them all. When we met near nightly, and talked often and I was busy all the time, I did not think so much. But now I do.”