Book Review: Assassin's Quest by Robin Hobb

Title: Assassin's Quest (Farseer Trilogy Book 3)
Author: Robin Hobb
Published: New York: Spectra, 2002 (1997)
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 757
Total Page Count: 152,666
Text Number: 446
Read Because: interest in the companion animal trope/continuing the series, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: In this final book, Fitz seeks desperate solutions to Regal's command of the Six Duchies and the Red Ship's ongoing attacks. I remain impressed by how completely I adored this series. Assassin's Quest is higher concept and high fantasy, much longer and with a more significant plot, but the first two books built a solid, character-based foundation which supports that weight. This series has never been perfect, and its conclusion is no exception: new characters crop up without warning, Fitz frequently comes off as dim, and the epilogue threatens to be underwhelming. But with every book, this series has pushed its tropes--the companion animal, the found family with all of its messy and strange intimacies, Fitz's coming of age, hurt/comfort--further, and the end result has a visceral, pit of the belly satisfaction. Within its limitations, I recommend it wholeheartedly.

And the ferret's triumph in the epilogue? It made me put the book down for a solid handful of minutes and just laugh and laugh.


( Some post-series thoughts with bonus comparisons to Pierce's Circle of Magic series. )

More on the Farseer Triology: Assassin's Quest quotes galore.

Let's talk more about the Farseer Trilogy.

Remember what I wrote about tropes in Royal Assassin? Assassin's Quest is like that, but x1000. Found family/unusual intimacies overlap the companion animal trope in the last book as Fitz's Wit becomes public knowledge and those close to him begin to interact with Nighteyes.

Not everything always works. Hobbs puts aside three established characters and welcomes to new one, so the found family can feel forced; the unusual intimacies between characters are often so explicit that they almost feel forced, too.

But when it does work....

No. He turned to face me squarely, met my eyes as no wild wolf would have. We do not share. We are one. I am no longer a wolf, you are no longer a man. What we are together, I have no name for. Perhaps the one who spoke to us of the Old Blood would have a word to explain it. He paused. See how much a man I am, that I speak of having a word for an idea? No word is needed. We exist, and we are whatever we are.

I would set you free if I could.

Would you? I would not part from you.

...it's one of the most resonant examples of the companion animal trope that I've encountered, it's messy jealousies mixed in with unbreakable bonds, it's conflating sex with Skill and love with hatred. It may be the jealousy that I most admire, because it keeps grounded and complex the otherwise idealized aspects of Fitz's pack, and reminds us that his coming of age isn't just about king and country, but also about his uncle and friends. This sort of emotional register speaks directly to my id, and I could barely be more pleased with this series entire.

One more quote, for good measure:

One does not have to be Witted to know the companionship of a beast, and to know that the friendship of an animal is every bit as rich and complicated as that of a man or woman. Nosy had been a friendly, inquisitive, boyish dog when he was mine. Smithy had been tough and aggressive, inclined to bully anyone who would give way to him, and his sense of humor had had a rough edge to it. Nighteyes was as unlike them as he was unlike Burrich or Chade. It is no disrespect to any of them to say I was closest to him.

He could not count. But I could not read deer scent on the air and tell if it was a buck or doe. If he could not plan ahead to the day after tomorrow, neither was I capable of the fierce concentration he could bring to a stalk. There were differences between us; neither of us claimed superiority. No one issued a command to the other, or expected unquestioning obedience of the other. My hands were useful things for removing porcupine quills and ticks and thorns and for scratching especially itchy and unreachable spots on his back. My height gave me a certain advantage in spotting game and spying out terrain. So even when he pitied me for my “cow's teeth” and poor vision at night, and a nose he referred to as a numb lump between my eyes, he did not look down on me. We both knew his hunting prowess accounted for most of the meat that we ate. Yet he never begrudged me an equal share. Find that in a man, if you can.