The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “Also cry?” I asked. I traced an imaginary tear down my cheek with one finger.

  “Also cry.” He put his hand on his own belly. “Ha ha ha,” he said, pressing in with his hand to show me the motion of his stomach. Then his expression changed to sad. “Huh huh huh,” he heaved with exaggerated sobs, pressing his stomach again. “Same place. Not healthy to push down.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to imagine what it must be like for Tempi, constantly assaulted by people too rude to keep their expressions to themselves. People whose hands constantly made gestures that were nonsense. “It must be very hard for you, out here.”

  “Not so hard.” Understatement. “When I leave Ademre, I know this. Not civilization. Barbarians are rude.”

  “Barbarians?”

  He made a wide gesture, encompassing our clearing, the forest, all of Vintas. “Everyone here like dogs.” He made a grotesquely exaggerated expression of rage, showing all his teeth, snarling and rolling his eyes madly. “That is all you know.” He shrugged nonchalant acceptance, as if to say he didn’t hold it against us.

  “What of children?” I asked. “Children smile before they talk. Is that wrong?”

  Tempi shook his head. “All children barbarians. All smile with face. All children rude. But they go old. Watch. Learn.” He paused thoughtfully. Choosing his words. “Barbarians have no woman to teach them civilization. Barbarians cannot learn.”

  I could tell he didn’t mean any offense, but it made me more determined than ever to learn the particulars of the Adem hand-talk.

  Tempi stood and began limbering up with a number of stretches similar to those the tumblers used in my troupe when I was young. After fifteen minutes of twisting himself this way and that, he began his slow, dancelike pantomime. Though I didn’t know it at the time, it was called the Ketan.

  Still nettled about Tempi’s “barbarians cannot learn” comment, I decided I would follow along. After all, I didn’t have anything better to do.

  As I tried to mimic him, I became aware of how devilishly complex it was: keeping the hands cupped just so, the feet correctly positioned. Despite the fact that Tempi moved with almost glacial slowness, I found it impossible to imitate his smooth grace. Tempi never paused or looked in my direction. He never offered a word of encouragement or advice.

  It was exhausting, and I was glad when it was over. Then I started the fire and lashed together a tripod. Wordlessly, Tempi brought out a hard sausage and several potatoes that he began to peel carefully using his sword.

  I was surprised by this, as Tempi fussed over his sword much the same way I did with my lute. Once when Dedan had picked it up, the Adem had responded with a rather dramatic emotional outburst. Dramatic for Tempi, that is. He’d spoken two full sentences and frowned a bit.

  Tempi saw me watching him and cocked his head curiously.

  I pointed. “Sword?” I asked. “For cutting potatoes?”

  Tempi looked down at the half-peeled potato in one hand, his sword in another. “Is sharp.” He shrugged. “Is clean.”

  I returned the shrug, not wanting to make an issue of it. While working together, I learned the words for iron, knot, leaf, spark, and salt.

  Waiting for the water to boil, Tempi stood, shook himself, and began his limbering stretches a second time. I followed him again. It was harder this time. The muscles of my arms and legs were loose and shaky from my previous effort. Toward the end I had to fight to keep myself from trembling, but I gleaned a few more secrets.

  Tempi continued to ignore me, but I didn’t mind. I’ve always been drawn to a challenge.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Lack of Sight

  “. . . SO TABORLIN WAS PRISONED deep underground,” Marten said. “They had left him with nothing but the clothes upon his back and an inch of guttering candle to push away the darkness.

  “The sorcerer-king planned to leave Taborlin trapped until hunger and thirst weakened his will. Scyphus knew if Taborlin swore to help him, the wizard would abide by his promise, because Taborlin never broke his word.

  “Worst of all, Scyphus had taken Taborlin’s staff and sword, and without them his power was all dim and guttery. He’d even taken Taborlin’s cloak of no particular color, but he warc—sorry. But—achhm. Hespe, would you be a darling and pass me the skin?”

  Hespe tossed Marten the waterskin and he took a deep drink. “That’s better.” He cleared his throat. “Where was I again?”

  We had been in the Eld for twelve days, and things had fallen into a steady rhythm. Marten had changed our standing wager to reflect our growing skill. First to ten to one, then fifteen to one, which was the same arrangement he had with Dedan and Hespe.

  My understanding of the Adem hand-language was growing, and as a result, Tempi was becoming something other than a frustrating blank page of a man. As I learned to read his body language, he was slowly being colored in around the edges.

  He was thoughtful and gentle. Dedan rubbed him the wrong way. He loved jokes, though many of mine fell flat, and the ones he tried to tell invariably made no sense in translation.

  This isn’t to say things were perfect between us. I still offended Tempi occasionally, making social gaffes I couldn’t understand even after the fact. Every day I continued to follow him in his strange dance, and every day he pointedly ignored me.

  “Now Taborlin needed to escape,” Marten said, continuing his story. “But when he looked around his cave, he saw no door. No windows. All around him was nothing but smooth, hard stone.

  “But Taborlin the Great knew the names of all things, so all things were his to command. He said to the stone: ‘break!’ and the stone broke. The wall tore like a piece of paper, and through that hole Taborlin could see the sky and breathe the sweet spring air.

  “Taborlin made his way out of the caves, into the castle, and finally to the doors of the royal hall itself. The doors were barred against him, so he said, 'burn!’ and they burst into flame and were soon nothing more than fine grey ash.

  “Taborlin stepped into the hall and saw King Scyphus sitting there with fifty guards. The king said, ‘Capture him!’ But the guards had just seen the doors burn to ash, so they moved closer, but none of them came too close, if you know what I mean.

  “King Scyphus said, 'Cowards! I will battle Taborlin with wizardry and best him!’ He was afraid of Taborlin too, but he hid it well. Besides, Scyphus had his staff, and Taborlin had none.

  “Then Taborlin said, ‘If you’re so brave, give me my staff before we duel.’

  “ ‘Certainly,’ Scyphus said, even though he didn’t really mean to give it back, you see. ‘It’s right next to you in that chest there.’ ”

  Marten looked around at us conspiratorially. “You see, Scyphus knew the chest was locked and had only one key. And that key was right in his pocket. So Taborlin went over to the chest, but it was locked. Then Scyphus laughed and so did a few of the guards.

  “That made Taborlin angry. And before any of them could do anything he struck the top of the chest with his hand and shouted, 'Edro!’ The chest sprung open and he grabbed his cloak of no particular color, wrapping it around himself.”

  Marten cleared his throat again. “Excuse me,” he said, and paused to take another long drink.

  Hespe turned to Dedan. “What color do you think Taborlin’s cloak was?”

  Dedan’s forehead creased a bit, almost like the beginning of a scowl. “What do you mean? It’s no particular color, just like it says.”

  Hespe’s mouth went flat. “I know that. But when you think of it in your head, what does it look like? You have to picture it as looking like something, don’t you?”

  Dedan looked thoughtful for a moment. “I always pictured it as kind of shimmery,” he said. “Like the cobblestones outside a tallow-works after a hard rain.”

  “I always thought of it as a dirty grey,” she said. “Sort of washed out from his being on the road all the time.”

  “That makes good sense,” Ded
an said, and I watched Hespe’s face go gentle again.

  “White,” Tempi volunteered. “I think white. No color.”

  “I always thought of it as kind of a pale sky-blue,” Marten admitted, shrugging. “I know that doesn’t make any sense. That’s just how I picture it.”

  Everyone turned to look at me.

  “Sometimes I think of it like a quilt,” I said. “Made entirely out of patchwork, a bunch of different colored rags and scraps. But most of the time I think of it as dark. Like it really is a color, but it’s too dark for anyone to see.”

  When I was younger, stories of Taborlin had left me wide-eyed with wonder. Now that I knew the truth about magic, I enjoyed them on a different level, somewhere between nostalgia and amusement.

  But I held a special place in my heart for Taborlin’s cloak of no particular color. His staff held much of his power. His sword was deadly. His key, coin, and candle were valuable tools. But the cloak was at the heart of Taborlin. It was a disguise when he needed it, helped him hide when he was in trouble. It protected him. From rain. From arrows. From fire.

  He could hide things in it, and it had many pockets full of wonderful things. A knife. A toy for a child. A flower for a lady. Whatever Taborlin needed was somewhere in his cloak of no particular color. These stories are what made me beg my mother for my first cloak when I was young. . . .

  I drew my own cloak around me. My nasty, tatty, faded cloak the tinker had traded me. On one of our trips into Crosson for supplies, I’d picked up some spare cloth and sewn a few clumsy pockets into the inside. But it was still a poor replacement for my rich burgundy cloak, or the lovely black and green one Fela had made for me.

  Marten cleared his throat again and launched back into his story. “So Taborlin struck the trunk with his hand and shouted. 'Edro!’ The lid of the chest popped open, and he grabbed his cloak of no particular color and his staff. He called forth great barbs of lightning and killed twenty guards. Then he called forth a sheet of fire and killed another twenty. Those that were left threw down their swords and cried for mercy.

  “Then Taborlin gathered up the rest of his things from the chest. He took out his key and coin and tucked them safe away. Lastly he brought out his copper sword, Skyaldrin, and belted—”

  “What?” Dedan interrupted, laughing. “You tit. Taborlin’s sword wasn’t copper.”

  “Shut up, Den,” Marten snapped, nettled at the interruption. “It was so copper.”

  “You shut up,” Dedan replied. “Who’s ever heard of a copper sword? Copper wouldn’t hold an edge. It’d be like trying to kill someone with a big penny.”

  Hespe laughed at that. “It was probably a silver sword, don’t you think, Marten?”

  “It was a copper sword,” Marten insisted.

  “Maybe it was early on in his career,” Dedan said in a loud whisper to Hespe. “All he could afford was a copper sword.”

  Marten shot the two of them an angry look. “Copper, damn you. If you don’t like it, you can just guess at the ending.” He folded his arms in front of himself.

  “Fine,” Dedan said. “Kvothe can give us one. He might be a pup, but he knows how to tell a proper story. Copper sword my ass.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’d like to hear the end of Marten’s.”

  “Oh go ahead,” the old tracker said bitterly. “I’m in no mood to finish now. And I’d rather listen to you than hear that donkey he-yaw his way through one of his.”

  Nightly stories had been one of the few times we could sit as a group without falling into petty bickering. Now, even they were becoming tense. What’s more, the others were beginning to count on me for the evening’s entertainment. Hoping to put an end to the trend, I’d put a lot of thought into what story I was going to tell tonight.

  “Once upon a time,” I began. “There was a little boy born in a little town. He was perfect, or so his mother thought. But one thing was different about him. He had a gold screw in his belly button. Just the head of it peeping out.

  “Now his mother was simply glad he had all his fingers and toes to count with. But as the boy grew up he realized not everyone had screws in their belly buttons, let alone gold ones. He asked his mother what it was for, but she didn’t know. Next he asked his father, but his father didn’t know. He asked his grandparents, but they didn’t know either.

  “That settled it for a while, but it kept nagging him. Finally, when he was old enough, he packed a bag and set out, hoping he could find someone who knew the truth of it.

  “He went from place to place, asking everyone who claimed to know something about anything. He asked midwives and physickers, but they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The boy asked arcanists, tinkers, and old hermits living in the woods, but no one had ever seen anything like it.

  “He went to ask the Cealdim merchants, thinking if anyone would know about gold, it would be them. But the Cealdim merchants didn’t know. He went to the arcanists at the University, thinking if anyone would know about screws and their workings, they would. But the arcanists didn’t know. The boy followed the road over the Stormwal to ask the witch women of the Tahl, but none of them could give him an answer.

  “Eventually he went to the King of Vint, the richest king in the world. But the king didn’t know. He went to the Emperor of Atur, but even with all his power, the emperor didn’t know. He went to each of the small kingdoms, one by one, but no one could tell him anything.

  “Finally the boy went to the High King of Modeg, the wisest of all the kings in the world. The high king looked closely at the head of the golden screw peeping from the boy’s belly button. Then the high king made a gesture, and his seneschal brought out a pillow of golden silk. On that pillow was a golden box. The high king took a golden key from around his neck, opened the box, and inside was a golden screwdriver.

  “The high king took the screwdriver and motioned the boy to come closer. Trembling with excitement, the boy did. Then the high king took the golden screwdriver and put it in the boy’s belly button.”

  I paused to take a long drink of water. I could feel my small audience leaning toward me. “Then the high king carefully turned the golden screw. Once: Nothing. Twice: Nothing. Then he turned it the third time, and the boy’s ass fell off.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “What?” Hespe asked incredulously.

  “His ass fell off,” I repeated with an absolutely straight face.

  There was a long silence. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. The fire snapped, sending a red ember floating upward.

  “And then what happened?” Hespe finally asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “That’s it. The end.”

  “What?” she said again, more loudly. “What kind of story is that?”

  I was about to respond when Tempi burst out laughing. And he kept laughing; great shaking laughs that left him breathless. Soon I began to laugh as well, partly at Tempi’s display, and partly because I’d always considered it an oddly funny story myself.

  Hespe’s expression turned dangerous, as if she were the butt of the joke.

  Dedan was the first to speak. “I don’t understand. Why did . . .?” he trailed off.

  “Did they get the boy’s ass back on?” Hespe interjected.

  I shrugged. “That’s not part of the story.”

  Dedan gestured wildly, his expression frustrated. “What’s the point of it?”

  I put on an innocent face. “I thought we were just telling stories.”

  The big man scowled at me. “Sensible stories! Stories with endings. Not stories that just have a boy’s ass . . .” He shook his head. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to sleep.” He moved off to make his bed. Hespe stalked off in her own direction.

  I smiled, reasonably sure neither one of them would be troubling me for any more stories than I cared to tell.

  Tempi got to his feet as well. Then, as he walked past me he smiled and gave me a sudden hug. A span of days ago this would
have shocked me, but now I knew that physical contact was not particularly odd among the Adem.

  Still, I was surprised he did it in front of the others. I returned his hug as best I could, feeling his chest still shaking with laughter. “His ass off,” he said quietly, then made his way to bed.

  Marten’s eyes followed Tempi, then he gave me a long, speculative look. “Where did you hear that one?” he asked.

  “My father told it to me when I was young,” I said honestly.

  “Odd story to tell a child.”

  “I was an odd child,” I said. “When I was older he confessed he made the stories up to keep me quiet. I used to pepper him with questions. Hour after hour. He said the only thing that would keep me quiet was some sort of puzzle. But I cracked riddles like walnuts, and he ran out of those.”

  I shrugged and started to lay out my bed. “So he made up stories that seemed like puzzles and asked me if I understood what they meant.” I smiled a little wistfully. “I remember thinking about that boy with the screw in his belly button for days and days, trying to find the sense in it.”

  Marten frowned. “That’s a cruel trick to play on a boy.”

  The comment surprised me. “What do you mean?”

  “Tricking you just to get a little peace and quiet. It’s a shabby thing to do.”

  I was taken aback. “It wasn’t done in meanness. I enjoyed it. It gave me something to think about.”

  “But it was pointless. Impossible.”

  “Not pointless.” I protested. “It’s the questions we can’t answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he’ll look for his own answers.”

  I spread my blanket on the ground and folded over the threadbare tinker’s cloak to wrap myself in. “That way, when he finds the answers, they’ll be precious to him. The harder the question, the harder we hunt. The harder we hunt, the more we learn. An impossible question . . .”