The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “The azzie won’t be happy when he hears,” I said. “I’d rather not have anyone else go up against the iron law because of something I’ve done. Aiding in the escape of a murderer can be a hanging offense.”

  The big man gave me a long looking over. His eyes lingered a bit on my sword, the worn leather of my boots. I could almost feel him noticing the lack of any serious wounds despite the fact that I’d just killed half a dozen armed men.

  “So you’d let us just lock you up?” he asked. “Easy as that?”

  I shrugged.

  He frowned again, then shook his head as if he couldn’t make sense of me. “Well aren’t you just as gentle as a lamb?” he said wonderingly. “But no. I won’t lock you up. You haven’t done anything less than proper.”

  “I broke that boy’s arm,” I said.

  “Hmm,” he rumbled darkly. “Forgot about that.” He reached into his pocket and brought out ha’penny. He handed it to me. “Much obliged.”

  I laughed as I put it in my pocket.

  “Here’s my thought,” he said. “I’ll head over and see if I can find the constable. Then I’ll explain to him we’ve got to lock you up. If you’ve slipped off in the middle of this confusion, we wouldn’t hardly be aiding in the escape, would we?”

  “It would be negligence in maintenance of the law,” I said. “He might take a few lashes for it, or lose his post.”

  “Shouldn’t come to that,” the mayor said. “But if it does, he’ll be happy to do it. He’s Ellie’s uncle.” He looked out at the crowd on the street. “Will fifteen minutes be enough for you to slip off in all the confusion?”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” I said. “Could you say I disappeared in a strange and mysterious way when your back was turned?”

  He laughed at this. “Don’t see why not. You need more than fifteen minutes on account of it being mysterious and all?”

  “Ten should be a great plenty,” I said as I unpacked my lute case and travelsack from Greytail and handed the mayor the reins. “You’d be doing me a favor if you took care of him until Bil is up and about,” I said.

  “You leaving your horse?” he asked.

  “He’s just lost his.” I shrugged. “And we Ruh are used to walking. I wouldn’t know what to do with a horse, anyway,” I said half-honestly.

  The big man gripped the reins and gave me a long look, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. “Is there anything we can do for you?” he asked at last.

  “Remember it was bandits who took them,” I said as I turned to leave. “And remember it was one of the Edema Ruh who brought them back.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX

  Interlude—Close to Forgetting

  KVOTHE HELD UP A hand to Chronicler. “Let’s take a moment, shall we?” He looked around the dark inn. “I’ve let myself get a little caught up in the story. I should tend to a few things before it gets any later.”

  The innkeeper came stiffly to his feet and stretched. He lit a candle at the fireplace and moved around the inn, lighting the lamps one by one, driving back the dark by slow degrees.

  “I was focused rather closely myself,” Chronicler said, standing up and stretching. “What time is it?”

  “Late,” Bast said. “I’m hungry.”

  Chronicler looked out the dark window into the street. “I’d have thought you’d have had at least a few folks in for dinner by now.You pulled a good crowd for lunch.”

  Kvothe nodded. “We would’ve seen a few of my regulars if not for Shep’s funeral.”

  “Ah.” Chronicler looked down. “I’d forgotten. Is that something I’ve kept you two from attending?”

  Kvothe lit the last lamp behind the bar and blew out his candle. “Not really,” he said. “Bast and I aren’t from around these parts. And they’re practical folk. They know I have a business to run, such as it is.”

  “And you don’t get along with Abbe Leodin,” Bast said.

  “And I don’t get along with the local priest,” Kvothe admitted. “But you should make an appearance, Bast. It will seem odd if you don’t.”

  Bast’s eyes darted around nervously. “I don’t want to leave, Reshi.”

  Kvothe smiled warmly at him. “You should, Bast. Shep was a good man, go have a drink to send him off. In fact . . .” He bent and rummaged around under the bar for a moment before coming up with a bottle. “Here. A fine old bottle of brand. Better stuff than anyone around here asks for. Go share it around.” He set it on the bar with a solid sound.

  Bast took an involuntary step forward, his face conflicted. “But Reshi, I . . .”

  “Pretty girls dancing, Bast,” Kvothe said, his voice low and soothing. “Someone on the fiddle and all of them just glad to be alive. Kicking up their skirts to the music. Laughing and a little tipsy. Their cheeks all rosy and ready to be kissed. . . .” He gave the heavy brown bottle a nudge, and it slid down the bar toward his student. “You’re my ambassador to the town. I may be stuck minding the shop, but you can be there and make my apologies.”

  Bast closed his hand around the neck of the bottle. “I’ll have one drink,” he said, his voice thick with resolve. “And one dance. And one kiss with Katie Miller. And maybe another with the Widow Creel. But that’s all.” He looked Kvothe in the eye. “I’ll only be gone half an hour. . . .”

  Kvothe gave a warm smile. “I have things to tend to, Bast. I’ll cobble together dinner and we’ll give our friend’s hand a bit of a rest.”

  Bast grinned and picked up the bottle. “Two dances then!” He bolted for the door, and when he opened it the wind gusted around him, swirling his hair wildly. “Save me something to eat!” He shouted over his shoulder.

  The door banged shut.

  Chronicler gave the innkeeper a curious look.

  Kvothe gave a small shrug. “He was getting too tangled up in the story. He can’t feel a thing halfway. A little time away will give him some perspective. Besides, I do have dinner to prepare, even if it’s only for three.”

  The scribe brought a grimy piece of cloth out of his leather satchel and looked at it with some distaste. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a clean rag?” he asked.

  Kvothe nodded and brought out a white linen cloth from beneath the bar. “Is there anything else you need?”

  Chronicler stood and walked over to the bar. “If you had some strong spirits it would be a great help,” he said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “I hate to ask, but when I was robbed . . .”

  Kvothe waved the comment away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I should have asked you yesterday if there was anything you needed.” He moved out from behind the bar toward the basement stairs. “I’m assuming wood alcohol would work best?”

  Chronicler nodded, and Kvothe disappeared into the basement. The scribe picked up the crisply folded square of linen and rubbed it idly between his fingers. Then his eyes wandered up to the sword hanging high on the wall behind the bar. The grey metal of the blade was striking against the dark wood of the mounting board.

  Kvothe came back up the steps carrying a small clear bottle. “Is there anything else you need? I have a good stock of paper and ink here too.”

  “It may come to that by tomorrow,” Chronicler said. “I’ve used up most of my paper. But I can grind more ink tonight.”

  “Don’t put yourself to the trouble,” Kvothe said easily.“I have several bottles of fine Aruean ink.”

  “True Aruean ink?” Chronicler asked, surprised.

  Kvothe gave a broad smile and nodded.

  “That’s terribly kind of you,” Chronicler said, relaxing a bit. “I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to spending an hour grinding tonight.” He gathered up the clear bottle and cloth, then paused. “Would you mind if I asked you a question? Unofficially, as it were?”

  A smirk curled the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Very well then, unofficially.”

  “I can’t help notice that your description of Caesura doesn’t . . .” Chron
icler hesitated. “Well, it doesn’t quite seem to match the actual sword itself.” His eyes flicked to the sword behind the bar. “The hand guard isn’t what you described.”

  Kvothe gave a wide grin. “Well you’re just sharp as anything, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t mean to imply—” Chronicler said quickly, looking embarrassed.

  Kvothe laughed a rich warm laugh. The sound of it tumbled around the room, and for a moment the inn didn’t feel empty at all. “No. You’re absolutely right.” He turned to look at the sword. “This isn’t . . . what did the boy call it this morning?” His eyes went distant for a moment, then he smiled again. “Kaysera. The poet killer.”

  “I was just curious,” Chronicler said apologetically.

  “Am I supposed to be offended that you’re paying attention?” Kvothe laughed again. “What fun is there in telling a story if nobody’s listening?” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Right then. Dinner. What would you like? Hot or cold? Soup or stew? I’m a dab hand at pudding too.”

  They settled on something simple to avoid restoking the stove in the kitchen. Kvothe moved briskly around the inn, gathering what was needed. He hummed to himself as he fetched cold mutton and half a hard, sharp cheese from the basement.

  “These will be a nice surprise for Bast.” Kvothe grinned at Chronicler as he brought out a jar of brined olives from the pantry. “He can’t know we have them or he’d have eaten them already.” He untied his apron, pulling it off over his head. “I think we have a few tomatoes left in the garden too.”

  Kvothe returned after several minutes with his apron wrapped into a bundle. He was spattered with rain and his hair was in wild disarray. He wore a boyish grin, and at that moment he looked very little like the somber, slowmoving innkeeper.

  “It can’t quite decide if it wants to storm,” he said as he set his apron on the bar, carefully removing the tomatoes. “But if it makes up its mind, we’re in for a wagon-tipper tonight.” He began to hum absentmindedly while he cut and arranged everything on a broad wooden platter.

  The door of the Waystone opened and a sudden gust of wind made the lamplight flicker. Two soldiers came in, hunched against the weather, their swords sticking out like tails behind them. Dark spatters of rain spotted the fabric of their blue and white tabards.

  They dropped their heavy packs, and the shorter of the two pressed his shoulder to the door, forcing it closed against the wind.

  “God’s teeth,” said the taller one, straightening his clothes. “It’s a bad night to be caught in the open.” He was bald on top, with a thick black beard that was flat as a spade. He looked at Kvothe, “Ho boy!” he said cheerfully. “We were glad to see your light. Run and fetch the owner, would you? We need to have a word with him.”

  Kvothe picked his apron up off the bar and ducked his head into it. “That would be me,” he said, clearing his throat as he tied the strings around his waist. He ran his hands through his tousled hair, smoothing it down.

  The bearded soldier peered at him, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Any chance of us getting a spot of dinner?”

  The innkeeper gestured to the empty room. “It didn’t seem worth putting the kettle on tonight,” he said. “But we’ve got what you see here.”

  The two soldiers strode to the bar. The blonde one ran his hands through his curly hair, shaking a few drops of rain out of it. “This town looks deader than ditchwater,” he said. “We didn’t see a single light but this.”

  “Long harvest day,” the innkeeper said. “And there’s a wake tonight at one of the nearby farms. The four of us are probably the only folk in town right now.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Can I interest you fine folk in a drink to take off the chill?” He brought out a bottle of wine and sat it on the bar with a solid, satisfying sound.

  “Well that’s a difficulty,” the blonde soldier said with a bit of an embarrassed smile. “I’d dearly love a drink, but my friend and I just took the king’s coin.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a bright gold coin. “This is all the money I have on me. I don’t suppose you have enough to break a whole royal, would you?”

  “I’m stuck with mine too,” the bearded soldier groused. “Most money I’ve ever had, but it don’t spend well in a lump. Most of the towns we’ve been through could barely make change for ha’penny.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “I should be able to help you out with that,” the innkeeper said easily.

  The two soldiers exchanged a look. The blonde one nodded.

  “Right then.” The blonde soldier put the coin back in his pocket. “Here’s the truth. We aren’t really going to be stopping for the night.” He picked up a piece of cheese off the bar and took a bite. “And we aren’t going to be paying for anything either.”

  “Ah,” the innkeeper said. “I see.”

  “And if you’ve got enough money in your purse to change out two gold royals,” the bearded one said eagerly, “then we’ll have that off you as well.”

  The blonde soldier spread his hands in a calming gesture. “Now this don’t need to be any sort of ugly thing. We aren’t bad folk. You pass over your purse and we go on our way. No folk get hurt, and nothing gets wrecked. It’s bound to sting a bit.” He raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper. “But a little sting beats hell out of getting yourself killed. Am I right?”

  The bearded soldier looked over at where Chronicler sat near the hearth. “This hain’t got nothing to do with you, either,” he said grimly, his beard waggling as he spoke. “We don’t want anything of yours. You just stay sat where you’re at and don’t get feisty on us.”

  Chronicler shot a glance to the man behind the bar, but the innkeeper’s eyes were fixed on the two soldiers.

  The blonde one took another bite of cheese while his eyes wandered around the inn. “Young man like you is doing pretty well for himself. You’ll be doing just as well after we’re gone. But if you start trouble, we’ll feed you your teeth, wreck up the place, and you’ll still be out your purse.” He dropped the rest of the cheese on the bar and clapped his hands together briskly. He smiled. “So, are we all going to be civilized folk?”

  “That seems reasonable,” Kvothe said as he walked out from behind the bar. He moved slowly and carefully, the way you would approach a skittish horse. “I’m certainly no barbarian.” Kvothe reached down and removed his purse from his pocket. He held it out in one hand.

  The blonde soldier walked over to him, swaggering just a bit. He took hold of the purse and hefted it appreciatively. He turned to smile at his friend. “You see, I told—”

  In a smooth motion, Kvothe stepped forward and struck the man hard in the jaw. The soldier staggered and fell to one knee. The purse arced through the air and hit the floorboards with a solid metallic thud.

  Before the soldier could do more than shake his head, Kvothe stepped forward and calmly kicked him in the shoulder. Not a sharp kick of the sort that breaks bones, but a hard kick that sent him sprawling backward. The man landed hard on the floor, rolling to a stop in a messy tangle of arms and legs.

  The other soldier stepped past his friend, grinning wide under his beard. He was taller than Kvothe, and his fists were broad knots of scar and knuckle. “Right cully,” he said, dark satisfaction in his voice. “You’re gettin’ a kickin’ now.”

  He snapped out a quick punch, but Kvothe stepped aside and kicked out sharply, hitting the soldier just above the knee. The bearded man grunted in surprise, stumbling slightly. Then Kvothe stepped close, caught the bearded man’s shoulder, gripped his wrist, and twisted his outstretched arm at an awkward angle.

  The big man was forced to bend over, grimacing in pain. Then he jerked his arm roughly out of the innkeeper’s grip. Kvothe had half a moment to look startled before the soldier’s elbow caught him in the temple.

  The innkeeper staggered backward, trying to gain a little distance and a moment to clear his head. But the soldier followed close after him, fists raised, waiting for an opening
.

  Before Kvothe could regain his balance, the soldier stepped close and drove a fist hard into his gut. The innkeeper let out a pained huff of air, and as he started to double over the soldier swung his other fist into the side of the innkeeper’s face, snapping Kvothe’s head to the side and sending him reeling.

  Kvothe managed to keep his feet by grabbing a nearby table for support. Blinking, he threw a wild punch to keep the bearded man at a distance. But the solider merely brushed it aside and caught hold of the innkeeper’s wrist in one huge hand, easy as a father might grab hold of a wayward child in the street.

  Blood running down the side of his face, Kvothe struggled to free his wrist. Dazed, he made a quick motion with both hands, then repeated it, trying to pull away. His eyes half-focused and dull with confusion, he looked down at his wrist and made the motion again, but his hands merely scrabbled uselessly at the soldier’s scarred fist.

  The bearded soldier eyed the stupefied innkeeper with amused curiosity, then reached out and slapped him hard on the side of the head. “You’re almost a bit of a scrapper, boy,” he said. “You actually stuck one on me.”

  Behind them, the blonde soldier was slowly getting to his feet. “Little bastard sucker-punched me.”

  The big soldier yanked the innkeeper’s wrist so he stumbled forward. “Say you’re sorry, cully.”

  The innkeeper blinked blearily, opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then staggered. Or rather, he seemed to stagger. Halfway through the stumbling motion became deliberate, and the innkeeper stomped down hard with the heel of his foot, aiming at the soldier’s boot. At the same time he snapped his forehead down at the bearded man’s nose.

  But the big man merely laughed, moving his head to the side as he jerked the innkeeper off balance again by his wrist. “None of that,” he chided, backhanding Kvothe across the face.

  The innkeeper let out a yelp and lifted a hand to his bleeding nose. The soldier grinned and casually drove a knee hard into the innkeeper’s groin.

  Kvothe doubled over, first gasping soundlessly, then making a series of choked retching noises.