Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic

The Wise Man's Fear (183 page)

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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I lifted up my naked left hand, fingers spread. “Who’s to say I’m not already wearing it?”

Elodin rocked with laughter, then stopped when my expression didn’t change. His brow furrowed a bit as he gave me a speculative look, eyes flickering first to my hand, then back to my face. “Are you joking?” he asked.

“That’s a good question,” I said, looking him calmly in the eye. “Am I?”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY

Folly

S
PRING TERM ROLLED ON. Contrary to what I’d expected, Denna didn’t make any public performances in Imre. Instead, she headed north to Anilin after a handful of days.

But this time she made a special trip to Anker’s to tell me she was leaving. I found myself strangely flattered by this and couldn’t help but feel it was a sign that things were not entirely sour between us.

The Chancellor fell ill just as the term was coming to a close. Though I didn’t know him very well, I liked Herma. Not only did I find him to be a surprisingly easygoing teacher when he had been teaching me Yllish, but he had been kind to me when I was new to the University. Nevertheless, I wasn’t particularly worried. Arwyl and the staff of the Medica could do everything just short of bringing people back from the dead.

But days passed and no news came from the Medica. Rumor said he was too weak to leave his bed, plagued with spikes of fever that threatened to burn away his powerful arcanist’s mind.

When it became apparent he wouldn’t be able to resume his duties as Chancellor anytime soon, the masters gathered to decide who would fill his place. Perhaps permanently, should his condition worsen.

And, to make a painful story short, Hemme was appointed Chancellor. After the shock wore off, it was easy to see why. Kilvin, Arwyl, and Lorren were too busy to take up the extra duties. The same could be said for Mandrag and Dal to a lesser extent. That left Elodin, Brandeur, and Hemme.

Elodin didn’t want it, and was generally regarded as too erratic to serve. And Brandeur always faced whatever direction Hemme’s own wind was blowing.

So Hemme gained the Chancellor’s chair. While I found it irritating, it had little impact on my day-to-day life. The only precaution I took was to step with extra care around even the least of the University’s laws, knowing if I were put on the horns now, Hemme’s vote would count doubly against me.

As admissions approached, Master Herma remained weak and fevered. So it was with a knot of sour dread in my stomach that I prepared for my first admissions interview with Hemme as Chancellor.

I went through the questioning with the same careful artifice I’d maintained for the last two terms. I hesitated and made a few mistakes, earning a tuition of twenty talents or so. Enough to earn some money, but not enough to embarrass myself too badly.

Hemme, as always, asked double-sided or misleading questions designed to trip me, but that was nothing new. The only real difference seemed to be that Hemme smiled a great deal. It wasn’t a pleasant smile either.

The masters had their usual muted conference. Then Hemme read my tuition: fifty talents. Apparently the Chancellor had greater control over these things than I had ever known.

I forced myself to bite my lip to keep from laughing, and arranged my face in a dejected expression as I made my way to the basement of Hollows where the bursar kept his counting room. Riem’s eyes brightened at the sight of my tuition slip. He disappeared into his back room and returned in a moment with an envelope of thick paper.

I thanked him and returned to my room at Anker’s, maintaining my morose expression all the way. Once I had the door closed, I tore open the heavy envelope and poured its contents into my hand: two gleaming gold marks worth ten talents each.

I laughed then. Laughed until my eyes watered and my sides ached. Then I drew on my best suit of clothes and gathered my friends: Wilem and Simmon, Fela and Mola. I sent a runner boy to Imre with an invitation to Devi and Threpe. Then I hired a four-horse carriage and had the lot of us driven across the river to Imre.

We stopped by the Eolian. Denna wasn’t there, but I collected Deoch instead and we made our way to the King’s Arms, an establishment of the sort no self-respecting student could ever afford. The doorman looked the motley lot of us over scornfully, as if he would object, but Threpe frowned his best gentleman’s frown and ushered all of us safely inside.

Then commenced a night of pleasant decadence the likes of which I have hardly seen equaled since. We ate and drank, and I paid for everything happily. The only water on the table was in the hand bowls. In our cups there was only old Vintish wines, dark scutten, cool metheglin, sweet brand, and every toast we drank was to Hemme’s folly.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-ONE

Locks

K
VOTHE DREW A DEEP breath and nodded to himself. “Let’s stop there,” he said. “Money in my pocket for the first time in my life. Surrounded by friends. That’s a good place to end for the night.” He idly rubbed his hands together, right hand massaging the left absentmindedly. “If we go much farther, things get dark again.”

Chronicler picked up the short stack of finished pages and tapped them on the table, squaring their corners before resting the half-finished page on top. He opened his leather satchel, removed the bright green crown of holly, and slid the pages inside.Then he screwed shut his inkwell and began to dismantle and clean all the pieces of his pen.

Kvothe stood and stretched. Then he gathered up the empty plates and cups, carrying them into the kitchen.

Bast merely sat, his expression blank. He didn’t move. He hardly seemed to be breathing. After several minutes Chronicler began to dart glances in his direction.

Kvothe came back into the room and frowned. “Bast,” he said.

Bast slowly turned his eyes to look at the man behind the bar.

“Shep’s wake is still going on,” Kvothe said. “There’s not much cleaning up to do tonight. Why don’t you head over for the end of it? They’ll be glad to have you. . . .”

Bast considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, Reshi,” he said, his voice flat. “I’m not really in the mood.” He pushed himself out of his chair and made his way across the room toward the stairs without looking either of them in the eye. “I’ll just turn in.”

The hard sounds of his footsteps retreated slowly into the distance, followed by the sound of a closing door.

Chronicler watched him go, then turned to look at the red-haired man behind the bar.

Kvothe was looking at the stairway too, his eyes concerned. “He’s just had a rough day,” he said, sounding as if he were speaking to himself as much as his guest. “He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Wiping off his hands, Kvothe walked around the bar and headed to the front door. “Do you need anything before you turn in?” he asked.

Chronicler shook his head and began fitting his pen back together.

Kvothe locked the front door with a large brass key, then turned to Chronicler. “I’ll leave this in the lock for you,” he said. “In case you wake up early and feel like having a walk or somesuch. I don’t tend to sleep very much these days.” He touched the side of his face where a bruise was beginning to mottle his jaw. “But tonight I might make an exception.”

Chronicler nodded and shouldered his satchel. Then he delicately picked up his holly crown and headed up the stairs.

Alone in the common room, Kvothe swept the floor methodically, catching all the corners. He finished the dishes, washed the tables and the bar, and rolled down all the lamps but one, leaving the room dimly lit and full of flickering shadow.

For a moment he looked at the bottles behind the bar, then turned and made his own slow climb upstairs.

Bast stepped slowly into his room, closing the door behind himself.

He moved quietly through the dark to stand before the hearth. Nothing but ash and cinder remained from the morning’s fire. Bast opened the woodbin, but there was nothing inside except a thick layer of chaff and chips at the bottom.

The dim light from the window glinted in his dark eyes and showed the outline of his face as he stood motionless, as if trying to decide what to do. After a moment he let the lid of the bin fall closed, wrapped himself in a blanket, and folded himself onto a small couch in front of the empty fireplace.

He sat there for a long while, eyes open in the dark.

There was a faint scuffle outside his window. Then nothing. Then a faint scraping. Bast turned and saw a dark shape outside, moving in the night.

Bast went motionless, then slid smoothly from the couch to stand in front of the fireplace. Eyes still on the window, his hands hunted carefully across the top of the mantel.

There was another scrape at the window, louder this time. Bast’s eyes darted away from the window to the mantel, and he caught up something with both hands. Metal gleamed faintly in the dim moonlight as he crouched, his body tense as a coiled spring.

For a long moment there was nothing. No sound. No movement outside the window or in the darkened room.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
It was a faint noise, but perfectly clear in the stillness of the room. There was a pause, then the noise came again, sharp and insistent against the window glass:
tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap
.

Bast sighed. Relaxing out of his tense crouch, he walked over to the window, threw the drop bar, and opened it.

“My window doesn’t have a lock,” Chronicler said petulantly. “Why does yours?”

“Obvious reasons,” Bast said.

“Can I come in?”

Bast shrugged and moved back toward the fireplace while Chronicler climbed awkwardly through the window. Bast struck a match and lit a lamp on a nearby table, then carefully set a pair of long knives on the mantel. One was slender and sharp as a blade of grass, the other keen and graceful as a thorn.

Chronicler looked around as light swelled to fill the room. It was large, with rich wood paneling and thick carpets. Two lounging couches faced each other in front of the fireplace, and one corner of the room was dominated by a huge canopy bed with deep green curtains.

There were shelves filled with pictures, trinkets, and oddments. Locks of hair wrapped in ribbon. Whistles carved from wood. Dried flowers. Rings of horn and leather and woven grass. A hand-dipped candle with leaves pressed into the wax.

And, in what was obviously a recent addition, holly boughs decorated parts of the room. One long garland ran along the headboard of the bed, and another was strung along the mantle, weaving in and out through the handles of a pair of bright, leaf-bladed hatchets hanging there.

Bast sat back in front of the cold fireplace and wrapped a rag blanket around his shoulders like a shawl. It was a chaos of ill-matching fabric and faded color except for a bright red heart sewn squarely in the center.

“We need to talk,” Chronicler said softly.

Bast shrugged, his eyes fixed dully on the fireplace.

Chronicler took a step closer. “I need to ask you ...”

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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