The Wise Man's Fear Part 120

I looked up, startled. "He's got the rot?"

She shook her head. "No. I told you he's fine. But what if?"

"We'd have to cut the leg off," I said.

Gran nodded seriously. "That's right. And we'd have to do it quick. Today. No dithering about and hoping he'd fight his way through on his own. That wouldn't do a thing but kill him." She took a sip, watching me over the top of her cup, making it a question of sorts.

I nodded. I knew it was true.

"You've got some medicine," she said. "You know that proper doctoring means hard choices." She gave me an unflinching look. "We hain't like other folk. You burn a man with an iron to stop his bleeding. You save the mother and lose the babe. It's hard, and n.o.body ever thanks you for it. But we're the ones that have to choose."

She took another slow drink of tea. "The first few times are the worst. You'll get the shakes and lose some sleep. But that's the price of doing what needs to be done."

"There were women too," I said, the words catching in my throat.

Gran's eyes flashed. "They earned it twice as much," she said, and the sudden, furious anger in her sweet face caught me so completely by surprise that I felt p.r.i.c.kling fear crawl over my body. "A man who would do that to a girl is like a mad dog. He hain't hardly a person, just an animal needs to be put down. But a woman who helps him do it? That's worse. She knows what she's doing. She knows what it means."

Gran put her cup down gently on the table, her expression composed again. "If a leg goes bad, you cut it off." She made a firm gesture with the flat of her hand, then picked up her slice of pudding and began to eat it with her fingers. "And some folk need killing. That's all there is to it."

By the time I got myself under control and made it back outside, the crowd in the street had swelled. The local tavern keeper had rolled a barrel onto his front landing and the air was sweet with the smell of beer.

Krin's father and mother had ridden back into town on the roan. Pete was there too, having run back. He offered up his unbroken head for my inspection and demanded his two pennies for services rendered.

I was warmly thanked by Krin's parents. They seemed to be good people. Most people are if given the chance. I caught hold of the roan's reins, and using him as a sort of portable wall I managed to get a moment of relatively private conversation with Krin.

Her dark eyes were a little red around the edges, but her face was bright and happy. "Make sure you get Lady Ghost," I said, nodding to one of the horses. "She's yours." The mayor's daughter would have a fair dowry no matter what, so I'd loaded Krin's horse with the more valuable goods, as well as most of the false troupers' money.

Her expression grew serious as she met my eyes, and again she reminded me of a young Denna. "You're leaving," she said.

I guess I was. She didn't try to convince me to stay, and instead surprised me with a sudden embrace. After kissing me on the cheek she whispered in my ear, "Thank you."

We stepped away from each other, knowing propriety would only allow so much. "Don't sell yourself short and marry some fool," I said, feeling as if I should say something.

"Don't you either," she said, her dark eyes mocking me gently.

I took Greytail's reins and led her over to where the mayor stood, watching the crowd in a proprietary way. He nodded as I approached.

I drew a deep breath. "Is the constable about?"

He raised an eyebrow at this, then shrugged and pointed off into the crowd. "That's him there. He was three-quarters drunk even before you brought our girls home, though. Don't know how much use he'll be to you now."

"Well," I said hesitantly. "I'm guessing someone is going to need to lock me up until you can get word to the azzie off in Temsford." I nodded to the small stone building in the center of town.

The mayor looked sideways at me, frowning a bit. "You want want to be locked up?" to be locked up?"

"Not particularly," I admitted.

"You can come and go as you please then," he said.

"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, Res.h.i.+."

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 Res.h.i.+, 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 amba.s.sador 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 embarra.s.sed. "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 bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. "I'm a.s.suming wood alcohol would work best?"

Chronicler nodded, and Kvothe disappeared into the bas.e.m.e.nt. 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 ..." Chronicler 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 embarra.s.sed.

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 n.o.body'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 bas.e.m.e.nt.

"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 ap.r.o.n, 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 ap.r.o.n 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 ap.r.o.n 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.

"G.o.d'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 ap.r.o.n 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 embarra.s.sed 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.