The Wise Man's Fear Part 2

"h.e.l.lo Aaron," the innkeeper said calmly. "Close the door, would you? It's dusty out."

As the smith's prentice turned back to the door, the innkeeper and Bast tucked most of the holly below the bar, moving in quick, unspoken concert. By the time the smith's prentice turned back to face them, Bast was toying with something that could easily have been a small, half-finished wreath. Something made to keep idle fingers busy against boredom.

Aaron didn't seem to notice anything different as he hurried up to the bar. "Mr. Kote," he said excitedly, "could I get some traveling food?" He waved an empty burlap sack. "Carter said you'd know what that meant."

The innkeeper nodded. "I've got some bread and cheese, sausage and apples." He gestured to Bast, who grabbed the sack and scampered off into the kitchen. "Carter's going somewhere today?"

"Him and me both," the boy said. "The Orrisons are selling some mutton off in Treya today. They hired me and Carter to come along, on account of the roads being so bad and all."

"Treya," the innkeeper mused. "You won't be back 'til tomorrow then."

The smith's prentice carefully set a slim silver bit on the polished mahogany of the bar. "Carter's hoping to find a replacement for Nelly, too. But if he can't come by a horse he said he'll probably take the king's coin."

Kote's eyebrows went up. "Carter's going to enlist?"

The boy gave a smile that was a strange mix of grin and grim. "He says there ain't much else for him if he can't come by a horse for his cart. He says they take care of you in the army, you get fed and get to travel around and such." The young man's eyes were excited as he spoke, his expression trapped somewhere between a boy's enthusiasm and the serious worry of a man. "And they ain't just giving folks a silver n.o.ble for listing up anymore. These days they hand you over a royal when you sign up. A whole gold gold royal." royal."

The innkeeper's expression grew somber. "Carter's the only one thinking about taking the coin, right?" He looked the boy in the eye.

"Royal's a lot of money," the smith's prentice admitted, flas.h.i.+ng a sly grin. "And times are tight since my da pa.s.sed on and my mum moved over from Rannish."

"And what does your mother think of you taking the king's coin?"

The boy's face fell. "Now don't go takin' her side," he complained. "I thought you'd understand. You're a man, you know how a fellow has to do right by his mum."

"I know your mum would rather have you home safe than swim in a tub of gold, boy."

"I'm tired of folk calling me 'boy,'" the smith's prentice snapped, his face flus.h.i.+ng. "I can do some good in the army. Once we get the rebels to swear fealty to the Penitent King, things will start getting better again. The levy taxes will stop. The Bentleys won't lose their land. The roads will be safe again."

Then his expression went grim, and for a second his face didn't seem very young at all. "And then my mum won't have to sit all anxious when I'm not at home," he said, his voice dark. "She'll stop waking up three times a night, checking the window shutters and the bar on the door."

Aaron met the innkeeper's eye, and his back straightened. When he stopped slouching, he was almost a full head taller than the innkeeper. "Sometimes a man has to stand up for his king and his country."

"And Rose?" the innkeeper asked quietly.

The prentice blushed and looked down in embarra.s.sment. His shoulders slouched again and he deflated, like a sail when the wind goes out of it. "Lord, does everyone know about us?"

The innkeeper nodded with a gentle smile. "No secrets in a town like this."

"Well," Aaron said resolutely, "I'm doing this for her too. For us. With my coin and the pay I've saved, I can buy us a house, or set up my own shop without having to go to some s.h.i.+m moneylender."

Kote opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked thoughtful for the s.p.a.ce of a long, deep breath, then spoke as if choosing his words very carefully. "Aaron, do you know who Kvothe is?"

The smith's prentice rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot. We were telling stories about him just last night, remember?" He looked over the innkeeper's shoulder toward the kitchen. "Look, I've got to get on my way. Carter'll be mad as a wet hen if I don't-"

Kote made a calming gesture. "I'll make you a deal, Aaron. Listen to what I have to say, and I'll let you have your food for free." He pushed the silver bit back across the bar. "Then you can use that to buy something nice for Rose in Treya."

Aaron nodded cautiously. "Fair enough."

"What do you know about Kvothe from the stories you've heard? What's he supposed to be like?"

Aaron laughed. "Aside from dead?"

Kote smiled faintly. "Aside from dead."

"He knew all sorts of secret magics," Aaron said. "He knew six words he could whisper in a horse's ear that would make it run a hundred miles. He could turn iron into gold and catch lightning in a quart jar to save it for later. He knew a song that would open any lock, and he could stave in a strong oak door with just one hand... ."

Aaron trailed off. "It all depends on the story, really. Sometimes he's the good guy, like Prince Gallant. He rescued some girls from a troupe of ogres once...."

Another faint smile. "I know."

"... but in other stories he's a right b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Aaron continued. "He stole secret magics from the University. That's why they threw him out, you know. And they didn't call him Kvothe Kingkiller because he was good with a lute."

The smile was gone, but the innkeeper nodded. "True enough. But what was he like? like?"

Aaron's brow furrowed a bit. "He had red hair, if that's what you mean. All the stories say that. A right devil with a sword. He was terrible clever. Had a real silver tongue, too, could talk his way out of anything."

The innkeeper nodded. "Right. So if you were Kvothe, and terrible clever, as you say. And suddenly your head was worth a thousand royals and a duchy to whoever cut it off, what would you do?"

The smith's prentice shook his head and shrugged, plainly at a loss.

"Well if I I were Kvothe," the innkeeper said, "I'd fake my death, change my name, and find some little town out in the middle of nowhere. Then I'd open an inn and do my best to disappear." He looked at the young man. "That's what I'd do." were Kvothe," the innkeeper said, "I'd fake my death, change my name, and find some little town out in the middle of nowhere. Then I'd open an inn and do my best to disappear." He looked at the young man. "That's what I'd do."

Aaron's eye flickered to the innkeeper's red hair, to the sword that hung over the bar, then back to the innkeeper's eyes.

Kote nodded slowly, then pointed to Chronicler. "That fellow isn't just some ordinary scribe. He's a sort of historian, here to write down the true story of my life. You've missed the beginning, but if you'd like, you can stay for the rest." He smiled an easy smile. "I can tell you stories no one has ever heard before. Stories no one will ever hear again. Stories about Felurian, how I learned to fight from the Adem. The truth about Princess Ariel."

The innkeeper reached across the bar and touched the boy's arm. "Truth is, Aaron, I'm fond of you. I think you're uncommon smart, and I'd hate to see you throw your life away." He took a deep breath and looked the smith's prentice full in the face. His eyes were a startling green. "I know how this war started. I know the truth of it. Once you hear that, you won't be nearly so eager to run off and die fighting in the middle of it."

The innkeeper gestured to one of the empty chairs at the table beside Chronicler and smiled a smile so charming and easy that it belonged on a storybook prince. "What do you say?"

Aaron stared seriously at the innkeeper for a long moment, his eyes darting up to the sword, then back down again. "If you really are ..." His voice trailed off, but his expression turned it into a question.

"I really am," Kote rea.s.sured him gently.

"... then can I see your cloak of no particular color?" the prentice asked with a grin.

The innkeeper's charming smile went stiff and brittle as a sheet of shattered gla.s.s.

"You're getting Kvothe confused with Taborlin the Great," Chronicler said matter-of-factly from across the room. "Taborlin had the cloak of no particular color."

Aaron's expression was puzzled as he turned to look at the scribe. "What did Kvothe have, then?"

"A shadow cloak," Chronicler said. "If I remember correctly."

The boy turned back toward the bar. "Can you show me your shadow cloak then?" he asked. "Or a bit of magic? I've always wanted to see some. Just a little fire or lightning would be enough. I wouldn't want to tire you out."

Before the innkeeper could to respond, Aaron burst into a sudden laugh. "I'm just havin' some fun with you, Mr. Kote." He grinned again, wider than before. "Lord and lady, but I ain't never heard a liar like you before in my whole life. Even my Uncle Alvan couldn't tell one like that with a straight face."

The innkeeper looked down and muttered something incomprehensible.

Aaron reached over the bar and lay a broad hand on Kote's shoulder. "I know you're just trying to help, Mr. Kote," he said warmly. "You're a good man, and I'll think about what you said. I'm not rus.h.i.+ng out to join. I just want to give my options a look-over."

The smith's prentice shook his head ruefully. "I swear. Everyone's taken a run at me this morning. My mum said she was sick with the consumption. Rose told me she was pregnant." He ran one hand through his hair, chuckling. "But yours was the ribbon-winner of the lot, I've gotta say."

"Well, you know ..." Kote managed a sickly smile. "I couldn't have looked your mum square in the eye if I hadn't given it a shot."

"You might have had a chance if you'd picked something easier to swallow," he said. "But everybody knows Kvothe's sword was made of silver." He flicked his eyes up to the sword that hung on the wall. "It wasn't called Folly, either. It was Kaysera, the poet-killer."

The innkeeper rocked back a bit at that. "The poet-killer?"

Aaron nodded doggedly. "Yes sir. And your scribe there is right. He had his cloak made all out of cobwebs and shadows, and he wore rings on all his fingers. How does it go?

On his first hand he wore rings of stone, Iron, amber, wood, and bone.

There were- The smith's prentice frowned. "I can't remember the rest. There was something about fire... ."

The innkeeper's expression was unreadable. He looked down at where his own hands lay spread on the top of the bar, and after a moment he recited: There were rings unseen on his second hand.

One was blood in a flowing band.

One of air all whisper thin, And the ring of ice had a flaw within.

Full faintly shone the ring of flame, And the final ring was without name.

"That's it," Aaron said, smiling. "You don't have any of those behind the bar, do you?" He stood on his toes as if trying to get a better look.

Kote gave a shaky, shamefaced smile. "No. No, I can't say as I do."

They both startled as Bast thumped a burlap sack onto the bar. "That should take care of both Carter and you for two days with plenty to spare," Bast said brusquely.

Aaron shouldered the sack and started to leave, then hesitated and looked back at the two of them behind the bar. "I hate to ask for favors. Old Cob said he'd look in on my mum for me, but ..."

Bast made his way around the bar and began herding Aaron toward the door. "She'll be fine, I expect. I'll stop and see Rose too, if you like." He gave the smith's prentice a wide, lascivious smile. "Just to make sure she's not lonely or anything."

"I'd appreciate it," Aaron said, relief plain in his voice. "She was in a bit of a state when I left. She could do with some comforting."

Bast stopped midway through opening the inn's door and gave the broad-shouldered boy a look of utter disbelief. Then he shook his head and finished opening the door. "Right, off you go. Have fun in the big city. Don't drink the water."

Bast closed the door and pressed his forehead against the wood as if suddenly weary. "She could use some comforting?" "She could use some comforting?" he repeated incredulously. "I take back everything I ever said about that boy being clever." He turned around to face the bar while leveling an accusatory finger at the closed door. "That," he said firmly to the room in general, "is what comes of working with iron every day." he repeated incredulously. "I take back everything I ever said about that boy being clever." He turned around to face the bar while leveling an accusatory finger at the closed door. "That," he said firmly to the room in general, "is what comes of working with iron every day."

The innkeeper gave a humorless chuckle as he leaned against the bar. "So much for my legendary silver tongue."

Bast gave a derogatory snort. "The boy is an idiot, Res.h.i.+."

"Am I supposed to feel better because I wasn't able to persuade an idiot, Bast?"

Chronicler cleared his throat softly. "It seems more of a testament to the performance you've given here," he said. "You've played the innkeeper so well they can't think of you any other way." He gestured around at the empty taproom. "Frankly, I'm surprised you'd be willing to risk your life here just to keep the boy out of the army."

"Not much of a risk," the innkeeper said. "It's not much of a life." He hauled himself upright and walked around to the front of the bar, making his way to the table where Chronicler sat. "I'm responsible for everyone who dies in this stupid war. I was just hoping to save one. Apparently even that is beyond me."

He sank into the chair opposite Chronicler. "Where did we leave off yesterday ? No sense repeating myself if I can help it."

"You'd just called the wind and given Ambrose a piece of what he had coming to him," Bast said from where he stood at the door. "And you were mooning over your ladylove something fierce."

Kote looked up. "I do not moon moon, Bast."

Chronicler picked up his flat leather satchel and produced a sheet of paper three-quarters full of small, precise writing. "I can read the last bit back to you, if you'd like."

Kote held out his hand. "I can remember your cipher well enough to read it for myself," he said wearily. "Give it over. Maybe it will prime the pump." He glanced over at Bast. "Come and sit if you're going to listen. I won't have you hovering."

Bast scampered for a seat while Kote drew a deep breath and looked over the last page of yesterday's story. The innkeeper was quiet for a long moment. His mouth made something that might have been the beginning of a frown, then something like a faint shadow of a smile.

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes still on the page. "So much of my young life was spent trying to get to the University," he said. "I wanted to go there even before my troupe was killed. Before I knew the Chandrian were more than a campfire story. Before I began searching for the Amyr."

The innkeeper leaned back in his chair, his weary expression fading, becoming thoughtful instead. "I thought once I was there, things would be easy. I would learn magic and find the answers to all my questions. I thought it would all be storybook simple."

Kvothe gave a slightly embarra.s.sed smile, the expression making his face look surprisingly young. "And it might have been, if I didn't have a talent for making enemies and borrowing trouble. All I wanted was to play my music, attend my cla.s.ses, and find my answers. Everything I wanted was at the University. All I wanted was to stay." He nodded to himself. "That's where we should begin."

The innkeeper handed the sheet of paper back to Chronicler, who absentmindedly smoothed it down with one hand. Chronicler uncapped his ink and dipped his pen. Bast leaned forward eagerly, grinning like an excited child.

Kvothe's bright eyes flickered around the room, taking everything in. He drew a deep breath, and flashed a sudden smile, and for a brief moment looked nothing like an innkeeper at all. His eyes were sharp and bright, green as a blade of gra.s.s. "Ready?"

CHAPTER THREE.

Luck EVERY TERM AT THE University began the same way: the admissions lottery followed by a full span of interviews. They were a necessary evil of sorts.

I don't doubt the process started sensibly. Back when the University was smaller, I could picture them as actual interviews. An opportunity for a student to have a conversation with the masters about what he had learned. A dialogue. A discussion.

But these days the University was host to over a thousand students. There was no time for discussion. Instead, each student was subjected to a hail of questions in a handful of minutes. Brief as the interviews were, a single wrong answer or overlong hesitation could have a dramatic impact on your tuition.

Before interviews, students studied obsessively. Afterward, they drank in celebration or to console themselves. Because of this, for the eleven days of admissions, most students looked anxious and exhausted at best. At worst they wandered the University like shamble-men, hollow-eyed and grey-faced from too little sleep, too much drink, or both.

Personally, I found it odd how seriously everyone else took the whole process. The vast majority of students were n.o.bility or members of wealthy merchant families. For them, a high tuition was an inconvenience, leaving them less pocket money to spend on horses and wh.o.r.es.

The stakes were higher for me. Once the masters set a tuition, it couldn't be changed. So if my tuition was set too high, I'd be barred from the University until I could pay.

The first day of admissions always had a festival air about it. The admissions lottery took up the first half of the day, which meant the unlucky students who drew the earliest slots were forced to go through their interviews mere hours afterward.

By the time I arrived long lines snaked through the courtyard, while the students who had already drawn their tiles milled about, complaining and attempting to buy, sell, or trade their slots.