Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (144 page)

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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Vashet took my hand and brought us both to lie on the soft moss. “There,” she said. “As I suspected. Now you are taller than me. Does this set you at your ease?”

It did.

I was prepared for things to be awkward after Vashet and I returned from the bushes, and was surprised to find they were nothing of the sort. She did not suddenly grow flirtatious, which I wouldn’t have known how to cope with. Neither did she feel obliged to treat me with any newfound tenderness. This became clear somewhere around the fifth time she managed to lure me off my guard, catch me with Thunder Upward, and throw me roughly to the ground.

In all, she acted as if nothing odd at all had happened. Which meant either nothing odd had happened or something very odd had happened and she was pointedly ignoring it.

Which meant that everything was lovely, or everything was going terribly wrong.

Later, as I ate supper alone, I rolled what I knew of the Adem around in my head. No nudity taboo. They didn’t consider physical contact particularly intimate. Vashet had been very casual both before, during, and after our encounter.

I thought back to the naked couple I had stumbled onto several days ago. They had been startled, but not embarrassed.

Sex was viewed differently here, obviously. But I didn’t know any of the specific differences. That meant I didn’t have the first idea of how to conduct myself properly. And
that
meant what I was doing was dangerous as walking around blind. More like running blind, really.

Normally if I had a question about the Adem culture, I asked Vashet. She was my touchstone. But I could imagine too many ways for that conversation to go astray, and her goodwill was all that stood between me and the loss of my fingers.

By the time I finished eating, I’d decided it would be best to simply follow Vashet’s lead. She was my teacher, after all.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

Barbarian Cunning

T
HE DAYS PASSED QUICKLY, as days tend to do when there is much to fill them. Vashet continued to teach me, and I turned the whole of my attention toward being a clever and attentive student.

Our amorous encounters continued, punctuating my training. I never initiated them directly, but Vashet could tell when I was unproductively distracted and was quick to pull me down into the bushes. “In order to clear your foolish barbarian head,” as she said.

Before and afterward I still found these encounters troubling. During, however, I was far from anxious. Vashet seemed to enjoy herself as well.

That said, she didn’t seem the least interested in much of what I had learned from Felurian. She had no interest in playing ivy, and while she did enjoy thousand hands, she had little patience for it, and it usually ended up being more like seventy-five hands. Generally speaking, as soon as we had caught our breath, Vashet was tying on her mercenary reds and reminding me that if I kept forgetting to turn my heel out, I would never be able to hit any harder than a boy of six.

Not all my time was spent training with Vashet. When she was busy, she set me to practice the Ketan, consider the Lethani, or watch the other students spar.

There were a few afternoons or evenings when Vashet simply sent me on my way. So I explored the surrounding town and discovered Haert was much larger than I’d originally assumed. The difference was that all its houses and shops weren’t huddled together in a knot. They were scattered over several square miles of rocky hillside.

I found the baths early on. By which I mean, I was pointedly directed there by Vashet with instructions to wash off my barbarian stink.

They were a marvel. A sprawling stone building built on the top of what I guessed was either a natural hot spring or some marvelously engineered plumbing. There were large rooms full of water and small rooms full of steam. Rooms with deep pools for soaking, and rooms with great brass tubs for scrubbing. There was even one room with a pool big enough for swimming.

All through the building, the Adem mingled without any regard for age, gender, or state of undress. This didn’t surprise me nearly as much as it would have a month ago, but it still took a great deal of getting used to.

At first I found it hard not to stare at the breasts of the naked women. Then, when some of that novelty faded, I found it hard not to stare at the scars that crossed the bodies of mercenaries. It was easy to tell who had taken the red even when their clothes were off.

Rather than fight my urge to gawk, I found it easier to go early in the morning or late at night when the baths were largely empty. Coming and going at odd hours wasn’t difficult, as there was no lock on the door. It was open at all hours for anyone to use. Soap and candles and towels were available for the taking. The baths, Vashet told me, were maintained by the school.

I found the smithy by following the noise of ringing iron. The man working there was pleasantly talkative. He was glad to show me his tools and tell me the names for them in Ademic.

Once I knew to look, I saw there were signs above the doors of the stores. Pieces of wood carved or painted to show what was sold inside: bread, herbs, barrel staves.... None of the signs had words, which was fortunate for me, as I had no idea how to read Ademic.

I visited an apothecary where I was told I was not welcome, and a tailor where I was greeted warmly. I spent some of the three royals I’d stolen to buy two new sets of clothes, as those I had with me were showing their miles. I bought shirts and pants in muted colors after the local fashion, hoping they might help me fit in just a little better.

I also spent many hours watching the sword tree. At first I did this under Vashet’s direction, but before long I found myself drawn back when I had time of my own to spend. Its motions were hypnotic, comforting. At times it seemed the branches wrote against the sky, spelling the name of the wind.

True to her word, Vashet found me a sparring partner.

“Her name is Celean,” Vashet told me over breakfast. “Your first meeting will be at the sword tree at midday. You should take this morning to prepare yourself however you think is best.”

At last. A chance to prove myself. A chance to match wits with someone at my own level of skill. A real contest.

I was at the sword tree early, of course, and when I first saw them approaching, I had a moment of confused panic when I thought the small figure at Vashet’s side was Penthe, the woman who had beaten Shehyn.

Then I realized it couldn’t be Penthe. The figure approaching with Vashet was short, but the wind revealed a straight, lean body with none of Penthe’s curves. What’s more, the figure wore a shirt of bright cornsilk yellow, not mercenary red.

I fought down a stab of disappointment, even though I knew it was foolish. Vashet had said she had found a fair fight for me. Obviously it couldn’t be someone who had already taken the red.

They came closer still, and my excitement guttered and died.

It was a little girl. Not even a young girl of fourteen or so. It was a
little
girl, no more than ten by my best guess. She was skinny as a twig and so short her head barely made it up to my breastbone. Her grey eyes were huge in her tiny face.

I was humiliated. The only thing that kept me from crying out in protest was the fact that I knew Vashet would find it unspeakably rude.

“Celean, this is Kvothe,” Vashet said in Ademic.

This young girl looked me up and down appraisingly, then took an unconscious half-step closer. A compliment. She considered me enough of a threat that she wanted to be close enough to strike at me if necessary. It was closer than an adult would have stood, because she was shorter.

Polite greeting
, I gestured.

Celean returned my gesture. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed the angle of her hands implied
polite nonsubordinate greeting
.

If Vashet saw it, she made no comment. “It is my desire that the two of you fight.”

Celean looked me over again, her narrow face set in the typical Adem impassivity. The wind blew at her hair, and I could see a half-healed cut running from above her eyebrow up into her hairline.

“Why?” the girl asked calmly. She didn’t seem afraid. It sounded more as if she couldn’t think of the least reason she would want to fight me.

“Because there are things you can learn from each other,” Vashet said. “And because I say you will.”

Vashet gestured to me:
Attend
. “Celean’s Ketan is quite exceptional. She has years of experience, and is easily the match of any two girls her size.”

Vashet tapped Celean on the shoulder twice.
Caution
. “Kvothe, on the other hand, is new to the Ketan and has much to learn. But he is stronger than you, and taller, with a better reach. He also possesses a barbarian’s cunning.”

I looked at Vashet, unsure if she were poking fun at me or not.

“Also,” Vashet continued to Celean, “you will very likely have your mother’s height when you are grown, so you should practice fighting those larger than yourself.”
Attend
. “Lastly, he is new to our language, and for this you will not mock him.”

The girl nodded. I noticed Vashet hadn’t specified I couldn’t be mocked for other reasons.

Vashet straightened and spoke formally. “Nothing with the intention to injure.” She held up fingers, marking the rules she had taught me when we started hand fighting. “You may strike hard, but not viciously. Be careful of the head and neck, and nothing at all toward the eyes. You are each responsible for the other’s safety. If one of you gains a solid submission against the other, do not attempt to break it. Signal fairly and count it the end of the bout.”

“I know this,” Celean said.
Irritation
.

“It bears repeating,” Vashet said.
Stern rebuke
. “Losing a fight is forgivable. Losing your temper is not. This is why I have brought you here instead of some little boy. Did I choose wrongly?”

Celean looked down.
Apologetic regret. Embarrassed acceptance.

Vashet addressed us both. “Injuring another through carelessness is not of the Lethani.”

I couldn’t see how my beating up a ten-year-old girl was of the Lethani either, but I knew better than to say so.

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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