The Wise Man's Fear (167 page)
Read The Wise Man's Fear Online
Authors: Patrick Rothfuss
Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic
The innkeeper made the same noise again, louder than before. Only then did it become obvious that he was laughing. Each low, broken chuckle sounded like he was coughing up a piece of shattered glass. Despite that, it was a laugh, full of dark amusement, as if the red-haired man had heard a joke that only he could understand.
It went on for some time. The bearded soldier shrugged and drew back his foot again.
Chronicler cleared his throat and the two men turned to look at him. “In the interest of keeping things civilized,” he said. “I feel I should mention that the innkeeper sent his assistant out on an errand. He should be back soon. . . .”
The bearded soldier slapped his companion on the chest with the back of his hand. “He’s right. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait a moment,” the blonde soldier said. He hurried back to the bar and snatched the bottle of wine. “Right, let’s go.”
The bearded soldier grinned and went behind the bar, stepping on the innkeeper’s body rather than over it. He grabbed a random bottle, knocking over half a dozen others as he did so. They rolled and spun on the counter between the two huge barrels, a tall, sapphire-colored one slowly toppling over the edge to shatter on the floor.
In less than a minute the men had gathered up their packs and were out the door.
Chronicler hurried over to where Kvothe lay on the wooden floor. The red-haired man was already struggling into a sitting position.
“Well that was embarrassing,” Kvothe said. He touched his bloody face and looked at his fingers. He chuckled again, a jagged, joyless sound. “Forgot who I was there for a minute.”
“Are you alright?” Chronicler asked.
Kvothe touched his scalp speculatively. “I’ll need a stitch or two, I suspect.”
“What can I do to help?” Chronicler asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Don’t hover over me.” Kvothe pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, then slumped into one of the tall stools at the bar. “If you want, you can fetch me a glass of water. And maybe a wet cloth.”
Chronicler scurried back into the kitchen. There was the sound of frantic rummaging followed by several things falling to the ground.
Kvothe closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the bar.
“Why is the door open?” Bast called as he stepped through the doorway. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here.” He froze, his expression stricken. “Reshi! What happened? What . . . I . . . What happened?”
“Ah Bast,” Kvothe said. “Close the door, would you?”
Bast hurried over, a numb expression on his face. Kvothe sat in a stool at the bar, his face swollen and bloody. Chronicler stood next to him, dabbing awkwardly at the innkeeper’s scalp with a damp cloth.
“I might need to prevail on you for a few stitches, Bast,” Kvothe said. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Reshi,” Bast repeated. “What happened?”
“Devan and I got into a bit of an argument,” Kvothe said, nodding at the scribe, “about the proper use of the subjunctive mood. It got a little heated toward the end.”
Chronicler looked up at Bast, then blanched and took several quick steps backward. “He’s joking!” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It was soldiers!”
Kvothe chuckled painfully to himself. There was blood on his teeth.
Bast looked around the empty taproom. “What did you do with them?”
“Not much, Bast,” the innkeeper said. “They’re probably miles away by now.”
“Was there something wrong with them, Reshi? Like the one last night?” Bast asked.
“Just soldiers, Bast,” Kvothe said. “Just two of the king’s own.”
Bast’s face went ashen. “What?” he asked. “Reshi, why did you let them do this?”
Kvothe gave Bast an incredulous look. He gave a brief, bitter laugh, then stopped with a wince, sucking air through his teeth. “Well they seemed like such clean and virtuous boys,” he said, his voice mocking. “I thought, why not let these nice fellows rob me then beat me to a pulp?”
Bast expression was full of dismay. “But you—”
Kvothe wiped away the blood that was threatening to run into his eye, then looked at Bast as if he were the stupidest creature drawing breath in the entire world. “What?” he demanded. “What do you want me to say?”
“Two soldiers, Reshi?”
“Yes!” Kvothe shouted. “Not even two! Apparently one thick-fisted thug is all it takes to beat me half to death!” He glared furiously at Bast, throwing up his arms. “What is it going to take to shut you up? Do you want a story? Do you want to hear the details?”
Bast took a step backward at the outburst. His face went even paler, his expression panicked.
Kvothe let his arms fall heavily to his sides. “Quit expecting me to be something I’m not,” he said, still breathing hard. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes, smearing blood across his face. He let his head sag wearily. “God’s mother, why can’t you just leave me alone?”
Bast stood as still as a startled hart, his eyes wide.
Silence flooded the room, thick and bitter as a lungful of smoke.
Kvothe drew a slow breath, the only motion in the room. “I’m sorry Bast,” he said without looking up. “I’m just in a little pain right now. It got the better of me. Give me a moment and I’ll have it sorted out.”
Still looking down, Kvothe closed his eyes and drew several slow, shallow breaths. When he looked up, his expression was chagrined. “I’m sorry Bast,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
A touch of the color returned to Bast’s cheeks, and some of the tension left his shoulders as he gave a nervous smile.
Kvothe took the damp cloth from Chronicler and wiped the blood away from his eye again. “I’m sorry I interrupted you before, Bast. What is it you were about ask me?”
Bast hesitated, then said. “You killed five scrael not three days ago, Reshi.” He waved toward the door. “What’s some thug compared to that?”
“I picked the time and place for the scrael rather carefully, Bast,” Kvothe said. “And I didn’t exactly dance away unscathed, either.”
Chronicler looked up, surprised. “You were hurt?” he asked. “I didn’t know. You didn’t look it. . . .”
A small, wry smile twisted the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Old habits die hard,” he said. “I do have a reputation to maintain. Besides, we heroes are only hurt in properly dramatic ways. It rather ruins the story if you find out Bast had to knit about ten feet of stitches into me after the fight.”
Realization broke over Bast’s face like a sunrise. “Of course!” he said, his voice thick with relief. “I forgot. You’re still hurt from the scrael. I knew it had to be something like that.”
Kvothe looked at the floor, every line of his body sagging and weary. “Bast . . .” he began.
“I knew it, Reshi,” Bast said emphatically. “There’s no way some thug could get the better of you.”
Kvothe drew a shallow breath, then let it out in a rush. “I’m sure that’s it, Bast,” he said easily. “I expect I could have taken them both if I’d been fresh.”
Bast’s expression grew uncertain again. He turned to face Chronicler. “How could you let this happen?” he demanded.
“It’s not his fault, Bast,” Kvothe said absentmindedly. “I started the fight.” He put a few fingers into his mouth and felt around gingerly. His fingers came out of his mouth bright with blood. “I expect I’m going to lose this tooth,” he mused.
“You will not lose your tooth, Reshi,” Bast said fiercely. “You will
not
.”
not
.”
Kvothe made a slight motion with his shoulders, as if trying to shrug without moving any more of his body than he needed to. “It doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, Bast.” He pressed the cloth to his scalp then looked at it. “I probably won’t need those stitches, either.” He pushed himself upright on the stool. “Let’s have our dinner and get back to the story.” He raised an eyebrow at Chronicler. “If you’re still up for it, of course.”
Chronicler stared at him blankly.
“Reshi,” Bast said, worried. “You’re a mess.” He reached out. “Let me look at your eyes.”
“I’m not concussed, Bast,” Kvothe said, irritated. “I’ve got four broken ribs, a ringing in my ears, and a loose tooth. I have a few minor scalp wounds that look more serious than they really are. My nose is bloody but not broken, and tomorrow I will be a vast tapestry of bruises.”
Kvothe gave the faint shrug again. “Still, I’ve had worse. Besides, they reminded me of something I was close to forgetting. I should probably thank them for that.” He prodded at his jaw speculatively and worked his tongue around in his mouth. “Perhaps not a terribly warm thanks.”
“Reshi, you need stitches,” Bast said. “And you need to let me do something about that tooth.”
Kvothe climbed off the stool. “I’ll just chew on the other side for a few days.”
Bast took hold of Kvothe’s arm. His eyes were hard and dark. “Sit down Reshi.” It was nothing like a request. His voice was low and sudden, like a throb of distant thunder. “Sit. Down.”
Kvothe sat.
Chronicler nodded approvingly and turned to Bast. “What can I do to help?”
“Stay out of my way,” Bast said brusquely. “And keep him in this chair until I get back.” He strode upstairs.
There was a moment of silence.
“So,” Chronicler said. “Subjunctive mood.”
“At best,” Kvothe said, “it is a pointless thing. It needlessly complicates the language. It offends me.”
“Oh come now,” Chronicler said, sounding slightly offended. “The subjunctive is the heart of the hypothetical. In the right hands . . .” He broke off as Bast stormed back into the room, scowling and carrying a small wooden box.
“Bring me water,” Bast said imperiously to Chronicler. “Fresh from the rain barrel, not from the pump. Then I need milk from the icebox, some warmed honey, and a broad bowl. Then clean up this mess and stay out of my way.”
Bast washed the cut on Kvothe’s scalp, then threaded one of his own hairs through a bone needle and laced four tight stitches through the innkeeper’s skin more smoothly than a seamstress.
“Open your mouth,” Bast said, then peered inside, frowning while he prodded one of the back teeth with a finger. He nodded to himself.
Bast handed Kvothe the glass of water. “Rinse out your mouth, Reshi. Do it a couple times and spit the water back into the cup.”
Kvothe did. When he finished the water was red as wine.
Chronicler returned with a bottle of milk. Bast sniffed it, then poured a splash into a wide pottery bowl. He added a dollop of honey and swirled it around to mix it. Finally, he dipped his finger into the glass of bloody water, drew it out, and let a single drop fall into the bowl.
Bast swirled it again and handed Kvothe the bowl. “Take a mouthful of this,” he said. “Don’t swallow it. Hold it in your mouth until I tell you.”
His expression curious, Kvothe tipped the bowl and took a mouthful of the milk.
Bast took a mouthful as well. Then he closed his eyes for a long moment, a look of intense concentration on his face. Then he opened his eyes. He brought the bowl close to Kvothe’s mouth and pointed into it.
Kvothe spat out his mouthful of milk. It was a perfect, creamy white.
Bast brought the bowl to his own mouth and spat. It was a frothy pink.
Kvothe’s eyes widened. “Bast,” he said. “You shouldn’t—”
Bast made a sharp gesture with one hand, his eyes still hard. “I did not ask for your opinion, Reshi.”
The innkeeper looked down, uncomfortable. “It’s more than you should do, Bast.”
The dark young man reached out and laid a gentle hand on the side of his master’s face. For a moment he looked tired, weary through to the bone. Bast shook his head slowly, wearing an expression of bemused dismay. “You are an idiot, Reshi.”
Bast drew his hand back, and the weariness was gone. He pointed across the bar where Chronicler stood watching. “Bring the food.” He pointed at Kvothe. “Tell the story.”
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