The Wise Man's Fear Part 19

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Unspoken Fear AFTER SEEING AMBROSE AND Denna in Imre, I fell into a dark mood. On the walk back to the University my head spun with thoughts of them. Was Ambrose doing this purely out of spite? How had it happened? What was Denna thinking?

After a largely sleepless night, I tried not to think of it. Instead I burrowed deep into the Archives. Books are a poor subst.i.tute for female companionship, but they are easier to find. I consoled myself by hunting through the dark corners of the Archives for the Chandrian. I read until my eyes burned and my head felt thick and cramped.

Nearly a span pa.s.sed, and I did little but attend cla.s.ses and pillage the Archives. For my pains I gained lungs full of dust, a persistent headache from hours of reading by sympathy light, and a knot between my shoulder blades from hunching over a low table while I paged through the faded remains of the Gilean ledgers.

I also found a single mention of the Chandrian. It was in a handwritten octavo t.i.tled A Quainte Compendium of Folke Belief A Quainte Compendium of Folke Belief. At my best guess, the book was two hundred years old.

The book was a collection of stories and superst.i.tions gathered by an amateur historian in Vintas. Unlike The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus, it made no attempt to prove or disprove these beliefs. The author had simply collected and organized the stories with occasional brief commentaries about how beliefs seemed to change from region to region.

It was an impressive volume, obviously comprising years of research. There were four chapters about demons. Three chapters for faeries: one of which was entirely devoted to tales of Felurian. There were pages on the shamble-men, rendlings, and the trow. The author recorded songs about the grey ladies and white riders. A lengthy section on barrow draugar. There were six chapters on folk magic: eight ways to cure warts, twelve ways to talk to the dead, twenty-two love charms ...

The entire entry on the Chandrian was less than half a page: Of the Chaendrian there is little to be said. Every Man knows of them. Every child chants their song. Yet folke tell no stories.For the price of a small beer a Farmer will talk two hours on Dannerlings. But mention the Chaendrian and his mouth goes tight as a Spinner's a.s.se and he is touching iron and pushing back his chair.Many think it bad luck to speak of the Fae, yet still folke do. What makes the Chaendrian different I knowe notte. One rather drunk Tanner in the towne of Hillesborrow said in hushed tones, "If you talk of them, they come for you." This seems the unspoken fear of these common folke.So I write what I have gleaned, all common and inspecific. The Chaendrian are a groupe of various number. (Likely seven, given their name.) They appear and commit diverse violence for no clear reason.There are signs which herald their Arrival, but there is no agreement as to these. Blue flame is the most common, but I have also heard of wine going sour, blindness, crops withering, unseasonable storms, miscarriage, and the sun going dark in the sky.Altogether, I have found them a Frustrating and Profitless area of Inquirey.

I closed the book. Frustrating and profitless had a familiar ring to it.

The worst part wasn't that I already knew everything written in the entry. The worst part was that this was the best source of information I'd managed to discover in over a hundred long hours of searching.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Interlude-Parts KVOTHE HELD UP HIS hand, and Chronicler lifted his pen from the paper.

"Let's pause there for a moment," Kvothe said, nodding toward the window. "I can see Cob coming down the road."

Kvothe stood and brushed off the front of his ap.r.o.n. "Might I suggest the two of you take a moment to compose yourselves?" He nodded to Chronicler. "You look like you've just been doing something you shouldn't."

Kvothe walked calmly to stand behind the bar. "Nothing could be further from the truth, of course. Chronicler, you are bored, waiting for work. That is why your writing gear is out. You wish you weren't stuck without a horse in this nowhere town. But you are, and you're going to make the best of it."

Bast grinned. "Ooh! Give me something, too!"

"Play to your strengths, Bast." Kvothe said. "You're drinking with our only customer because you're a shiftless layabout n.o.body would ever dream of asking for help in the fields."

Bast grinned eagerly. "Am I bored too?"

"Of course you are, Bast. What else is there to be?" He folded the linen cloth and lay it on the bar. "I, on the other hand, am too busy to be bored. I am bustling about, tending to the hundred small tasks that keep the inn running smoothly."

He looked at the two of them. "Chronicler, slouch back in your chair. Bast, if you can't stop grinning, at least start telling our friend the story about the three priests and the miller's daughter."

Bast's grin widened. "That's a good one."

"Everyone have their parts?" Kvothe picked up the cloth from the bar and walked through the doorway into the kitchen, saying, "Enter Old Cob. Stage left."

There was the thump of feet on the wooden landing, then Old Cob stomped irritably into the Waystone Inn. He glanced past the table where Bast was grinning and making gestures to accompany some story, then made his way to the bar. "h.e.l.lo? You in there, Kote?"

After a second the innkeeper came bustling in from the kitchen, drying his wet hands on his ap.r.o.n. "h.e.l.lo there, Cob. What can I do for you?"

"Graham sent the little Owens boy to fetch me," Cob said, irritated. "You have any idea why I'm here instead of haulin' oats?"

Kote shook his head. "I thought he was bringing in the Murrions' wheat today."

"d.a.m.n foolishness," Cob muttered. "We're in for rain tonight, and I'm standing here with dry oats stacked in my field."

"Since you're here anyway," the innkeeper said hopefully. "Can I interest you in some cider? Pressed it fresh this morning."

Some of the irritation faded from the old man's weathered face. "Since I'm waiting anyway," he said. "Mug of cider would be proper nice."

Kote went into the back room and returned with a pottery jug. There was the sound of more feet on the landing outside and Graham came through the door with Jake, Carter, and the smith's prentice all in tow.

Cob turned to glare at them. "What's so d.a.m.ned important it's worth hauling me into town this time of morning?" he demanded. "Daylight's burning, a-"

There was a sudden burst of laugher from the table where Chronicler and Bast sat. Everyone turned to see Chronicler flushing a bright red, laughing and covering his mouth with one hand. Bast was laughing too, pounding at the table.

Graham led the others to the bar. "I found out Carter and the boy are helping the Orrisons take their sheep to market," he said. "Off to Baedn, wasn't it?"

Carter and the smith's prentice nodded.

"I see." Old Cob looked down at his hands. "You'll be missing his funeral then."

Carter nodded solemnly, but Aaron's expression went stricken. He looked from face to face, but everyone else was standing very still, watching the old farmer by the bar.

"Good," Cob said at last, looking up at Graham. "It's good you fetched us in." He saw the boy's face and snorted. "You look like you just killed your cat, boy. Mutton goes to market. Shep knew that. He wouldn't think one jot less of you for doing what needs doing."

He reached up to pat the smith's prentice on the back. "We'll all have a drink together to send 'im off proper. That's the important thing. What happens in the church tonight is just a bunch of priestly speechifying. We know how to say good-bye better than that." He looked behind the bar. "Bring us out some of his favorite, Kote."

The innkeeper was already moving, gathering wooden mugs and filling them with a dark brown beer from a smaller keg behind the bar.

Old Cob held up his mug and the others followed suit. "To our Shep."

Graham spoke first. "When we were kids, I broke my leg when we were out hunting," he said. "I told him to run off for help, but he wouldn't leave me. He rigged a little sled together out of pure nothing and cussedness. Dragged me the whole way back to town."

Everyone drank.

"He introduced me to my missus," Jake said."I don't know if I ever thanked him proper for that."

Everyone drank.

"When I was sick with the croup, he came out to visit me every day," Carter said. "Not many folk did. Brought me soup his wife made, too."

Everyone drank.

"He was nice to me when I first came here," the smith's prentice said. "He would tell me jokes. And once I ruined a wagon couple he'd brought in for me to fix, and he never told Master Caleb." He swallowed hard and looked around nervously. "I really liked him."

Everyone drank.

"He was braver than all of us," Cob said. "He was the first to stick a knife to that fella last night. If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had been any way normal, that would have been an end to it."

Cob's voice shook a bit, and for a moment he looked small and tired and every bit as old as he was. "But that weren't the case. These en't good days to be a brave man. But he was brave all the same. I wish I'd been brave and dead instead, and him home right now, kissing his young wife."

There was a murmur from the others, and they all drank to the bottom of their mugs. Graham coughed a bit before he set his down on the bar.

"I didn't know what to say," the smith's prentice said softly.

Graham patted him on the back, smiling. "You did fine, boy."

The innkeeper cleared his throat, and everyone's eyes turned to him. "I hope you won't think me too forward," he said. "I didn't know him as well as you. Not enough for the first toast, but maybe enough for the second." He fidgeted with his ap.r.o.n strings, as if embarra.s.sed for speaking up at all. "I know it's early, but I'd dearly like to share a tumble of whiskey with you on Shep's account."

There was a murmur of a.s.sent and the innkeeper pulled gla.s.ses from beneath the bar and began to fill them. Not with bottle whiskey either-the red-haired man tapped it from one of the ma.s.sive barrels resting on the counter behind the bar. Barrel whiskey was a penny a swallow, so they raised their gla.s.ses with more earnest warmth than might have otherwise been the case.

"What's this toast going to be then?" Graham asked.

"To the end of a p.i.s.ser of a year?" Jake said.

"That's no kind of toast," Old Cob grumbled at him.

"To the king?" Aaron said.

"No," the innkeeper said, his voice surprisingly firm. He held up his gla.s.s. "To old friends who deserved better than they got."

The men on the other side of the bar nodded solemnly and tossed back their drinks.

"Lord and lady, that's a lovely tumble," Old Cob said respectfully, his eyes watering slightly. "You're a gentleman, Kote. And I'm glad to know you."

The smith's prentice set his gla.s.s down only to have it tip onto its side and roll across the bar. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up before it skittered over the edge and turned it over, eyeing its rounded bottom suspiciously.

Jake laughed a loud farmer's laugh at his bewilderment while Carter made a point of setting his gla.s.s on the bar topside-down. "I don't know how they do it in Rannish," Carter said to the boy. "But round here there's a reason we call it a tumble."

The smith's prentice looked properly abashed and turned his tumble upside down to match the others on the bar. The innkeeper gave him a rea.s.suring smile before gathering up the gla.s.ses and disappearing into the kitchen.

"Right then," Old Cob said briskly, rubbing his hands together. "We'll have a whole evening of this after the two of you get back from Baedn. But the weather won't wait on me, and I don't doubt the Orrisons are eager to be on the road."

After they filtered out of the Waystone in a loose group, Kvothe emerged from the kitchen and returned to the table where Bast and Chronicler sat.

"I liked Shep," Bast said quietly. "Cob might be a bit of a crusty old cuss, but he knows what he's talking about most of the time."

"Cob doesn't know half of what he thinks he does," Kvothe said. "You saved everyone last night. If not for you, it would have gone through the room like a farmer threshing wheat."

"That just isn't true, Reshi," Bast said, his tone plainly offended. "You would have stopped it. That's what you do."

The innkeeper shrugged the comment away, unwilling to argue. Bast's mouth formed into a hard, angry line, his eyes narrowing.

"Still," Chronicler said softly, breaking the tension before it grew too thick. "Cob was right. It was a brave thing to do. You have to respect that."

"No I don't," Kvothe said. "Cob was right about that. These aren't good times to be brave." He motioned for Chronicler to pick up his pen. "Still, I wish I'd been braver and Shep was home kissing his young wife, too."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

Wine and Blood EVENTUALLY WIL AND SIM pulled me from the warm embrace of the Archives. I struggled and cursed them, but they were firm in their convictions, and the three of us braved the chill wind on the road to Imre.

We made our way to the Eolian, claiming a table near the eastern hearth where we could watch the stage and keep our backs warm. After a drink or two I felt the book-longing fade to a dull ache. The three of us talked and played cards, and eventually I began to enjoy myself despite the fact that Denna was doubtless out there somewhere, hanging on Ambrose's arm.

After several hours I sat slouched in my chair, drowsy and warm from the nearby fire while Wil and Sim bickered about whether the high king of Modeg was a true ruling monarch or merely a figurehead. I was nearly asleep when a heavy bottle knocked down hard onto our table followed by the delicate chime of winegla.s.ses.

Denna stood next to our table. "Play along," she said under her breath. "You've been waiting for me. I'm late and you're upset."

Blearily, I struggled upright in my seat and tried to blink myself awake.

Sim leaped to the challenge. "It's been an hour," he said, scowling fiercely. He tapped the table firmly with two fingers. "Don't think buying me a drink is going to fix matters. I want an apology."

"It's not entirely my fault," Denna said, radiating embarra.s.sment. She turned and gestured to the bar.

I looked, worried I would see Ambrose standing there, watching me smugly in his G.o.dd.a.m.n hat. But it was only a balding Cealdish man. He made a short, odd bow toward us, halfway between acknowledgment and apology.

Sim scowled at him, then turned back to Denna and made a grudging gesture to the empty chair across from me. "Fine. So are we going to play corners or what?"

Denna sank down into the chair, sitting with her back to the room. Then leaned over to kiss Simmon on the forehead. "Perfect," she said.

"I was scowling too,"Wilem said.

Denna slid him the bottle. "And for that, you may pour." She set the gla.s.ses in front of each of us. "A gift from my overly persistent suitor." She gave an irritated sigh. "They always need to give you something." She eyed me speculatively. "You're curiously mute."

I rubbed a hand over my face. "I didn't expect to see you tonight," I said. "You caught me nearly napping."

Wilem poured a pale pink wine then pa.s.sed around the gla.s.ses while Denna examined the etching on the top of the bottle. "Cerbeor," she mused. "I don't even know if this is a decent vintage."

"It's not, actually," Simmon said matter-of-factly as he took his gla.s.s. "Cerbeor is Aturan. Only wines from Vintas have a vintage, technically." He took a sip.

"Really?" I asked, looking at my own gla.s.s.

Sim nodded. "It's a common misuse of the word."