The Wise Man's Fear (55 page)

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Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear
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Not knowing what else to do, Sceop began to speak. He told how he had come to Faeriniel. How he had walked from one fire to the next, hoping for charity. At first his voice faltered and his story stumbled, for he had been alone a long time and was not used to talking. But soon his voice became stronger, his words bolder, and as the fire flickered and reflected in his bright blue eyes, his hands danced along with his old dried voice. Even the Edema Ruh, who know all the stories in the world, could do nothing but listen in wonder.
When his story came to an end the troupers stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. For a moment they did nothing but look at each other, then they looked at Sceop.
Terris knew what they were thinking. “Sceop,” he asked gently. “Where were you headed, when I stopped you tonight?”
“I was going to Tinuë,” said Sceop, who was a little embarrassed at how caught up in the story he had become. His face was hot and red, and he felt foolish.
“We are bound for Belenay ourselves,” Terris said. “Would you consider coming with us instead?”
For a moment Sceop’s face lit with hope, but then it fell. “I would be nothing but a burden. Even a beggar has his pride.”
Terris laughed. “You would tell the Edema about pride? We do not ask you out of pity. We ask because you belong in our family, and we would have you tell us a dozen dozen stories in the years to come.”
The beggar shook his head. “My blood is not yours. I am not a part of your family.”
“What does that have to do with the price of butter?” Terris asked. “We Ruh decide who is a part of our family and who is not. You belong with us. Look around and see if I am lying.”
Sceop looked up at the circle of faces and saw what Terris said was true.
And so the old man stayed, and lived with them for many years before they parted ways. Many things he saw, and many stories he told, and everyone was wiser in the end because of it.
This thing happened, though it was years and miles away. I have heard it from the mouths of the Edema Ruh, and thus I know it to be true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
 
Kernels of Truth
 
“I
S THAT THE END?” Simmon asked after a polite pause. He was on his back, looking up at the stars.
“Yes.”
“It didn’t end the way I thought it would,” he said.
“What did you expect?”
“I was waiting to find out who the beggar really was. I thought as soon as someone was nice to him, he would turn out to be Taborlin the Great. Then he would give them his walking stick and a sack of money and . . .I don’t know. Make something magical happen.”
Wilem spoke up. “He’d say, ‘Whenever you are in danger knock this stick on the ground and say “stick be quick,” ’ and then the stick would whirl around and defend them from whoever was attacking them.” Wilem was lying on his back in the tall grass, too. “I didn’t think he was really an old beggar.”
“Old beggars in stories are never
really
old beggars,” Simmon said with hint of accusation in his voice. “They’re always a witch or a prince or an angel or something.”
“In real life old beggars are almost always old beggars,” I pointed out. “But I know what kind of story you two are thinking about. Those are stories we tell other people to entertain them. This story is different. It’s one we tell each other.”
“Why tell a story if it’s not entertaining?”
“To help us remember. To teach us—” I made a vague gesture. “Things.”
“Like exaggerated stereotypes?” Simmon asked.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, nettled.
“ ‘Tie him to the wagon and make him pull’?” Simmon made a disgusted noise. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know you.”
“If I didn’t know
you
,” I said hotly,“
I’d
be offended. Do you know Aturans used to kill people if they found them living on the road? One of your emperors declared them to be detrimental to the empire. Most were little more than beggars who had lost their homes because of the wars and taxes. Most were simply press-ganged into military service.”
I tugged at the front of my shirt. “But the Edema were especially prized. They hunted us like foxes. For a hundred years Ruh-hunt was a favorite pastime among the Aturan upper crust.”
A profound silence fell. My throat hurt, and I realized I’d been shouting.
Simmon’s voice was muffled. “I didn’t know that.”
I kicked myself mentally and sighed. “I’m sorry Simmon. It’s a . . . It was a long time ago. And it’s not your fault. It’s an old story.”
“It would have to be, to have a reference to the Amyr,” Wilem said, obviously trying to change the subject. “They disbanded what? Three hundred years ago?”
“Still,” I said. “There’s some truth in most stereotypes. A seed they sprouted from.”
“Basil is from Vintas,” Wil said. “And he is odd about certain things. Sleeps with a penny underneath his pillow, that sort of thing.”
“On my way to the University I traveled with a pair of Adem mercenaries,” Simmon said. “They didn’t talk to anyone except each other. And they
were
restless and fidgety.”
Wilem spoke hesitantly. “I will admit to knowing many Cealdim who take great care to line their boots with silver.”
“Purses,” Simmon corrected him. “Boots are for putting your feet in.” He wiggled a foot to illustrate.
“I know what a boot is,” Wilem said crossly. “I speak this vulgar language better than you do. Boot is what we say,
Patu
. Money in your purse is for spending. Money you plan to keep is in your boot.”
“Oh,” Simmon said thoughtfully. “I see. Like saving it for a rainy day, I guess.”
“What do you do with money when it rains?” Wilem asked, genuinely puzzled.
“And there’s more to the story than you think,” I interjected quickly before things digressed any further. “The story holds a kernel of truth. If you promise to keep it to yourselves, I will tell you a secret.”
I felt their attention sharpen onto me. “If you ever accept the hospitality of a traveling troupe, and they offer you wine before anything else, they are Edema Ruh. That part of the story is true.” I held up a finger to caution them. “But don’t take the wine.”
“But I like wine,” Simmon said piteously.
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “Your host offers you wine, but you insist on water. It might even turn into a competition of sorts, the host offering more and more grandly, the guest refusing more and more politely. When you do this, they will know you are a friend of the Edema, that you know our ways. They will treat you like family for the night, as opposed to being a mere guest.”
The conversation lulled as they absorbed this piece of information. I looked up at the stars, tracing the familiar constellations in my head. Ewan the hunter, the crucible, the young-again mother, the fire-tongued fox, the broken tower. . . .
“Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” Simmon’s question came out of the blue.
“Across the river,” I said. “Bed.”
“No no,” he protested, “I mean if you could go anywhere in the world.”
“Same answer,” I said. “I’ve been a lot of places. This is where I’ve always wanted to go.”
“But not forever,” Wilem said. “You don’t want to be here forever, do you?”
“That’s what I meant,” Simmon added. “We all want to be here. But none of us want to be here forever.”
“Except Manet,” Wil said.
“Where would you go?” Simmon pursued his point doggedly. “For adventure?”
I thought for a moment, quietly. “I guess I’d to go to the Tahlenwald,” I said.
“Among the Tahl?” Wilem asked. “They’re a primitive nomadic people, from what I’ve heard.”
“Technically speaking, the Edema Ruh are a nomadic people,” I said dryly. “I heard a story once that said the leaders of their tribes aren’t great warriors, they’re singers. Their songs can heal the sick and make the trees dance.” I shrugged. “I’d go there and find out if it was true.”
“I would go to the Faen Court,” Wilem said.
Simmon laughed. “You can’t pick that.”
“Why not?” Wilem said with a quick anger. “If Kvothe can go to a singing tree, I can go into Faen and dance with
Embrula . . .
with Faen women.”
“The Tahl is real,” Simmon protested. “Faerie stories are for drunks, halfwits, and children.”
“Where would you go?” I asked Simmon to keep him from antagonizing Wilem.
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice oddly empty of any inflection. “I haven’t been anywhere, really. I only came to the University because after my brothers inherit and my sister gets her dowry there isn’t going to be much for me except the family name.”
“You didn’t want to come here?” I asked, disbelief coloring my voice.
Sim made a noncommittal shrug, and I was about to ask him something else when I was interrupted by the sound of Wilem getting noisily to his feet. “Are we feeling up to the bridge now?”
My head felt remarkably clear. I got to my feet with only a slight wobble. “Fine by me.”
“Just a second.” Simmon started to undo his pants as he moved toward the trees.
As soon as he was out of sight, Wilem leaned close to me. “Don’t ask about his family,” he said quietly. “It is not easy for him to speak about. Worse when he is drunk.”
“What—”
He made a sharp motion with his hand, shaking his head. “Later.”
Simmon bumbled back into the clearing, and the three of us made our silent way back to the road, then over Stonebridge and into the University.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
 
Contradictions
 
L
ATE NEXT MORNING, WIL and I made our way to the Archives to meet up with Sim and settle our bets of the night before.
“The problem is his father,” Wilem explained in low tones as we made our way between the grey buildings. “Sim’s father holds a duchy in Atur. Good land, but—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Our little Sim’s father is a duke?”
“Little Sim,” Wilem said dryly, “is three years older than you and two inches taller.”
“Which duchy?” I asked. “And he’s not that much taller.”
“Dalonir,” Wilem said. “But you know how it is. Noble blood from Atur. Small wonder he does not speak of it.”
“Oh come on,” I chided, gesturing to the students filling the street around us. “The University has the most open-minded atmosphere since the church burned Caluptena to the ground.”
“I notice you do not make any loud announcement that you’re Edema Ruh.”
I bristled. “Are you implying I’m embarrassed?”
“I am saying you make no loud announcement,” Wil said calmly, giving me a steady look. “Neither does Simmon. I imagine you both have your reasons.”
Pushing down my irritation, I nodded.
Wilem continued. “Dalonir is in the north of Aturna, so they are reasonably well off. But he has three older brothers and two sisters. The first son inherits. The father bought the second a military commission. The third was placed in the church. Simmon . . .” Wilem trailed off suggestively.
“I have a hard time imagining Sim as a priest,” I admitted. “Or a soldier, come to think of it.”
“And so Sim ends up at the University,” Wilem finished. “His father was hoping he would become a diplomat. Then Sim discovered he liked alchemy and poetry and entered the Arcanum. His father was not entirely pleased.” Wilem gave me a significant look and I gathered he was drastically understating the case.
“Being an arcanist is a remarkable thing!” I protested. “Much more impressive than being a perfumed toady in some court.”
Wilem shrugged. “His tuition is paid. His allowance continues.” He paused to wave at someone on the other side of the courtyard. “But Simmon does not go home. Not for even a brief visit. Sim’s father likes to hunt, fight, drink, and wench. I suspect our gentle, bookish Sim was probably not given the love a clever son deserves.”

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