The Wise Man's Fear (77 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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Stapes nodded stiffly and gave me another disapproving look.
“He may be bringing me a few things as well. Please don’t mention it to anyone.”
“If there is anything you require . . .”
Alveron gave a tired smile. “I know you would, Stapes. I am simply putting the boy to use. I would rather have you close at hand.” Alveron patted his manservant’s arm, and Stapes looked mollified. I let myself out.
 
My trip to Severen-Low took hours longer than it needed to. Though I chafed at the delay, it was a necessary one. As I walked the streets, I caught glimpses of folk dogging along behind me.
I wasn’t surprised. From what I had seen of the rumor-driven nature of the Maer’s court, I expected to have a servant or two watching my errands in Severen-Low. As I’ve said, the Maer’s court was rather curious about me at this point, and you have no idea what lengths bored nobility will go to in order to nose about in other people’s business.
While the rumors themselves were of no concern to me, their effects could be catastrophic. If Caudicus heard I had gone shopping through apothecaries after visiting the Maer, what steps would he take? Anyone willing to poison the Maer wouldn’t hesitate to snuff me like a candle.
So, to avoid suspicion, the first thing I did when I came to Severen was buy dinner. Good, hot stew and rough bread. I was sick to death of elegant food that was milk-warm by the time it made its way to my rooms.
Afterward I bought two tippling flasks, the sort normally used for brandy. Then I spent a relaxing half-hour watching a small traveling troupe perform the end of
The Ghost and the Goosegirl
on a street corner. They weren’t Edema Ruh, but they did a good job of it. The Maer’s purse was generous to them when they passed the hat.
Eventually I found my way to a well-stocked apothecary. I bought several things in a nervous, haphazard manner. After I had everything I needed and a few things I didn’t, I awkwardly made inquiries with the owner about what a man might take if he was . . . having certain troubles . . . in the bedroom.
The chemist nodded seriously and recommended several things with a perfectly straight face. I bought a little of each, then made a bumbling attempt to threaten and bribe him into silence. By the time I finally left, he was insulted and thoroughly irritated. If anyone asked, he would be quick to tell the story of a rude gentleman interested in impotence cures. It was hardly something I was eager to add to my reputation, but at least there wouldn’t be any stories making their way back to Caudicus about my purchasing laudanum, deadnettle, bitefew, and other equally suspicious drugs.
Lastly, I bought my lute back from the pawner with an entire day to spare. It nearly emptied the Maer’s purse, but it was my final errand. The sun was setting by the time I made my way back to the foot of the Sheer.
There were only a handful of options for making your way between Severen-High and Severen-Low. The most ordinary were the two narrow staircases that cut back and forth up the face of the Sheer. They were old, crumbling, and narrow in places, but they were free, and therefore the usual choice for the common folk who lived in Severen-Low.
For those who didn’t relish the thought of climbing two hundred feet of narrow stairway, there were other options. The freight lifts were run by a pair of former University students. Not full arcanists, but clever men who knew enough sympathy and engineering to manage the rather mundane task of hauling wagons and horses up and down the Sheer on a large wooden platform.
For passengers, the freights cost a penny going up and a halfpenny going down, though you’d occasionally have to wait for some merchant to finish loading or unloading his goods before the lift could make its trip.
Nobility didn’t use the freights. The Vintic suspicion of all things remotely arcane took them to the horse lifts. These were drawn by a team of twenty horses hitched to a complex series of pulleys. This meant the horse lifts were a little faster and cost a full silver eighth-bit to ride. Best of all, every month or so some drunk lordling would fall to his death from them, adding to their popularity by showing the breeding of the clientele.
Since the money in my purse wasn’t my own, I decided to use the horse lifts.
I joined the four gentlemen and one lady who were already in line, waited for the lift to lower itself, then handed over my thin silver bit and stepped aboard.
It was no more than an open-sided box with a brass rail running around the edge. Thick hempen ropes connected to the corners, giving it some stability, but any extreme motion set the thing swaying in a most disturbing fashion. A smartly dressed boy rode up and down with each load of passengers, opening the gate and signaling the horse drivers at the top when to begin their pull.
It is the custom of the nobility to put their backs to Severen as they ride the lifts. Gawking was something common folk did. Not particularly caring what the nobles thought of me, I stood at the front rail. My stomach did peculiar things as we rose from the ground.
I watched Severen spread out below. It was an old city, and proud. The high stone wall circling it spoke of troubled times long past. It said much of the Maer that even in these peaceful times the fortifications were kept in excellent repair. All three of the gates were guarded, and they were closed at sundown every night.
As the lift continued I could see the different sections of Severen as clearly as if I were looking down on a map. There was a rich neighborhood, spaced with gardens and parks, the buildings all of brick and old stone. There was the poor quarter, the streets narrow and twisting, where all the roofs were tar and wooden shingles. At the foot of the cliff a black scar marked where a fire had cut through the city at some point in the past, leaving little more than the charred bones of buildings.
Too soon the ride was over. I let the other gentles disembark as I leaned against the railing, looking out over the city far below.
“Sir?” the boy who rode the lift prompted wearily. “All off.”
I turned, stepped off the lift, and saw Denna standing in the front of the line.
Before I had time to do anything other than stare in wonder, she turned and met my eyes. Her face lit. She cried my name, ran at me, and was nestled in my arms before I knew what was happening. I settled my arms around her and rested my cheek against her ear. We came together easily, as if we were dancers. As if we’d practiced it a thousand times. She was warm and soft.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her heart was racing, and I felt it thrilling against my chest.
I stood mutely as she stepped back from me. Only then did I notice an old bruise fading to yellow high on her cheek. Even so, she was the most beautiful thing I had seen in two months and a thousand miles. “What are
you
doing here?” I asked.
She laughed her silver laugh and reached out to touch my arm. Then her eyes flicked over my shoulder and her face fell. “Hold on!” she cried to the boy who was closing the gate to the lift. “I have to catch this one or I’ll be late,” she said, her face full of pained apology as she stepped past me onto the lift. “Come find me.”
The boy closed the gate behind her and my heart fell as the lift began to drop from sight. “Where should I look?” I stepped closer to the edge of the Sheer, watching her fall away.
She was looking up, her face white against the darkness, her hair a shadow in the night. “The second street north of Main: Tinnery Street.”
Shadow took her, and suddenly I was alone. I stood, the smell of her still in the air around me, the warmth of her just fading from my hands. I could still feel the tremor of her heart, like a caged bird beating against my chest.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
 
Deadnettle
 
A
FTER MY TRIP TO Severen, I deposited my lute case in my room and made my way to Alveron’s private rooms as quickly as possible. Stapes was not pleased to see me, but he showed me in with the same bustling efficiency as always.
Alveron lay in a sweaty stupor, his bedclothes twisted around him. It was only then I noticed how thin he had grown. His arms and legs were stringy and his complexion had faded from pale to grey. He glowered at me as I entered the room.
Stapes arranged the Maer’s covers in a more modest fashion and helped him into a seated position, propping him up with pillows. The Maer endured these ministrations stoically, then said, “Thank you, Stapes,” in a tone of dismissal. The manservant left slowly, giving me a decidedly uncivil stare.
I approached the Maer’s bed and brought several items from the pockets of my cloak. “I found everything I needed, your grace. Though not everything I hoped for. How do you feel?”
He gave me a look that spoke volumes. “It took you a damn long time getting back. Caudicus came while you were away.”
I fought down a wave of anxiety. “What happened?”
“He asked me how I was feeling, and I told him the truth. He looked in my eyes and down my throat and asked me if I had thrown up. I told him yes, and that I wanted more medicine and to be left alone. He left and sent some over.”
I felt a panic rise in me. “Did you drink it?”
“If you’d been gone much longer I would have, and to hell with your faerie stories.” He brought another vial from beneath his pillow. “I can’t see what harm it could do. I can feel myself dying already.” He thrust it toward me angrily.
“I should be able to improve matters, your grace. Remember, tonight will be the most difficult. Tomorrow will be bad. After that, all should be well.”
“If I live so long as that,” he groused.
It was just the petulant grumble of a sick man, but it mirrored my thoughts so precisely that ice ran down my back. Earlier, I hadn’t considered that the Maer might die despite my intervention. But when I looked at him now, frail and grey and trembling, I realized the truth: he might not live through the night.
“First, there’s this, your grace.” I took out the tippling flask.
“Brandy?” he said with muted anticipation. I shook my head and opened it. He wrinkled his nose at the smell and sank back onto the pillows. “God’s teeth. As if my dying wasn’t bad enough. Cod liver oil?”
I nodded seriously. “Take two good swallows, your grace. This is part of your cure.”
He made no move to take it. “I’ve never been able to stomach the stuff, and lately I even vomit up my tea. I won’t put myself through the hell of drinking it only to sick it back up.”
I nodded and restoppered the flask. “I’ll give you something to stop that.” There was a pot of water on the bedside table, and I began to mix him a cup of tea.
He craned weakly to see what I was doing. “What are you putting in that?”
“Something to keep you from being sick, and something to help you pass the poison out of your system. A bit of laudanum to ease your craving. And tea. Does your grace take sugar?”
“Normally, no. But I’m guessing it will taste like stumpwater without it.” I added a spoonful, stirred, and handed him the cup.
“You first,” Alveron said. Pale and grim, he watched me with his sharp grey eyes. He smiled a terrible smile.
I hesitated, but only for a moment. “To your grace’s health.” I said, and took a good swallow. I grimaced and added another spoonful of sugar. “Your grace predicted it quite well. Stumpwater it is.”
He took the cup with both hands and began to drink it in a number of quick, determined sips. “Dreadful,” he said simply. “But better than nothing. Do you know what a hell it is to be thirsty but not be able to drink for fear of throwing up? I wouldn’t wish it on a dog.”
“Wait a bit to finish it,” I cautioned. “That should settle your stomach in a few minutes.”
I went into the other room and added the new vial of medicine to the flit’s feeders. I was relieved to see they were still sipping at the medicated nectar. I had worried they might avoid it due to a change in flavor or some natural instinct for self-preservation.
I also worried that lead might not be poisonous to sipquicks. I worried they might take a span to show any ill effects, not mere days I worried at the Maer’s rising temper. I worried at his illness. I worried at the possibility I might be wrong about everything I’d guessed.

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