The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 47
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
At first this seemed to imply that Alveron disdained the fashions of the court. But after a moment, I saw the truth of it. The ivory of his shirt was creamy and flawless, the sapphire of his waistcoat vibrant. I would have bet my thumbs they hadn’t been worn more than a half-dozen times.
As a display of wealth, it was subtle and staggering. It was one thing to be able to afford fine clothes, but how much would it cost to maintain a wardrobe that never showed the slightest hint of wear? I thought of what Count Threpe had said about Alveron: Rich as the King of Vint.
The Maer himself looked much the same as before. Tall and thin. Greying and immaculately groomed. I took in the tired lines of his face, the slight tremble of his hands, his posture. He looks old, I thought to myself, but he’s not.
The belling tower began to strike the hour. I stepped back from the hedge and strolled around the corner to meet the Maer.
Alveron nodded, his cool eyes looking me over carefully. “Kvothe, I was rather hoping you would come.”
I gave a semi-formal bow. “I was pleased to receive your invitation, your grace.”
Alveron made no gesture for me to seat myself, so I remained standing. I guessed he was testing my manners. “I hope you do not mind our meeting outside. Have you seen the gardens yet?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity, your grace.” I’d been trapped in my damned rooms until he had sent for me.
“You must allow me to show you around.” He took hold of a polished walking stick that rested against the shade tree. “I’ve always found that taking some air is good for whatever troubles a body, though others disagree.” He leaned forward as if he would stand, but a shadow of pain crossed his face and he drew a shallow, painful breath between his teeth. Sick, I realized. Not old, sick.
I was at his side in a twinkling and offered him my arm. “Allow me, your grace.”
The Maer gave a stiff smile. “If I were younger, I’d make light of your offer,” he sighed. “But pride is the luxury of the strong.” He laid a thin hand on my arm and used my support to gain his feet. “I must settle for being gracious instead.”
“Graciousness is the luxury of the wise,” I said easily. “So it can be noted that your wisdom lends you grace.”
Alveron gave a wry chuckle and patted my arm. “That makes it a bit easier to bear, I suppose.”
“Would you like your stick, your grace?” I asked. “Or shall we walk together?”
He made the same dry chuckle. “ ‘Walk together.’ That’s delicately put.” He took the stick in his right hand while his left held my arm in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Lord and lady,” he swore under his breath. “I hate to be seen doddering about. But it’s less galling to lean on a young man’s arm than hobble around on my own. It’s a horrible thing to have your body fail you. You never think about it when you’re young.”
We began to walk, and our conversation lulled as we listened to the sound of water splashing in the fountains and birds singing in the hedges. Occasionally the Maer would point out a particular piece of statuary and tell which of his ancestors had commissioned it, made it, or (he spoke of these in a quieter, apologetic tone) plundered it from foreign lands in times of war.
We walked about the gardens for the better part of an hour. Alveron’s weight on my arm gradually lessened and soon he was using me more for balance than support. We passed several gentlefolk who bowed or nodded to the Maer. After they were out of earshot he would mention who they were, how they ranked in court, and a snippet or two of amusing gossip.
“They’re wondering who you are,” he said after one such couple had passed behind a hedge. “By tonight it will be all the talk. Are you an ambassador from Renere? A young noble looking for a rich fief and a wife to go along? Perhaps you are my long-lost son, a remnant from my wilder youth.” He chuckled to himself and patted my arm. He might have continued, but he stumbled on a protruding flagstone and almost fell. I steadied him quickly, and eased him onto a stone bench beside the path.
“Damn and bother,” he cursed, obviously embarrassed. “How would that have looked, the Maer scrabbling about like a beetle on its back?” He looked around crossly, but we seemed to be alone. “Would you do an old man a favor?”
“I am at your disposal, your grace.”
Alveron gave me a shrewd look. “Are you indeed? Well, it’s a little thing. Keep secretive about who you are and what your business is. It’ll do wonders for your reputation. The less you tell them, the more everyone will be wanting to get from you.”
“I’ll keep close about myself, your grace. But I would have better luck avoiding the subject of why I’m here if I knew what it was. . . .”
Alveron’s expression went sly. “True. But this is too public a place. You’ve shown good patience so far. Exercise it a while longer.” He looked up at me. “Would you be so kind as to walk me to my rooms?”
I held out my arm. “Certainly, your grace.”
After returning to my rooms, I removed my embroidered jacket and hung it in the carved rosewood wardrobe. The huge piece of furniture was lined with cedar and sandalwood, scenting the air. Large, flawless mirrors hung on the insides of the doors.
I walked across the polished marble floor and sat on a red velvet lounging couch. I idly wondered how exactly one was supposed to lounge. I couldn’t remember ever doing it myself. After a moment’s consideration, I decided lounging was probably similar to relaxing, but with more money in your pocket.
Restless, I got to my feet and moved around the room. There were paintings on the walls, portraits and pastoral scenes done skillfully in oil. One wall held a huge tapestry that showed a vast naval battle in intricate detail. That occupied my attention for almost half an hour.
I missed my lute.
It had been terribly hard to pawn it, like cutting off my hand. I’d fully expected to spend the next ten days sick with worry, anxious that I wouldn’t be able to buy it back.
But without meaning to, the Maer himself had set my mind at ease. In my wardrobe hung six suits of clothing, fine enough for any lord. When they had been delivered to my room, I’d felt myself relax. My first thought on seeing them wasn’t that I could now mingle comfortably with court society. I thought that if worse came to worst, I could steal them, sell them to a fripperer, and easily have enough money to reclaim my lute.
Of course if I did such a thing, I would burn all my bridges with the Maer. It would render my entire trip to Severen pointless, and would embarrass Threpe so profoundly that he might never speak to me again. Nevertheless, knowing I had that option gave me a thin thread of control over the situation. It was enough so I could keep from going absolutely mad with worry.
I missed my lute, but if I could gain the Maer’s patronage, my life’s road would grow suddenly smooth and straight. The Maer had money enough for me to continue my education at the University. His connections could help me continue my research into the Amyr.
Perhaps most important was the power of his name. If the Maer were my patron, I would be under his protection. Ambrose’s father might be the most powerful baron in all of Vintas, a dozen steps from royalty. But Alveron was practically a king in his own right. How much simpler would my life become without Ambrose endlessly spiking my wheel? It was a giddy thought.
I missed my lute, but all things have their price. For a chance of having the Maer as a patron, I was willing to grit my teeth and spend a span bored and anxious, without music.
Alveron turned out to be right about the curious nature of his attendant court. After he called me to his study that evening, rumor exploded like a brushfire around me. I could understand why the Maer enjoyed this sort of thing. It was like watching stories being born.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Power
Alveron sent for me again the next day, and soon the two of us were strolling along the garden paths again, his hand resting lightly on my arm. “Let’s head toward the south side.” The Maer pointed with his walking stick. “I hear the selas will reach full bloom soon.”
We took the left turning of the path and he drew a breath. “There are two types of power: inherent and granted,” Alveron said, letting me know the topic of today’s conversation. “Inherent power you possess as a part of yourself. Granted power is lent or given by other people.” He looked sideways at me. I nodded.
Seeing my agreement, the Maer continued. “Inherent power is an obvious thing. Strength of body.” He patted my supporting arm. “Strength of mind. Strength of personality. All these things lie within a person. They define us. They determine our limits.”
“Not entirely, your grace,” I protested gently. “A man can always improve himself.”
“They limit us,” the Maer said firmly. “A man with one hand will never wrestle in the roundings. A man with one leg will never run as quickly as a man with two.”
“An Adem warrior with only one hand might be more deadly than a common warrior with two, your grace.” I pointed out. “Despite his deficiency.”
“True, true,” the Maer said crossly. “We can improve ourselves, exercise our bodies, educate our minds, groom ourselves carefully.” He ran a hand down his immaculate salt-and-pepper beard. “For even appearance is a type of power. But there are always limits. While a one-handed man might become a passable warrior, he could not play a lute.”
I nodded slowly. “You make a good point, your grace. Our power has limits we can extend, but not indefinitely.”
Alveron held up a finger. “But that is only the first type of power. We are only limited if we rely upon the power we ourselves possess. There is still the type of power that is given. Do you understand what I mean by granted power?”
I thought a moment. “Taxes?”
“Hmm,” the Maer said, surprised. “That’s a rather good example, actually. Have you put much thought into this sort of thing before?”
“A bit,” I admitted. “But never in these terms.”
“It is a difficult thing,” he said, sounding pleased by my response. “Which do you think is the greater type of power?”
I only had to think for a second. “The inherent, your grace.”
“Interesting. Why do you say that?”
“Because a power you possess yourself cannot be taken away, your grace.”
“Ah.” He raised a long finger as if to caution me. “But we’ve already agreed that type of power is severely limited. Granted power has no limits.”
“No limits, your grace?”
Alveron nodded his head in concession. “Very few limits, then.”
I still didn’t agree. The Maer must have seen it on my face because he leaned toward me to explain. “Let’s say I have an enemy, young and strong. Let’s say he has stolen something of mine, some money. Are you with me?”
I nodded.
“No manner of training will make me the match of a quarrelsome twenty-year-old. So what do I do? I get one of my young, strong friends to go and box his ears. With that strength I can accomplish a feat which would be otherwise impossible.”
“Your enemy could box your friend’s ears instead,” I pointed out as we rounded a corner. An arching trellis turned the path ahead of us into a shaded tunnel, thick with deep green leaves.
“Let’s say I got three friends together,” the Maer amended. “Suddenly I’ve been granted the strength of three men! My enemy, even if he were very strong, could never be as strong as that. Look to the selas. Terribly difficult to cultivate, they tell me.”
We entered the shadow of the trellis tunnel where hundreds of deep red petals blossomed in the shade of leaf and arch. The smell was sweet and tremulous. I brushed a hand across one of the deep red blooms. It was unspeakably soft. I thought of Denna.
The Maer returned to our discussion. “You’re missing the point, anyway. The lending of strength is just a small example. Some types of power can only be given.”
He made a subtle gesture to a corner of the garden. “Do you see Compte Farlend over there? If you asked him about his title, he would say he possesses it. He would claim it is a part of him as much as his own blood. A part of his blood, in fact. Almost any noble would say the same thing. They would argue their lineage imbued them with the right to rule.”
The Maer looked up at me, his eyes glittering in amusement. “But they’re wrong. It is not inherent power. It is granted. I could take away his lands and leave him a pauper on the street.”
Alveron motioned me closer, and I leaned a bit. “Here is a great secret. Even my title, my riches, my control over people and the land. It is only granted power. It belongs to me no more than does the strength of your arm.” He patted my hand and smiled at me. “But I know the difference, and that is why I am always in control.”
He straightened and spoke in normal tones. “Good afternoon, Compte. Lovely day to be out in the sun, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed, your grace. The selas are quite breathtaking.” The Compte was a heavy man with jowls and a thick mustache. “My compliments.”
After the compte had passed us by, Alveron continued. “You notice he complimented me on the selas? I have never touched a trowel in my life.” He looked sideways at me, his expression slightly smug. “Do you still think inherent power is the better of the two?”
“You make a compelling point, your grace,” I said. “However—”
“You’re a hard one to convince. One last example, then. Can we agree that I will never be able to give birth to a child?”
“I think that is safe to say, your grace.”
“Yet if a woman grants me the right to wed her, I can give birth to a son. Through granted power, a man can make himself as fast as a horse, as strong as an ox. Can inherent power do this for you?”
I couldn’t argue that. “I bow to your argument, your grace.”
“I bow to your wisdom in accepting it.” He chuckled, and at the same time the faint ringing of the hour moved through the garden. “Oh bother,” the Maer said, his expression souring. “I must go take that dreadful nostrum of mine or Caudicus will be completely unmanageable for a span of days.” I gave him a quizzical look and he explained. “He somehow discovered that I poured yesterday’s dose in the chamber pot.”
“Your grace should be mindful of your health.”
Alveron scowled. “You overstep yourself,” he snapped.
I flushed in embarrassment, but before I could apologize he waved me into silence. “You’re right, of course. I know my duty. But you sound just like him. One Caudicus is enough for me.”
He paused to nod toward an approaching couple. The man was tall and handsome, a few years older than myself. The woman was perhaps thirty, with dark eyes and an elegant, wicked mouth. “Good evening, Lady Hesua. I trust your father is continuing to improve?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “The surgeon says he should be up before the span is through.” She caught my eye and held it briefly, her red mouth curving into a knowing smile.
Then she was past us. I found myself sweating a bit.
If the Maer noticed, he ignored it. “Terrible woman. New man every span of days. Her father was wounded in a duel with Esquire Higton over an ‘inappropriate’ remark. A true remark, but that doesn’t count for much once the swords are out.”
“What of the squire?”
“Died the day after. Pity too. He was a good man, just didn’t know enough to mind his tongue.” He sighed and looked up at the belling tower. “As I was saying. One physician is quite enough for me. Caudicus clucks over me like a mother hen. I hate taking medicine when I am already on the mend.”
The Maer did seem better today. He hadn’t really needed the support of my arm during our walk. I sensed he only leaned on me to give us an excuse to be talking so close together. “Your improving health seems proof enough that his ministrations work to heal you,” I said.
“Yes, yes. His potives drive away my illness for a span of days. Sometimes for months.” He sighed bitterly. “But they always come back. Shall I be drinking potions the rest of my life?”
“Perhaps the need for them will pass, your grace.”
“I had hoped the same thing myself. In his recent travels Caudicus gathered some herbs that worked wondrous well. His last treatment left me hale for nearly a year. I thought I was finally free of it.” The Maer scowled down at his walking stick. “Yet here I am.”
“If I could aid you in any way, your grace, I would.”
Alveron turned his head to look me in the eye. After a moment he nodded to himself. “I do believe you would,” he said. “How extraordinary.”
Several conversations of a similar sort followed. I could tell the Maer was trying to get a feel for me. With all the skill learned in forty years of courtly intrigue, he steered the conversation in subtle ways, learning my opinions, determining whether or not I was worthy of his trust.
While I didn’t have the Maer’s experience, I was a fair conversationalist myself. I was always careful with my answers, always courteous. After a few days, a mutual respect began to grow between us. Not a friendship such as I had with Count Threpe. The Maer never encouraged me to disregard his title or sit in his presence, but we were growing closer. While Threpe was a friend, the Maer was like a distant grandfather: kind but older, serious, and reserved.
I got the impression the Maer was a lonely man, forced to remain aloof from his subjects and the members of his court. I almost suspected he might have sent to Threpe for a companion. Someone clever but removed from the politics of court so he could have an honest conversation once in a while.
At first I dismissed such an idea as unlikely, but the days continued to pass and still the Maer avoided any mention of what use he planned to put me to.
If I’d had my lute I could have passed the time pleasantly, but it still lay in Severen-Low, seven days away from belonging to the pawnshop. So there was no music, just my echoing rooms and my damnable useless idleness.
As rumors about me spread, various members of the court came to visit. Some made a pretense of welcoming me. Others made a show of wanting to gossip. I even suspected there were a few attempts at seduction, but at that point in my life I knew so little of women that I was immune to those games. One gentleman even tried to borrow money from me, and I was hard pressed not to laugh in his face.
