The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 55
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
Before I could answer, there was a thump from the outer rooms and a guard burst through the inner door before Stapes could come to his feet.
“Your grace,” the man said breathlessly as he jumped to the room’s only window and slammed the shutters. Next he ran to the sitting room and did the same with the window in there. There followed other, similar noises from rooms farther back I had never seen. There was a faint sound of furniture being moved.
Stapes looked puzzled and half rose to his feet, but the Maer shook his head and motioned for him to sit down. “Lieutenant?” he called out, a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“Beg pardon, your grace,” the guard said as he reentered the room, breathing heavily. “Dagon’s orders. I was to secure your rooms straightaway.”
“I take it all is not well,” Alveron said dryly.
“There was no answer from the tower when we knocked. Dagon had us force the door. There was . . . I know not what it was, your grace. Some malignant spirit. Anders is dead, your grace. Caudicus is nowhere in his rooms, but Dagon is after him.”
Alveron’s expression darkened. “Damn!” he thundered, striking the arm of his chair with a fist. His brow furrowed and he let out an explosive sigh. “Very well.” He waved the guard away.
The guard stood stiffly. “Sir. Dagon said I’m not to leave you unguarded.”
Alveron gave him a dangerous look. “Very well, but stand over there.” He pointed to the corner of the room.
The guard appeared perfectly happy to fade into the background. Alveron leaned forward, pressing the tips of his fingers to his forehead. “How in the name of God did he suspect?”
The question seemed rhetorical, but it set the wheels of my mind spinning. “Did your grace pick up his medicine yesterday?”
“Yes, yes. I did everything the same as I had done in days past.”
Except you didn’t send me to get your medicine, I thought to myself. “Do you still have the vial?” I asked.
He did. Stapes brought it to me. I uncorked it and ran a finger along the inside of the glass. “How does your grace’s medicine taste?”
“I’ve told you. Brackish, bitter.” I watched the Maer’s eyes go wide as I brought my finger to my mouth and touched it lightly to the tip of my tongue. “Are you mad?” Alveron said incredulously.
“Sweet,” I said simply. Then I rinsed my mouth with water and spat it as delicately as possible into an empty glass. I took a small folded packet of paper from a pocket in my vest, shook a small amount into my hand and ate it, grimacing.
“What’s that?” Stapes asked.
“Liguellen,” I lied, knowing the real answer, charcoal, would only provoke more questions. I took a mouthful of water and spat it out as well. This time it was black, and Alveron and Stapes stared at it, startled.
I bulled ahead. “Something must have made him suspect you were not taking your medicine, your grace. If it suddenly tasted different, you would have asked him.”
The Maer nodded. “I saw him yesterday evening. He asked after my health.” He beat his fist softly onto the arm of his chair. “All the cursed luck. If he has any wit, he’s been gone half a day. We’ll never catch him.”
I thought about reminding him that if he had believed me from the first, none of this would have happened, then thought better of it. “I’d advise your men to stay out of his tower, your grace. He’s had time to prepare a great deal of mischief in there, traps and the like.”
The Maer nodded and passed his hand in front of his eyes. “Yes. Of course. See to it, Stapes. I believe I’ll take a bit of rest. This business may take a while to sort out.”
I gathered myself to leave. But the Maer gestured me back into my seat. “Kvothe, stay a moment and make me a pot of tea before you go.”
Stapes rang for servants. While clearing the remains of our lunch away, they glanced at me curiously. Not only sitting in the Maer’s presence, I was sharing a meal with him in his private chambers. This news would be rumored through the estate in under ten minutes.
After the servants left, I made the Maer another pot of tea. I was preparing to leave when he spoke over the top of his cup, too softly for the guard to overhear.
“Kvothe, you have proved perfectly trustworthy and I regret any doubts I briefly entertained about you.” He sipped and swallowed before continuing. “Unfortunately, I cannot allow news of a poisoning to spread. Especially with the poisoner escaped.” He gave me a significant look. “It would interfere with the matter we discussed before.”
I nodded. Widespread knowledge that his own arcanist had nearly killed him would hardly help Alveron win the hand of the woman he hoped to marry.
He continued. “Unfortunately this need for silence also precludes my giving you a reward you all too richly deserve. Were the situation different, I would consider the gift of lands mere token thanks. I would grant you title too. This power my family still retains, free from the controlment of the king.”
My head reeled at the implication of what the Maer was saying as he continued. “However, if I were to do such a thing, there would be need of explanation. And an explanation is the one thing I cannot afford.”
Alveron extended his hand, and it took me a moment to realize he intended me to shake it. One does not typically shake hands with the Maer Alveron. I immediately regretted that the only person present to see it was the guard. I hoped he was a gossip.
I took his hand solemnly, and Alveron continued, “I owe you a great debt. If you ever find yourself in need, you shall have at your command all the help a grateful lord can lend.”
I nodded graciously, trying to keep a calm demeanor despite my excitement. This was exactly what I had been hoping for. With the Maer’s resources, I could make a concerted search for the Amyr. He could get me access to monastery archives, private libraries, places where important documents hadn’t been pruned and edited as they had in the University.
But I knew this wasn’t the proper time to ask. Alveron had promised his help. I could simply bide my time and choose what type of help I wanted most.
As I stepped outside the Maer’s rooms, Stapes surprised me with a sudden, wordless embrace. The expression on his face couldn’t have been more grateful if I’d pulled his family from a burning building. “Young sir, I doubt you understand how much I’m in your debt. If there’s anything you ever need, just make me wise of it.”
He gripped my hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically. At the same time I felt him press something into my palm.
Then I was standing in the hallway. I opened my hand and saw a fine silver ring with Stapes’ name etched across the face. Alongside it was a second ring that wasn’t metal at all. It was smooth and white, and also had the manservant’s name carved in rough letters across the surface of it. I had no idea what such a thing might signify.
I made my way back to my rooms, almost dizzy with my sudden fortune.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
A Beautiful Game
The next day my meager belongings were moved to rooms the Maer deemed more suitable for someone firmly in his favor. There were five of them in all, three with windows overlooking the garden.
It was a nice gesture, but I couldn’t help but think that these rooms were even farther from the kitchens. My food would be cold as a stone by the time it made its way to me.
I’d barely been there an hour before a runner arrived bearing Bredon’s silver ring and a card that read: “Your glorious new rooms. When?”
I turned the card over, wrote: “As soon as you like,” and sent the boy on his way.
I placed his silver ring on a tray in my sitting room. The bowl next to it now had two silver rings glittering among the iron.
I opened the door to see Bredon’s dark eyes peering owlishly out at me from the halo of his white beard and hair. He smiled and bowed, his walking stick tucked under one arm. I offered him a seat, then excused myself politely and left him alone in the sitting room for a moment, as was the gracious thing to do.
I was barely through the doorway before I heard his rich laugh coming from the other room, “Ho ho!” he said. “Now there’s a thing!”
When I returned, Bredon was sitting by the tak board holding the two rings I had recently received from Stapes. “This is certainly a turn for the books,” he said. “Apparently I misjudged things yesterday when my runner was turned away from your door by an altogether surly guard.”
I grinned at him. “It’s been an exciting couple of days,” I said.
Bredon tucked his chin and chuckled, looking even more owlish than usual. “I daresay,” he said, holding up the silver ring. “This tells quite a story. But this . . .” He gestured to the white ring with his walking stick. “This is something else entirely. . . .”
I pulled up a seat across from him. “I’ll be frank with you,” I said. “I can only guess what it’s made of, let alone what it signifies.”
Bredon raised an eyebrow. “That’s remarkably forthright of you.”
I shrugged. “I feel somewhat more secure in my position here,” I admitted. “Enough that I can be a little less guarded with the people who have been kind to me.”
He chuckled again as he lay the silver ring on the board. “Secure,” he said. “I daresay you are at that.” He picked up the white ring. “Still, it’s not odd that you wouldn’t know about this.”
“I thought there were just three types of rings,” I said.
“That’s true for the most part,” Bredon said. “But the giving of rings goes back quite a ways. The common folk were doing it long before it became a game for the gentry. And while Stapes may breathe the rarified air with the rest of us, his family is undeniably common.”
Bredon set the white ring back onto the board and folded his hands over it. “Those rings were made of things ordinary folk might find easily at hand. A young lover might give a ring of new green grass to someone he was courting. A ring of leather promises service. And so on.”
“And a ring of horn?”
“A ring of horn shows enmity,” Bredon said. “Powerful and lasting enmity.”
“Ah,” I said, somewhat taken aback. “I see.”
Bredon smiled and held the pale ring up to the light. “But this,” he said, “is not horn. The grain is wrong, and Stapes would never give a horn ring alongside a silver one.” He shook his head. “No. Unless I miss my guess, this is a ring of bone.” He handed it to me.
“Wonderful,” I said glumly, turning it over in my hands. “And that means what? That he’ll stab me in the liver and push me down a dry well?”
Bredon gave me his wide, warm smile. “A ring of bone indicates a profound and lasting debt.”
“I see.” I rubbed it between my fingers. “I have to say I prefer being owed a favor.”
“Not just a favor,” Bredon said. “Traditionally, a ring such as this is carved from the bone of a deceased family member.” He raised an eyebrow. “And while I doubt that is currently the case, it does get the point across.”
I looked up, still slightly dazed by it all. “And that is . . . ?”
“That these things are not given lightly. It’s not a part of games the gentry play, and not the sort of ring you should display.” He gave me a look. “If I were you, I’d tuck it safe away.”
I put it carefully into my pocket. “You’ve been such help,” I said. “I wish I could repay—”
He held up a hand, cutting me off midsentence. Then, moving with solemn care, he pointed one finger downward, made a fist, and rapped a knuckle on the surface of the tak board.
I smiled and brought out the stones.
“I think I’m finally getting my teeth into the game,” I said an hour later after losing by the narrowest of margins.
Bredon pushed his chair away from the table with an expression of distaste. “No,” he said. “Quite the opposite. You have the basics, but you’re missing the whole point.”
I began to sort out the stones. “The point is that I’m finally close to beating you after all this time.”
“No,” Bredon said. “That’s not it at all. Tak is a subtle game. That’s the reason I have such trouble finding people who can play it. Right now you are stomping about like a thug. If anything you’re worse than you were two days ago.”
“Admit it,” I said. “I nearly had you that last time.”
He merely scowled and pointed imperiously to the table.
I set to it with a will, smiling and humming, sure that today I would finally beat him.
But nothing could be further from the truth. Bredon set his stones ruthlessly, not a breath of hesitation between his moves. He tore me apart as easily as you rip a sheet of paper in half.
The game was over so quickly it left me breathless.
“Again,” Bredon said, a note of command in his voice I’d never heard before.
I tried to rally, but the next game was worse. I felt like a puppy fighting a wolf. No. I was a mouse at the mercy of an owl. There was not even the pretence of a fight. All I could do was run.
But I couldn’t run fast enough. This game was over sooner than the last.
“Again,” he demanded.
And we played again. This time, I was not even a living thing. Bredon was calm and dispassionate as a butcher with a boning knife. The game lasted about the length of time it takes to gut and bone a chicken.
At the end of it Bredon frowned and shook his hands briskly to both sides of the board, as if he had just washed them and was trying to flick them dry.
“Fine,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I take your point. You’ve been going easy on me.”
“No,” Bredon said with a grim look. “That is far gone from the point I am trying to make.”
“What then?”
“I am trying to make you understand the game,” he said. “The entire game, not just the fiddling about with stones. The point is not to play as tight as you can. The point is to be bold. To be dangerous. Be elegant.”
He tapped the board with two fingers. “Any man that’s half awake can spot a trap that’s laid for him. But to stride in boldly with a plan to turn it on its ear, that is a marvelous thing.” He smiled without any of the grimness leaving his face. “To set a trap and know someone will come in wary, ready with a trick of their own, then beat them. That is twice marvelous.”
Bredon’s expression softened, and his voice became almost like an entreaty. “Tak reflects the subtle turning of the world. It is a mirror we hold to life. No one wins a dance, boy. The point of dancing is the motion that a body makes. A well-played game of tak reveals the moving of a mind. There is a beauty to these things for those with eyes to see it.”
He gestured at the brief and brutal lay of stones between us. “Look at that. Why would I ever want to win a game such as this?”
I looked down at the board. “The point isn’t to win?” I asked.
“The point,” Bredon said grandly, “is to play a beautiful game.” He lifted his hands and shrugged, his face breaking into a beatific smile. “Why would I want to win anything other than a beautiful game?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Within Easy Reach
Later that evening I sat alone in what I guessed might be my drawing room. Or perhaps my sitting room. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was.
I was surprised to find I liked my new rooms quite a lot. Not for the extra space. Not because they had a better view of the garden. Not because the inlay in the marble floor was more pleasing to the eye. Not even because the room had its own exceptionally well-stocked wine cabinet, though that was quite pleasant.
No. My new rooms were preferable because they had several cushioned, armless chairs that were perfect for playing my lute. It’s uncomfortable to play for any length of time in a chair with armrests. In my previous room, I’d usually ended up sitting on the floor.
I decided to dub the room with the good chairs my lutery. Or perhaps my performatory. I would need a while to come up with something suitably pretentious.
Needless to say, I was pleased by the recent turn of events. By way of celebration, I opened a bottle of fine, dark Feloran wine, relaxed, and brought out my lute.
I started quick and tripping, playing my way through “Tintatatornin” to limber up my fingers. Then I played sweet and easy for a time, slowly growing reacquainted with my lute. By the time I’d played for about half a bottle, I had my feet up and my music was mellow and content as a cat in a sunbeam.
That’s when I heard the noise behind me. I stopped in a jangle of notes and sprang to my feet, expecting Caudicus, or the guards, or some other deadly trouble.
What I found was the Maer, smiling an embarrassed smile, like a child that’s just played a joke. “I trust your new rooms are to your satisfaction?”
I collected myself and made a small bow. “It’s rather much for the likes of me, your grace.”
“It’s rather little, considering my debt to you,” Alveron said. He sat on a nearby couch and made a gracious gesture indicating I should feel free to take a seat myself. “What was that you were playing just now?”
I returned to my chair. “It wasn’t really a proper song, your grace. I was just playing.”
The Maer raised an eyebrow. “It was of your own devising?” I nodded, and he motioned to me. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. Please, continue.”
“What would you like to hear, your grace?”
“I have it on good report that Meluan Lackless is fond of music and sweet words,” he said. “Something along those lines.”
“There are many types of sweet, your grace,” I said. I played the opening to “Violet Bide.” The notes rang out light and sweet and sad. Then I changed to “The Lay of Savien,” my fingers moving quickly through the complex chording, making it sound every bit as hard as it was.
Alveron nodded to himself, his expression growing more satisfied as he listened. “And you can compose as well?”
