Dedan looked thoughtful for a moment. “I always pictured it as kind of shimmery,” he said. “Like the cobblestones outside a tallow-works after a hard rain.”
“I always thought of it as a dirty grey,” she said. “Sort of washed out from his being on the road all the time.”
“That makes good sense,” Dedan said, and I watched Hespe’s face go gentle again.
“White,” Tempi volunteered. “I think white. No color.”
“I always thought of it as kind of a pale sky-blue,” Marten admitted, shrugging. “I know that doesn’t make any sense. That’s just how I picture it.”
Everyone turned to look at me.
“Sometimes I think of it like a quilt,” I said. “Made entirely out of patchwork, a bunch of different colored rags and scraps. But most of the time I think of it as dark. Like it really is a color, but it’s too dark for anyone to see.”
When I was younger, stories of Taborlin had left me wide-eyed with wonder. Now that I knew the truth about magic, I enjoyed them on a different level, somewhere between nostalgia and amusement.
But I held a special place in my heart for Taborlin’s cloak of no particular color. His staff held much of his power. His sword was deadly. His key, coin, and candle were valuable tools. But the cloak was at the heart of Taborlin. It was a disguise when he needed it, helped him hide when he was in trouble. It protected him. From rain. From arrows. From fire.
He could hide things in it, and it had many pockets full of wonderful things. A knife. A toy for a child. A flower for a lady. Whatever Taborlin needed was somewhere in his cloak of no particular color. These stories are what made me beg my mother for my first cloak when I was young. . . .
I drew my own cloak around me. My nasty, tatty, faded cloak the tinker had traded me. On one of our trips into Crosson for supplies, I’d picked up some spare cloth and sewn a few clumsy pockets into the inside. But it was still a poor replacement for my rich burgundy cloak, or the lovely black and green one Fela had made for me.
Marten cleared his throat again and launched back into his story. “So Taborlin struck the trunk with his hand and shouted.
'Edro!’
The lid of the chest popped open, and he grabbed his cloak of no particular color and his staff. He called forth great barbs of lightning and killed twenty guards. Then he called forth a sheet of fire and killed another twenty. Those that were left threw down their swords and cried for mercy.
“Then Taborlin gathered up the rest of his things from the chest. He took out his key and coin and tucked them safe away. Lastly he brought out his copper sword, Skyaldrin, and belted—”
“What?” Dedan interrupted, laughing. “You tit. Taborlin’s sword wasn’t copper.”
“Shut up, Den,” Marten snapped, nettled at the interruption. “It was so copper.”
“You shut up,” Dedan replied. “Who’s ever heard of a copper sword? Copper wouldn’t hold an edge. It’d be like trying to kill someone with a big penny.”
Hespe laughed at that. “It was probably a silver sword, don’t you think, Marten?”
“It was a copper sword,” Marten insisted.
“Maybe it was early on in his career,” Dedan said in a loud whisper to Hespe. “All he could afford was a copper sword.”
Marten shot the two of them an angry look. “Copper, damn you. If you don’t like it, you can just guess at the ending.” He folded his arms in front of himself.
“Fine,” Dedan said. “Kvothe can give us one. He might be a pup, but he knows how to tell a proper story. Copper sword my ass.”
“Actually,” I said, “I’d like to hear the end of Marten’s.”
“Oh go ahead,” the old tracker said bitterly. “I’m in no mood to finish now. And I’d rather listen to you than hear that donkey
he-yaw
his way through one of his.”
Nightly stories had been one of the few times we could sit as a group without falling into petty bickering. Now, even they were becoming tense. What’s more, the others were beginning to count on me for the evening’s entertainment. Hoping to put an end to the trend, I’d put a lot of thought into what story I was going to tell tonight.
“Once upon a time,” I began. “There was a little boy born in a little town. He was perfect, or so his mother thought. But one thing was different about him. He had a gold screw in his belly button. Just the head of it peeping out.
“Now his mother was simply glad he had all his fingers and toes to count with. But as the boy grew up he realized not everyone had screws in their belly buttons, let alone gold ones. He asked his mother what it was for, but she didn’t know. Next he asked his father, but his father didn’t know. He asked his grandparents, but they didn’t know either.
“That settled it for a while, but it kept nagging him. Finally, when he was old enough, he packed a bag and set out, hoping he could find someone who knew the truth of it.
“He went from place to place, asking everyone who claimed to know something about anything. He asked midwives and physickers, but they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The boy asked arcanists, tinkers, and old hermits living in the woods, but no one had ever seen anything like it.
“He went to ask the Cealdim merchants, thinking if anyone would know about gold, it would be them. But the Cealdim merchants didn’t know. He went to the arcanists at the University, thinking if anyone would know about screws and their workings, they would. But the arcanists didn’t know. The boy followed the road over the Stormwal to ask the witch women of the Tahl, but none of them could give him an answer.
“Eventually he went to the King of Vint, the richest king in the world. But the king didn’t know. He went to the Emperor of Atur, but even with all his power, the emperor didn’t know. He went to each of the small kingdoms, one by one, but no one could tell him anything.
“Finally the boy went to the High King of Modeg, the wisest of all the kings in the world. The high king looked closely at the head of the golden screw peeping from the boy’s belly button. Then the high king made a gesture, and his seneschal brought out a pillow of golden silk. On that pillow was a golden box. The high king took a golden key from around his neck, opened the box, and inside was a golden screwdriver.
“The high king took the screwdriver and motioned the boy to come closer. Trembling with excitement, the boy did. Then the high king took the golden screwdriver and put it in the boy’s belly button.”
I paused to take a long drink of water. I could feel my small audience leaning toward me. “Then the high king carefully turned the golden screw. Once: Nothing. Twice: Nothing. Then he turned it the third time, and the boy’s ass fell off.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“What?” Hespe asked incredulously.
“His ass fell off,” I repeated with an absolutely straight face.
There was a long silence. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. The fire snapped, sending a red ember floating upward.
“And then what happened?” Hespe finally asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “That’s it. The end.”
“What?” she said again, more loudly. “What kind of story is that?”
I was about to respond when Tempi burst out laughing. And he kept laughing; great shaking laughs that left him breathless. Soon I began to laugh as well, partly at Tempi’s display, and partly because I’d always considered it an oddly funny story myself.
Hespe’s expression turned dangerous, as if she were the butt of the joke.
Dedan was the first to speak. “I don’t understand. Why did . . .?” he trailed off.
“Did they get the boy’s ass back on?” Hespe interjected.
I shrugged. “That’s not part of the story.”
Dedan gestured wildly, his expression frustrated. “What’s the point of it?”
I put on an innocent face. “I thought we were just telling stories.”
The big man scowled at me. “Sensible stories! Stories with endings. Not stories that just have a boy’s ass . . .” He shook his head. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to sleep.” He moved off to make his bed. Hespe stalked off in her own direction.
I smiled, reasonably sure neither one of them would be troubling me for any more stories than I cared to tell.
Tempi got to his feet as well. Then, as he walked past me he smiled and gave me a sudden hug. A span of days ago this would have shocked me, but now I knew that physical contact was not particularly odd among the Adem.
Still, I was surprised he did it in front of the others. I returned his hug as best I could, feeling his chest still shaking with laughter. “His ass off,” he said quietly, then made his way to bed.
Marten’s eyes followed Tempi, then he gave me a long, speculative look. “Where did you hear that one?” he asked.
“My father told it to me when I was young,” I said honestly.
“Odd story to tell a child.”
“I was an odd child,” I said. “When I was older he confessed he made the stories up to keep me quiet. I used to pepper him with questions. Hour after hour. He said the only thing that would keep me quiet was some sort of puzzle. But I cracked riddles like walnuts, and he ran out of those.”
I shrugged and started to lay out my bed. “So he made up stories that seemed like puzzles and asked me if I understood what they meant.” I smiled a little wistfully. “I remember thinking about that boy with the screw in his belly button for days and days, trying to find the sense in it.”
Marten frowned. “That’s a cruel trick to play on a boy.”
The comment surprised me. “What do you mean?”
“Tricking you just to get a little peace and quiet. It’s a shabby thing to do.”
I was taken aback. “It wasn’t done in meanness. I enjoyed it. It gave me something to think about.”
“But it was pointless. Impossible.”
“Not pointless.” I protested. “It’s the questions we can’t answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he’ll look for his own answers.”
I spread my blanket on the ground and folded over the threadbare tinker’s cloak to wrap myself in. “That way, when he finds the answers, they’ll be precious to him. The harder the question, the harder we hunt. The harder we hunt, the more we learn. An impossible question . . .”
I trailed off as realization burst onto me. Elodin. That is what Elodin had been doing. Everything he’d done in his class. The games, the hints, the cryptic riddling. They were all questions of a sort.
Marten shook his head and wandered off, but I was lost in my thoughts and hardly noticed. I had wanted answers, and in spite of all I had thought, Elodin had been trying to give them to me. What I had taken as a malicious crypticism on his part was actually a persistent urging toward the truth. I sat there, silent and stunned by the scope of his instruction. By my lack of understanding. My lack of sight.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
The Edge of the Map
W
E CONTINUED TO INCH our way through the Eld. Every day began with the hope of finding traces of a trail. Every night ended with disappointment.
The shine was definitely off the apple, and our group was slowly being overtaken by irritation and backbiting. Any fear Dedan once felt for me had worn paper-thin, and he pushed at me constantly. He wanted to buy a bottle of brand using the Maer’s purse. I refused. He thought we didn’t need to keep nightly watches, merely set up a tripline. I disagreed.
Every small battle I won made him resent me more. And his low grumbling steadily increased as our search wore on. It was never anything so bold as a direct confrontation, just a sporadic peppering of snide comments and sulky insubordination.
On the other hand, Tempi and I were slowly moving toward something like friendship. His Aturan was becoming better, and my Ademic had progressed to the point where I could actually be considered inarticulate, as opposed to just confusing.
I continued to mimic Tempi as he performed his dance, and he continued to ignore me. Now that I’d been doing it for a while, I recognized a hint of martial flavor to it. A slow motion with one arm gave the impression of a punch, a glacial raising of the foot resembled a kick. My arms and legs no longer shook from the effort of moving slowly along with him, but I was still irritated by how clumsy I was. I hate nothing so much as doing a thing badly.
For example, there was a portion halfway through that looked easy as breathing. Tempi turned, circled his arms, and took a small step. But whenever I tried to do the same, I inevitably found myself stumbling. I had tried a half-dozen different ways of placing my feet, but nothing made any difference.
But the day after I told my “loose screw” story, as Dedan eventually came to refer to it, Tempi stopped ignoring me. This time after I stumbled, he stopped and faced me. His fingers flicked:
Disapproval, irritation
. “Go back,” he said settling into the dance position that came before my stumble.
I went into the same position and tried to mimic him. I lost my balance again, and had to shuffle my feet to keep from stumbling. “My feet are stupid,” I muttered in Ademic, curling the fingers on my left hand:
Embarrassment
.