Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (142 page)

She shrugged, smiling. “It is a story, mind you. And an old one. Take from it what you will.”

“I am fond of stories,” I said.

“A story is like a nut,” Vashet said. “A fool will swallow it whole and choke. A fool will throw it away, thinking it of little worth.” She smiled. “But a wise woman finds a way to crack the shell and eat the meat inside.”

I got to my feet and walked to where she was sitting. I kissed her hands and her forehead and her mouth. “Vashet,” I said. “I am glad Shehyn gave me to you.”

“You are a foolish boy.” She looked down, but I could see a faint blush rising on her face as she spoke. “Come. We should go. You do not want to miss the chance to see Shehyn fight.”

Vashet led me to an unmarked piece of meadow where the thick grass had been grazed close to the ground. A few other Adem already stood nearby, waiting. Some folk had brought small stools or rolled pieces of log to use as benches. Vashet simply sat on the ground. I joined her.

A crowd slowly gathered. Only thirty people or so, but it was the most Adem I’d ever seen together other than in the dining hall. They gathered in twos and threes, moving from one conversation to another. Rarely did a group of five coalesce for any length of time.

Though there were a dozen conversations all within a stone’s throw of me, I couldn’t hear more than a murmur. The speakers stood close enough to touch, and the wind in the grass made more noise than their voices.

But I could tell the tone of each conversation from where I sat. Two months ago this gathering would have seemed eerily subdued. A gathering of fidgety, emotionless, near-mutes. But now I could plainly see one pair of Adem were teacher and student by how far apart they stood, by the deference in the younger woman’s hands. The cluster of three red-shirted men were friends, easy and joking as they jostled at each other. That man and woman were fighting. She was angry. He was trying to explain.

I suddenly wondered how I ever could have thought of these people as restless or fidgety. Every motion was to a purpose. Every shifting of the feet implied a change in attitude. Every gesture spoke volumes.

Vashet and I sat close to each other and kept our voices low, continuing our discussion in Aturan. She explained how each school had standing accounts with the Cealdish moneylenders. That meant far-flung mercenaries could deposit the school’s share of their earnings anywhere people used Cealdish currency, which meant anywhere in the entire civilized world. That money was then tallied to the appropriate account so the school could make use of it.

“How much does a mercenary send back to the school?” I asked, curious.

“Eighty percent,” she said.

“Eight percent?” I asked, holding up all my fingers but two, sure I had misheard.

“Eighty,” Vashet said firmly. “That is the proper amount, though many pride themselves on giving more. The same would be true for you,” she said dismissively, “if you stood a fiddler’s chance in hell of ever wearing the red.”

Seeing my astonishment, she explained. “It is not so much, when you think of it. For years, the school feeds and clothes you. It gives you a place to sleep. It gives you your sword, your training. After this investment, the mercenary supports the school. The school supports the village. The village produces children who hope to someday take the red.” She made a circle with her finger. “Thus all Ademre thrives.”

Vashet gave me a grave look. “Knowing this, perhaps you can begin to understand what you have stolen,” she said. “Not just a secret but the major export of the Adem. You have stolen the key to this entire town’s survival.”

It was a sobering thought. Suddenly Carceret’s anger made much better sense.

I caught a glimpse of Shehyn’s white shirt and roughly knitted yellow cap through the crowd. The scattered conversations grew still, and everyone began to gather into a large, loose circle.

It wasn’t just Shehyn fighting today, apparently. The first to fight were two boys a few years younger than myself, neither of them wearing red. They circled each other warily, then fell on each other in a flurry of blows.

It was too fast for my eye to follow, and I saw a dozen half-formed pieces of the Ketan scattered and discarded. It finally ended when one boy caught the other’s wrist and shoulder in Sleeping Bear. It was only when I saw the boy twist his opponent’s arm and force him to the ground that I recognized it as the grip Tempi had used in the bar fight in Crosson.

The boys separated, and two red-shirted mercenaries came out to talk to them, presumably their teachers.

Vashet leaned her head close to mine. “What do you think?”

“They’re very quick,” I said.

She looked at me. “But ...”

“They seem rather sloppy,” I said, being careful to speak quietly. “Not at first, but after they started.” I pointed at one. “His feet were too close together. And the other kept leaning forward so his balance was off. That’s how he got caught in Sleeping Bear.”

Vashet nodded, pleased. “They fight like puppies. They are young, and boys. They are full of anger and impatience. Women have less trouble with these things. It’s part of what makes us better fighters.”

I was more than slightly surprised to hear her say that. “Women are better fighters?” I asked carefully, not wanting to contradict her.

“Generally speaking,” she said matter-of-factly. “There are exceptions, of course, but as a whole women are better.”

“But men are stronger,” I said. “Taller. They have better reach.”

She turned to look at me, slightly amused. “Are you stronger and taller than me then?”

I smiled. “Obviously not. But as a whole, you have to admit, men are bigger and stronger.”

Vashet shrugged. “And that would matter if fighting were the same as splitting wood or hauling hay. That is like saying a sword is better the longer and heavier it is. Foolishness. Perhaps for thugs this is true. But after taking the red, the key is knowing
when
to fight. Men are full of anger, so they have trouble with this. Women less so.”

I opened my mouth, then thought of Dedan and closed it.

A shadow fell over us, and I looked up to see a tall man in his reds standing at a polite distance. He held his hand poised near the hilt of his sword.
Invitation
.

Vashet gestured back.
Gentle regret and refusal
.

I watched as he walked away. “Won’t they think less of you for not fighting?”

Vashet sniffed disdainfully. “He didn’t want to fight,” she said. “It would only embarrass him and waste my time. He merely wanted to show he was brave enough to fight me.” She sighed and gave me a pointed look. “It is that sort of foolishness that leads men from the Lethani.”

The next match was between two red-shirted mercenaries, and the difference was obvious. Everything was much cleaner and crisper. The two boys had been frantic as sparrows flapping in the dust, but the fights that followed were elegant as dances.

Many of the bouts were hand fighting. These lasted until one person submitted or was visibly stunned by a blow.

One fight stopped immediately when a man bloodied his opponent’s nose. Vashet rolled her eyes at this, though I couldn’t tell if she thought less of the woman for allowing herself to be struck, or the man for being reckless enough to hurt her.

There were several bouts with wooden swords, too. These tended to go more quickly, as even a light touch was considered enough for a victory.

“Who won that one?” I asked. After a quick exchange of clacking swordplay ended with both women scoring hits at the same time.

“Neither,” she said, frowning.

“Why don’t they fight again if it was a tie?” I asked.

Vashet frowned at me. “It wasn’t a tie, strictly speaking. Drenn would have died in minutes, struck through the lung. Lasrel would have died in days when the wound in her gut soured.”

“So Lasrel won?”

Vashet gave me a look of withering contempt and turned her attention back to the next fight.

The tall Adem man who had asked Vashet to fight was bouting with a thin whip of a woman. Strangely, he used a wooden sword while she was barehanded. He won by a narrow margin after catching two solid kicks to the ribs.

“Who won there?” Vashet asked me.

I could tell she wasn’t looking for the obvious answer. “It’s not much of a victory,” I said. “She didn’t even have a sword.”

“She is of the third stone and far outstrips him as a fighter. It was the only way for things to be balanced between them unless he were to bring a companion to fight by his side,” Vashet pointed out. “So I ask again. Who won?”

“He won the bout,” I said. “But he’ll have some impressive bruises tomorrow. Also, his swings seemed somewhat reckless.”

Vashet turned to look at me. “So who won?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Neither,” I decided.

She nodded.
Formal approval
. The gesture warmed me, as everyone facing us could see it.

At long last, Shehyn stepped into the circle. She had removed her lopsided yellow hat, and her greying hair swirled about in the wind. Seeing her among the other Adem, I realized how small she was. She carried herself with such confidence that I had come to think of her as taller, but she barely came up to the shoulder of some of the taller Adem.

She carried a straight wooden sword with her. Nothing ornate, but it was carved to have the shape of a hilt and blade. Many of the other practice swords I had seen were barely more than smoothed sticks that gave the impression of being swords. Her white shirt and pants were tied tightly to her body with thin white chords.

Alongside Shehyn came a much younger woman. She was shorter than Shehyn by an inch or so. Her frame was more delicate, too, her small face and shoulders making her look almost childlike. But the pronounced curve of her high breasts and round hips beneath her tight mercenary reds made it obvious she was no child.

Her wooden sword was also carved. It was curved slightly, unlike most of the others I had seen. Her sandy hair was braided into a long, narrow plait that hung down to the small of her back.

The two of them raised their swords and began to circle each other.

The young woman was amazing. She struck so fast I could barely see the motion of her hand, let alone the blade of her sword. But Shehyn brushed it away casually with Drifting Snow, taking half a step in retreat. Then, before Shehyn could respond with an attack of her own, the young woman spun away, her long braid swinging.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Penthe,” Vashet said admiringly. “She is a fury, is she not? Like one of our old ancestors.”

Penthe closed with Shehyn again, feinting and thrusting. She darted in, low to the ground. Impossibly low. Her back leg thrust out for balance, not even touching the ground. Her sword arm licked out in front of her, her knee bent so deeply that her entire body was below the level of my head, even though I was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Penthe unfurled all this sinuous motion as quickly you can snap your fingers. The tip of her sword came in low under Shehyn’s guard and angled up toward her knee.

“What is that?” I asked softly, not even expecting an answer. “You never showed me that.” But it was just astonished noise. Never in a hundred years could my body do that.

But Shehyn somehow avoided the attack. Not leaping away with any sudden motion. Not darting out of reach. She was quick, but that was not the heart of how she moved. Instead she was deliberate and perfect. She was already halfway gone before Penthe’s sword had begun to flick toward her leg. The tip of Penthe’s sword must have come within an inch of her knee. But it was not a close thing. Shehyn had only moved as much as was needed, no more.

This time Shehyn did manage to counterattack, stepping forward with Sparrow Strikes the Hawk. Penthe rolled sideways, touched the grass briefly, then pushed herself up off the ground. No, she
threw
herself away from the ground using only her left hand. Her body snapped like a steel spring, arcing away while her sword licked out twice, driving Shehyn back.

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