Chronicler nodded, and Kvothe disappeared into the basement. The scribe picked up the crisply folded square of linen and rubbed it idly between his fingers. Then his eyes wandered up to the sword hanging high on the wall behind the bar. The grey metal of the blade was striking against the dark wood of the mounting board.
Kvothe came back up the steps carrying a small clear bottle. “Is there anything else you need? I have a good stock of paper and ink here too.”
“It may come to that by tomorrow,” Chronicler said. “I’ve used up most of my paper. But I can grind more ink tonight.”
“Don’t put yourself to the trouble,” Kvothe said easily.“I have several bottles of fine Aruean ink.”
“True Aruean ink?” Chronicler asked, surprised.
Kvothe gave a broad smile and nodded.
“That’s terribly kind of you,” Chronicler said, relaxing a bit. “I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to spending an hour grinding tonight.” He gathered up the clear bottle and cloth, then paused. “Would you mind if I asked you a question? Unofficially, as it were?”
A smirk curled the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Very well then, unofficially.”
“I can’t help notice that your description of Caesura doesn’t . . .” Chronicler hesitated. “Well, it doesn’t quite seem to match the actual sword itself.” His eyes flicked to the sword behind the bar. “The hand guard isn’t what you described.”
Kvothe gave a wide grin. “Well you’re just sharp as anything, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mean to imply—” Chronicler said quickly, looking embarrassed.
Kvothe laughed a rich warm laugh. The sound of it tumbled around the room, and for a moment the inn didn’t feel empty at all. “No. You’re absolutely right.” He turned to look at the sword. “This isn’t . . . what did the boy call it this morning?” His eyes went distant for a moment, then he smiled again. “Kaysera. The poet killer.”
“I was just curious,” Chronicler said apologetically.
“Am I supposed to be offended that you’re paying attention?” Kvothe laughed again. “What fun is there in telling a story if nobody’s listening?” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Right then. Dinner. What would you like? Hot or cold? Soup or stew? I’m a dab hand at pudding too.”
They settled on something simple to avoid restoking the stove in the kitchen. Kvothe moved briskly around the inn, gathering what was needed. He hummed to himself as he fetched cold mutton and half a hard, sharp cheese from the basement.
“These will be a nice surprise for Bast.” Kvothe grinned at Chronicler as he brought out a jar of brined olives from the pantry. “He can’t know we have them or he’d have eaten them already.” He untied his apron, pulling it off over his head. “I think we have a few tomatoes left in the garden too.”
Kvothe returned after several minutes with his apron wrapped into a bundle. He was spattered with rain and his hair was in wild disarray. He wore a boyish grin, and at that moment he looked very little like the somber, slowmoving innkeeper.
“It can’t quite decide if it wants to storm,” he said as he set his apron on the bar, carefully removing the tomatoes. “But if it makes up its mind, we’re in for a wagon-tipper tonight.” He began to hum absentmindedly while he cut and arranged everything on a broad wooden platter.
The door of the Waystone opened and a sudden gust of wind made the lamplight flicker. Two soldiers came in, hunched against the weather, their swords sticking out like tails behind them. Dark spatters of rain spotted the fabric of their blue and white tabards.
They dropped their heavy packs, and the shorter of the two pressed his shoulder to the door, forcing it closed against the wind.
“God’s teeth,” said the taller one, straightening his clothes. “It’s a bad night to be caught in the open.” He was bald on top, with a thick black beard that was flat as a spade. He looked at Kvothe, “Ho boy!” he said cheerfully. “We were glad to see your light. Run and fetch the owner, would you? We need to have a word with him.”
Kvothe picked his apron up off the bar and ducked his head into it. “That would be me,” he said, clearing his throat as he tied the strings around his waist. He ran his hands through his tousled hair, smoothing it down.
The bearded soldier peered at him, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Any chance of us getting a spot of dinner?”
The innkeeper gestured to the empty room. “It didn’t seem worth putting the kettle on tonight,” he said. “But we’ve got what you see here.”
The two soldiers strode to the bar. The blonde one ran his hands through his curly hair, shaking a few drops of rain out of it. “This town looks deader than ditchwater,” he said. “We didn’t see a single light but this.”
“Long harvest day,” the innkeeper said. “And there’s a wake tonight at one of the nearby farms. The four of us are probably the only folk in town right now.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Can I interest you fine folk in a drink to take off the chill?” He brought out a bottle of wine and sat it on the bar with a solid, satisfying sound.
“Well that’s a difficulty,” the blonde soldier said with a bit of an embarrassed smile. “I’d dearly love a drink, but my friend and I just took the king’s coin.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a bright gold coin. “This is all the money I have on me. I don’t suppose you have enough to break a whole royal, would you?”
“I’m stuck with mine too,” the bearded soldier groused. “Most money I’ve ever had, but it don’t spend well in a lump. Most of the towns we’ve been through could barely make change for ha’penny.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“I should be able to help you out with that,” the innkeeper said easily.
The two soldiers exchanged a look. The blonde one nodded.
“Right then.” The blonde soldier put the coin back in his pocket. “Here’s the truth. We aren’t really going to be stopping for the night.” He picked up a piece of cheese off the bar and took a bite. “And we aren’t going to be paying for anything either.”
“Ah,” the innkeeper said. “I see.”
“And if you’ve got enough money in your purse to change out two gold royals,” the bearded one said eagerly, “then we’ll have that off you as well.”
The blonde soldier spread his hands in a calming gesture. “Now this don’t need to be any sort of ugly thing. We aren’t bad folk. You pass over your purse and we go on our way. No folk get hurt, and nothing gets wrecked. It’s bound to sting a bit.” He raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper. “But a little sting beats hell out of getting yourself killed. Am I right?”
The bearded soldier looked over at where Chronicler sat near the hearth. “This hain’t got nothing to do with you, either,” he said grimly, his beard waggling as he spoke. “We don’t want anything of yours. You just stay sat where you’re at and don’t get feisty on us.”
Chronicler shot a glance to the man behind the bar, but the innkeeper’s eyes were fixed on the two soldiers.
The blonde one took another bite of cheese while his eyes wandered around the inn. “Young man like you is doing pretty well for himself. You’ll be doing just as well after we’re gone. But if you start trouble, we’ll feed you your teeth, wreck up the place, and you’ll still be out your purse.” He dropped the rest of the cheese on the bar and clapped his hands together briskly. He smiled. “So, are we all going to be civilized folk?”
“That seems reasonable,” Kvothe said as he walked out from behind the bar. He moved slowly and carefully, the way you would approach a skittish horse. “I’m certainly no barbarian.” Kvothe reached down and removed his purse from his pocket. He held it out in one hand.
The blonde soldier walked over to him, swaggering just a bit. He took hold of the purse and hefted it appreciatively. He turned to smile at his friend. “You see, I told—”
In a smooth motion, Kvothe stepped forward and struck the man hard in the jaw. The soldier staggered and fell to one knee. The purse arced through the air and hit the floorboards with a solid metallic thud.
Before the soldier could do more than shake his head, Kvothe stepped forward and calmly kicked him in the shoulder. Not a sharp kick of the sort that breaks bones, but a hard kick that sent him sprawling backward. The man landed hard on the floor, rolling to a stop in a messy tangle of arms and legs.
The other soldier stepped past his friend, grinning wide under his beard. He was taller than Kvothe, and his fists were broad knots of scar and knuckle. “Right cully,” he said, dark satisfaction in his voice. “You’re gettin’ a kickin’ now.”
He snapped out a quick punch, but Kvothe stepped aside and kicked out sharply, hitting the soldier just above the knee. The bearded man grunted in surprise, stumbling slightly. Then Kvothe stepped close, caught the bearded man’s shoulder, gripped his wrist, and twisted his outstretched arm at an awkward angle.
The big man was forced to bend over, grimacing in pain. Then he jerked his arm roughly out of the innkeeper’s grip. Kvothe had half a moment to look startled before the soldier’s elbow caught him in the temple.
The innkeeper staggered backward, trying to gain a little distance and a moment to clear his head. But the soldier followed close after him, fists raised, waiting for an opening.
Before Kvothe could regain his balance, the soldier stepped close and drove a fist hard into his gut. The innkeeper let out a pained huff of air, and as he started to double over the soldier swung his other fist into the side of the innkeeper’s face, snapping Kvothe’s head to the side and sending him reeling.
Kvothe managed to keep his feet by grabbing a nearby table for support. Blinking, he threw a wild punch to keep the bearded man at a distance. But the solider merely brushed it aside and caught hold of the innkeeper’s wrist in one huge hand, easy as a father might grab hold of a wayward child in the street.
Blood running down the side of his face, Kvothe struggled to free his wrist. Dazed, he made a quick motion with both hands, then repeated it, trying to pull away. His eyes half-focused and dull with confusion, he looked down at his wrist and made the motion again, but his hands merely scrabbled uselessly at the soldier’s scarred fist.
The bearded soldier eyed the stupefied innkeeper with amused curiosity, then reached out and slapped him hard on the side of the head. “You’re almost a bit of a scrapper, boy,” he said. “You actually stuck one on me.”
Behind them, the blonde soldier was slowly getting to his feet. “Little bastard sucker-punched me.”
The big soldier yanked the innkeeper’s wrist so he stumbled forward. “Say you’re sorry, cully.”
The innkeeper blinked blearily, opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then staggered. Or rather, he seemed to stagger. Halfway through the stumbling motion became deliberate, and the innkeeper stomped down hard with the heel of his foot, aiming at the soldier’s boot. At the same time he snapped his forehead down at the bearded man’s nose.
But the big man merely laughed, moving his head to the side as he jerked the innkeeper off balance again by his wrist. “None of that,” he chided, backhanding Kvothe across the face.
The innkeeper let out a yelp and lifted a hand to his bleeding nose. The soldier grinned and casually drove a knee hard into the innkeeper’s groin.
Kvothe doubled over, first gasping soundlessly, then making a series of choked retching noises.
Moving casually, the soldier let go of Kvothe’s wrist, then reached out and picked up the bottle of wine from the bar. Gripping it by the neck, he swung it like a club. When it hit the side of the innkeeper’s head, it made a solid, almost metallic sound.
Kvothe crumpled bonelessly to the floor.
The big man looked at the bottle of wine curiously before setting it back on the bar. Then he bent, grabbed the innkeeper’s shirt, and dragged his limp body out onto the open floor. He nudged the unconscious body with a foot until it stirred sluggishly.
“Said I’d give you a kickin’, boy,” the soldier grunted, and drove his foot hard into Kvothe’s side.
The blonde soldier walked over, rubbing at the side of his face. “Had to get all clever, didn’t you?” he said, spitting on the floor. He drew back his boot and landed a hard kick of his own. The innkeeper drew a sharp, hissing breath, but made no other sound.
“And you . . .” The bearded soldier pointed a thick finger at Chronicler. “I’ve got more than one boot. Would you like to see the other? I’ve already skint my knuckles. It’s no bother to me if you want to lose a couple teeth.”
Chronicler looked around and seemed genuinely surprised to find himself standing. He lowered himself slowly back into his chair.
The blonde soldier limped off to reclaim the purse from where it had fallen, while the big bearded man remained standing over Kvothe. “I suppose you figured you had to try,” he said to the crumpled body, giving him another solid kick in the side. “Damn fool. Pasty little innkeep against two of the king’s own.” He shook his head and spat again. “Honestly, who do you think you are?”
Curled on the floor, Kvothe began to make a low, rhythmic sound. It was a dry, quiet noise that scratched around the edges of the room. Kvothe paused as he drew a painful breath.
The bearded soldier frowned and kicked him again. “I asked you a question, cully . . .”