Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (70 page)

Over the next several hours I listened to the gossip that flows through such places. Even better, I won the trust of the clever young boy who worked at the café, waiting to refill my mug if I so desired. With his help and some casual eavesdropping, I learned a great deal about the Maer’s court in a short amount of time.

Eventually the shadows grew longer, and I decided it was time to move. I called the boy over and pointed across the street. “Do you see that gentleman? The one in the red vest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“The Esquire Bergon, if ’n it please you.”

I needed someone more important than that
. “How about the cross-looking fellow in the awful yellow hat?”

The boy hid a smile. “That’s Baronet Pettur.”

Perfect.
I stood and clapped Jim on the back. “You’ll do well for yourself with a memory like that. Keep well.” I gave him ha’penny and strolled to where the baronet stood, fingering a bolt of deep green velvet.

It goes without saying that in terms of social rank, there are none lower than the Edema Ruh. Even leaving aside my heritage, I was a landless commoner. This meant in terms of social standing the baronet was so high above me that if he were a star, I would not be able to see him with the naked eye. A person of my position should address him as “my lord,” avoid eye contact, and bow deeply and humbly.

Truth be told, a person of my social standing shouldn’t speak to him at all.

Things were different in the Commonwealth, of course. And the University itself was particularly egalitarian. But even there, nobility were still rich and powerful and well-connected. People like Ambrose would always run roughshod over folk like myself. And if things got difficult, he could always hush things up or bribe a judge to get himself out of trouble.

But I was in Vintas now. Here Ambrose wouldn’t need to bribe the judge. If I’d accidentally jostled the Baronet Pettur in the street while I was still barefoot and muddy, he could have horsewhipped me bloody, then called the constable to arrest me for being a public nuisance. The constable would have done it too, with a smile and a nod.

Let me try to say this more succinctly. In the Commonwealth, the gentry are people with power and money. In Vintas, the gentry have power and money and
privilege
. Many rules simply do not apply to them.

That meant in Vintas, social rank was of utmost importance.

That meant if the baronet knew I was below him, he would lord it over me, quite literally.

On the other hand . . .

As I walked across the street toward the baronet, I straightened my shoulders and raised my chin a bit. I stiffened my neck and narrowed my eyes slightly. I looked around as if I owned the entire street, and it was currently something of a disappointment.

“Baronet Pettur?” I said briskly.

The man looked up, smiling vaguely, as if he couldn’t decide if he recognized me or not. “Yes?”

I made a curt gesture toward the Sheer. “You would be doing the Maer a great service if you would escort me to his estate as quickly as possible.” I kept my expression stern, almost angry.

“Well, certainly.” He sounded anything but certain. I could sense the questions, the excuses beginning to bubble up in him. “W—”

I fixed the baronet with my haughtiest stare. The Edema might be on the lowest rung of the social ladder, but there are no finer actors breathing. I had been raised on the stage, and my father could play a king so regal I’d seen audiences doff their hats when he made his entrance.

I made my eyes as hard as agates and looked the florid man up and down as if he were a horse I wasn’t sure I cared to bet on. “If the matter were not urgent, I would never impose on you this way.” I hesitated, then added a stiff, reluctant, “Sir.”

Baronet Pettur looked me in the eye. He was slightly off balance, but not nearly as much as I’d hoped. Like most nobility, he was self-centered as a gyroscope, and the only thing keeping him from sniffing and looking down his nose at me was his uncertainty. He eyed me, trying to decide if he could risk offending me by asking my name and how we were acquainted.

But I still had a final trick to play. I brought out the thin, sharp smile the porter at the Grey Man had used when I had come calling on Denna all those months ago. As I’d said, it was a good smile: gracious, polite, and more patronizing than if I’d reached out and patted the man on the head like a dog.

The Baronet Pettur bore up under the weight of the smile for almost a full second. Then he cracked like an egg, his shoulders rounding a bit, and his manner becoming ever so slightly obsequious. “Any service I can lend the Maer is a service I am glad to render,” he said. “Please, allow me.” He took the lead, heading toward the foot of the cliff.

Following behind, I smiled.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

The Messenger

I
MANAGED TO BLUFF AND fast-talk my way through the majority of the Maer’s defenses. The Baronet Pettur helped me simply by his presence. Being escorted by a recognizable member of the nobility was enough to get me deep inside Alveron’s estate. After that, he soon outlived his usefulness and I left him behind.

Once he was out of sight I put on my most impatient face, asked a busy servant for directions, and made it all the way to the outer doors of the Maer’s audience chamber before I was stopped by an unassuming man in his middle years. He was portly, with a round face, and despite his fine clothes he looked like a grocer to me.

If not for the several hours I’d spent gathering information in Severen-Low I might have made a terrible mistake and tried to bluff my way past this man, thinking him nothing more than a well-dressed servant.

But this was actually the person I was looking for: the Maer’s manservant, Stapes. Though he looked like a grocer, he had the aura of true authority about him. His manner was quiet and certain, unlike the overbearing, brash one I had used to bully the baronet.

“How can I help you?” Stapes asked. His tone was perfectly polite, but there were other questions lurking beneath the surface of his words.
Who are you? What are you doing here?

I brought out Count Threpe’s letter and handed it over with a slight bow. “You would be doing me a great service if you would convey this to the Maer,” I said. “He is expecting me.”

Stapes gave me a cool look, making it perfectly clear that if the Maer had been expecting me, he would have known about it ten days ago. He rubbed his chin as he looked me over, and I saw he wore a dull iron ring with gold letters scrolling across the surface.

Despite his obvious misgivings, Stapes took the letter and disappeared through a set of double doors. I stood in the hallway for a nervous minute before he returned and ushered me inside, his manner still vaguely disapproving.

We moved through a short hallway, then came to a second set of doors flanked by armored guards. These weren’t ceremonial guards of the sort you sometimes see in public, standing stiffly at attention, holding halberds. They wore the Maer’s colors but beneath their sapphire and ivory were functional breastplates with steel rings and leather. Each man wore a long sword and a long knife. They eyed me seriously as I approached.

The Maer’s manservant nodded to me, and one of the guards manhandled me in a quick, competent way, sliding his hands along my arms and legs and around my chest, searching for hidden weapons. I was suddenly very glad for some of the misfortunes on my trip, specifically the ones that had ended with me losing the pair of slender knives I’d grown accustomed to wearing underneath my clothes.

The guard stepped back and nodded. Then Stapes gave me another irritated look and opened the inner door.

Inside, two men sat at a map-strewn table. One was tall and bald with the hard, weathered look of a veteran soldier. Next to him sat the Maer.

Alveron was older than I had expected. He had a serious face, proud around the mouth and eyes. His well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard had very little black left to it, but his hair was still full and thick. His eyes too, seemed to belie his age. They were clear grey, clever and piercing. They were not the eyes of an old man.

The Maer turned those eyes on me as I entered the room. He held Threpe’s letter in one hand.

I made a standard number three bow. “The Messenger” as my father called it. Low and formal, as fitting the Maer’s high station. Deferential, but not obsequious. Just because I tread heavily on propriety’s toes doesn’t mean I can’t play the game when it’s of use to me.

The Maer’s eyes flickered down to the letter, then back up. “Kvothe, is it? You travel swiftly to arrive in such good time. I’d not expected even a reply from the count so soon.”

“I made all possible speed to put myself at your disposal, your grace.”

“Indeed.” He looked me over carefully. “And you seem to vindicate the count’s opinion of your wit by making it all the way to my door with nothing but a sealed letter in your hand.”

“I thought it best to present myself as soon as possible, your grace,” I said neutrally. “Your letter implied you were in some haste.”

“And an impressive job you did of it too,” Alveron said, glancing at the tall man sitting at the table next to him. “Wouldn’t you say, Dagon?”

“Yes, your grace.” Dagon looked at me with dark, dispassionate eyes. His face was hard and sharp and emotionless. I suppressed a shiver.

Alveron glanced down at the letter again. “Threpe certainly has some flattering things to say about you here,” he said. “Well-spoken. Charming. Most talented musician he’s met in ten years. . . .”

The Maer continued reading, then looked back up, his eyes shrewd. “You seem a bit young,” he said hesitantly. “You’re barely past twenty, aren’t you?”

I was a month past my sixteenth birthday. A fact I’d pointedly omitted from the letter. “I am young, your grace,” I admitted, sidestepping the actual lie. “But I’ve been making music since I was four.” I spoke with quiet confidence, doubly glad of my new clothes. In my rags, I couldn’t have helped but look like a starving urchin. As it was, I was well-dressed and tanned from my days at sea, and the lean lines of my face added years to my appearance.

Alveron eyed me for a long, speculative moment, then nodded, apparently satisfied. “Very well,” he said. “Unfortunately, I am rather busy at present. Would tomorrow be convenient for you?” It wasn’t really a question. “Have you found lodgings in the city?”

“I have not made any arrangements as of yet, your grace.”

“You will stay here,” he said evenly. “Stapes?” He called in a voice hardly louder than his normal speaking tone, and the portly, grocer-looking fellow appeared almost instantly. “Set our new guest somewhere in the south wing, near the gardens.” He turned back to me. “Will your luggage be following?”

“I fear all my luggage was lost on the way, your grace. Shipwreck.”

Alveron raised an eyebrow briefly. “Stapes will see you are properly outfitted.” He folded Threpe’s letter and made a gesture of dismissal. “Good evening.”

I made a quick bow and followed Stapes from the room.

The rooms were the most opulent I’d ever seen, let alone lived in, full of old wood and polished stone. The bed had a feather mattress a foot thick, and when I drew its curtains and lay inside, it seemed as big as my entire room back at Anker’s.

My rooms were so pleasant it took me almost a full day to realize how much I hated them.

Again you have to think in terms of shoes. You don’t want the biggest pair. You want a pair that fits. If your shoes are too big, your feet chafe and blister.

In a similar way, my rooms chafed at me. There was an immense empty wardrobe, empty chests of drawers, and bare bookshelves. My room in Anker’s had been tiny, but here I felt like a dried pea rattling around inside an empty jewelry box.

But while the rooms were too large for my nonexistent possessions, they were too small for me. I was obliged to remain there, waiting for the Maer to summon me. Since I had no idea when this might happen, I was effectively trapped.

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