Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (71 page)

In defense of the Maer’s hospitality, I should mention a few positive things. The food was excellent, if somewhat cold by the time it made its way from the kitchens. There was also a wonderful copper bathing basin. Servants brought the hot water, but it drained away through a series of pipes. I had not expected to find such conveniences so far from the civilizing influence of the University.

I was visited by one of the Maer’s tailors, an excitable little man who measured me six dozen different ways while chattering about the court gossip. The next day, a runner boy delivered two elaborate suits of clothing in colors that flattered me.

In a way, I was fortunate I’d met with trouble at sea. The clothing Alveron’s tailors supplied was much better than anything I could have afforded, even with Threpe’s help. As a result, I cut quite a striking figure during my stay in Severen.

Best of all, while checking the fit of my clothes the chatty tailor mentioned cloaks were in fashion. I took the opportunity to exaggerate somewhat about the cloak Fela had given me, bemoaning the loss of it.

The result was a richly colored burgundy cloak. It wouldn’t keep the rain off worth a damn, but I was quite fond of it. Not only did it make me look rather dashing, but it was full of clever little pockets, of course.

So I was dressed, fed, and boarded in luxury. But despite this largess, by noon of the next day I was prowling my rooms like a cat in a crate. I itched to be outside, to have my lute out of pawn, to discover why the Maer needed the service of someone clever, well-spoken, and above all, discreet.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Grace

I
PEERED AT THE MAER through a gap in the hedge. He was sitting on a stone bench under a shade tree in his gardens, looking every bit the gentleman in his loose sleeves and waistcoat. He wore the house colors of Alveron: sapphire and ivory. But while his clothes were fine, they weren’t ostentatious. He wore a gold signet ring, but no other jewelry. Compared to many others in his court, the Maer was almost plainly dressed.

At first this seemed to imply that Alveron disdained the fashions of the court. But after a moment, I saw the truth of it. The ivory of his shirt was creamy and flawless, the sapphire of his waistcoat vibrant. I would have bet my thumbs they hadn’t been worn more than a half-dozen times.

As a display of wealth, it was subtle and staggering. It was one thing to be able to afford fine clothes, but how much would it cost to maintain a wardrobe that never showed the slightest hint of wear? I thought of what Count Threpe had said about Alveron:
Rich as the King of Vint
.

The Maer himself looked much the same as before. Tall and thin. Greying and immaculately groomed. I took in the tired lines of his face, the slight tremble of his hands, his posture.
He looks old
, I thought to myself,
but he’s not
.

The belling tower began to strike the hour. I stepped back from the hedge and strolled around the corner to meet the Maer.

Alveron nodded, his cool eyes looking me over carefully. “Kvothe, I was rather hoping you would come.”

I gave a semi-formal bow. “I was pleased to receive your invitation, your grace.”

Alveron made no gesture for me to seat myself, so I remained standing. I guessed he was testing my manners. “I hope you do not mind our meeting outside. Have you seen the gardens yet?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity, your grace.” I’d been trapped in my damned rooms until he had sent for me.

“You must allow me to show you around.” He took hold of a polished walking stick that rested against the shade tree. “I’ve always found that taking some air is good for whatever troubles a body, though others disagree.” He leaned forward as if he would stand, but a shadow of pain crossed his face and he drew a shallow, painful breath between his teeth.
Sick.
I realized.
Not old, sick.

I was at his side in a twinkling and offered him my arm. “Allow me, your grace.”

The Maer gave a stiff smile. “If I were younger, I’d make light of your offer,” he sighed. “But pride is the luxury of the strong.” He laid a thin hand on my arm and used my support to gain his feet. “I must settle for being gracious instead.”

“Graciousness is the luxury of the wise,” I said easily. “So it can be noted that your wisdom lends you grace.”

Alveron gave a wry chuckle and patted my arm. “That makes it a bit easier to bear, I suppose.”

“Would you like your stick, your grace?” I asked. “Or shall we walk together?”

He made the same dry chuckle. “ ‘Walk together.’ That’s delicately put.” He took the stick in his right hand while his left held my arm in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Lord and lady,” he swore under his breath. “I hate to be seen doddering about. But it’s less galling to lean on a young man’s arm than hobble around on my own. It’s a horrible thing to have your body fail you. You never think about it when you’re young.”

We began to walk, and our conversation lulled as we listened to the sound of water splashing in the fountains and birds singing in the hedges. Occasionally the Maer would point out a particular piece of statuary and tell which of his ancestors had commissioned it, made it, or (he spoke of these in a quieter, apologetic tone) plundered it from foreign lands in times of war.

We walked about the gardens for the better part of an hour. Alveron’s weight on my arm gradually lessened and soon he was using me more for balance than support. We passed several gentlefolk who bowed or nodded to the Maer. After they were out of earshot he would mention who they were, how they ranked in court, and a snippet or two of amusing gossip.

“They’re wondering who you are,” he said after one such couple had passed behind a hedge. “By tonight it will be all the talk. Are you an ambassador from Renere? A young noble looking for a rich fief and a wife to go along? Perhaps you are my long-lost son, a remnant from my wilder youth.” He chuckled to himself and patted my arm. He might have continued, but he stumbled on a protruding flagstone and almost fell. I steadied him quickly, and eased him onto a stone bench beside the path.

“Damn and bother,” he cursed, obviously embarrassed. “How would that have looked, the Maer scrabbling about like a beetle on its back?” He looked around crossly, but we seemed to be alone. “Would you do an old man a favor?”

“I am at your disposal, your grace.”

Alveron gave me a shrewd look. “Are you indeed? Well, it’s a little thing. Keep secretive about who you are and what your business is. It’ll do wonders for your reputation. The less you tell them, the more everyone will be wanting to get from you.”

“I’ll keep close about myself, your grace. But I would have better luck avoiding the subject of why I’m here if I knew what it was. . . .”

Alveron’s expression went sly. “True. But this is too public a place. You’ve shown good patience so far. Exercise it a while longer.” He looked up at me. “Would you be so kind as to walk me to my rooms?”

I held out my arm. “Certainly, your grace.”

After returning to my rooms, I removed my embroidered jacket and hung it in the carved rosewood wardrobe. The huge piece of furniture was lined with cedar and sandalwood, scenting the air. Large, flawless mirrors hung on the insides of the doors.

I walked across the polished marble floor and sat on a red velvet lounging couch. I idly wondered how exactly one was supposed to lounge. I couldn’t remember ever doing it myself. After a moment’s consideration, I decided lounging was probably similar to relaxing, but with more money in your pocket.

Restless, I got to my feet and moved around the room. There were paintings on the walls, portraits and pastoral scenes done skillfully in oil. One wall held a huge tapestry that showed a vast naval battle in intricate detail. That occupied my attention for almost half an hour.

I missed my lute.

It had been terribly hard to pawn it, like cutting off my hand. I’d fully expected to spend the next ten days sick with worry, anxious that I wouldn’t be able to buy it back.

But without meaning to, the Maer himself had set my mind at ease. In my wardrobe hung six suits of clothing, fine enough for any lord. When they had been delivered to my room, I’d felt myself relax. My first thought on seeing them wasn’t that I could now mingle comfortably with court society. I thought that if worse came to worst, I could steal them, sell them to a fripperer, and easily have enough money to reclaim my lute.

Of course if I did such a thing, I would burn all my bridges with the Maer. It would render my entire trip to Severen pointless, and would embarrass Threpe so profoundly that he might never speak to me again. Nevertheless, knowing I had that option gave me a thin thread of control over the situation. It was enough so I could keep from going absolutely mad with worry.

I missed my lute, but if I could gain the Maer’s patronage, my life’s road would grow suddenly smooth and straight. The Maer had money enough for me to continue my education at the University. His connections could help me continue my research into the Amyr.

Perhaps most important was the power of his name. If the Maer were my patron, I would be under his protection. Ambrose’s father might be the most powerful baron in all of Vintas, a dozen steps from royalty. But Alveron was practically a king in his own right. How much simpler would my life become without Ambrose endlessly spiking my wheel? It was a giddy thought.

I missed my lute, but all things have their price. For a chance of having the Maer as a patron, I was willing to grit my teeth and spend a span bored and anxious, without music.

Alveron turned out to be right about the curious nature of his attendant court. After he called me to his study that evening, rumor exploded like a brushfire around me. I could understand why the Maer enjoyed this sort of thing. It was like watching stories being born.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Power

A
LVERON SENT FOR ME again the next day, and soon the two of us were strolling along the garden paths again, his hand resting lightly on my arm. “Let’s head toward the south side.” The Maer pointed with his walking stick. “I hear the selas will reach full bloom soon.”

We took the left turning of the path and he drew a breath. “There are two types of power: inherent and granted,” Alveron said, letting me know the topic of today’s conversation. “Inherent power you possess as a part of yourself. Granted power is lent or given by other people.” He looked sideways at me. I nodded.

Seeing my agreement, the Maer continued. “Inherent power is an obvious thing. Strength of body.” He patted my supporting arm. “Strength of mind. Strength of personality. All these things lie within a person. They define us. They determine our limits.”

“Not entirely, your grace,” I protested gently. “A man can always improve himself.”

“They limit us,” the Maer said firmly. “A man with one hand will never wrestle in the roundings. A man with one leg will never run as quickly as a man with two.”

“An Adem warrior with only one hand might be more deadly than a common warrior with two, your grace.” I pointed out. “Despite his deficiency.”

“True, true,” the Maer said crossly. “We can improve ourselves, exercise our bodies, educate our minds, groom ourselves carefully.” He ran a hand down his immaculate salt-and-pepper beard. “For even appearance is a type of power. But there are always limits. While a one-handed man might become a passable warrior, he could not play a lute.”

I nodded slowly. “You make a good point, your grace. Our power has limits we can extend, but not indefinitely.”

Alveron held up a finger. “But that is only the first type of power. We are only limited if we rely upon the power we ourselves possess. There is still the type of power that is given. Do you understand what I mean by granted power?”

I thought a moment. “Taxes?”

“Hmm,” the Maer said, surprised. “That’s a rather good example, actually. Have you put much thought into this sort of thing before?”

“A bit,” I admitted. “But never in these terms.”

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