Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (84 page)

I turned the card over, wrote: “As soon as you like,” and sent the boy on his way.

I placed his silver ring on a tray in my sitting room. The bowl next to it now had two silver rings glittering among the iron.

I opened the door to see Bredon’s dark eyes peering owlishly out at me from the halo of his white beard and hair. He smiled and bowed, his walking stick tucked under one arm. I offered him a seat, then excused myself politely and left him alone in the sitting room for a moment, as was the gracious thing to do.

I was barely through the doorway before I heard his rich laugh coming from the other room, “Ho ho!” he said. “Now there’s a thing!”

When I returned, Bredon was sitting by the tak board holding the two rings I had recently received from Stapes. “This is certainly a turn for the books,” he said. “Apparently I misjudged things yesterday when my runner was turned away from your door by an altogether surly guard.”

I grinned at him. “It’s been an exciting couple of days,” I said.

Bredon tucked his chin and chuckled, looking even more owlish than usual. “I daresay,” he said, holding up the silver ring. “This tells quite a story. But this . . .” He gestured to the white ring with his walking stick. “This is something else entirely. . . .”

I pulled up a seat across from him. “I’ll be frank with you,” I said. “I can only guess what it’s made of, let alone what it signifies.”

Bredon raised an eyebrow. “That’s remarkably forthright of you.”

I shrugged. “I feel somewhat more secure in my position here,” I admitted. “Enough that I can be a little less guarded with the people who have been kind to me.”

He chuckled again as he lay the silver ring on the board. “Secure,” he said. “I daresay you are at that.” He picked up the white ring. “Still, it’s not odd that you wouldn’t know about this.”

“I thought there were just three types of rings,” I said.

“That’s true for the most part,” Bredon said. “But the giving of rings goes back quite a ways. The common folk were doing it long before it became a game for the gentry. And while Stapes may breathe the rarified air with the rest of us, his family is undeniably common.”

Bredon set the white ring back onto the board and folded his hands over it. “Those rings were made of things ordinary folk might find easily at hand. A young lover might give a ring of new green grass to someone he was courting. A ring of leather promises service. And so on.”

“And a ring of horn?”

“A ring of horn shows enmity,” Bredon said. “Powerful and lasting enmity.”

“Ah,” I said, somewhat taken aback. “I see.”

Bredon smiled and held the pale ring up to the light. “But this,” he said, “is not horn. The grain is wrong, and Stapes would never give a horn ring alongside a silver one.” He shook his head. “No. Unless I miss my guess, this is a ring of bone.” He handed it to me.

“Wonderful,” I said glumly, turning it over in my hands. “And that means what? That he’ll stab me in the liver and push me down a dry well?”

Bredon gave me his wide, warm smile. “A ring of bone indicates a profound and lasting debt.”

“I see.” I rubbed it between my fingers. “I have to say I prefer being owed a favor.”

“Not just a favor,” Bredon said. “Traditionally, a ring such as this is carved from the bone of a deceased family member.” He raised an eyebrow. “And while I doubt that is currently the case, it does get the point across.”

I looked up, still slightly dazed by it all. “And that is. . . ?”

“That these things are not given lightly. It’s not a part of games the gentry play, and not the sort of ring you should display.” He gave me a look. “If I were you, I’d tuck it safe away.”

I put it carefully into my pocket. “You’ve been such help,” I said. “I wish I could repay—”

He held up a hand, cutting me off midsentence. Then, moving with solemn care, he pointed one finger downward, made a fist, and rapped a knuckle on the surface of the tak board.

I smiled and brought out the stones.

“I think I’m finally getting my teeth into the game,” I said an hour later after losing by the narrowest of margins.

Bredon pushed his chair away from the table with an expression of distaste. “No,” he said. “Quite the opposite. You have the basics, but you’re missing the whole point.”

I began to sort out the stones. “The point is that I’m finally close to beating you after all this time.”

“No,” Bredon said. “That’s not it at all. Tak is a subtle game. That’s the reason I have such trouble finding people who can play it. Right now you are stomping about like a thug. If anything you’re worse than you were two days ago.”

“Admit it,” I said. “I nearly had you that last time.”

He merely scowled and pointed imperiously to the table.

I set to it with a will, smiling and humming, sure that today I would finally beat him.

But nothing could be further from the truth. Bredon set his stones ruthlessly, not a breath of hesitation between his moves. He tore me apart as easily as you rip a sheet of paper in half.

The game was over so quickly it left me breathless.

“Again,” Bredon said, a note of command in his voice I’d never heard before.

I tried to rally, but the next game was worse. I felt like a puppy fighting a wolf. No. I was a mouse at the mercy of an owl. There was not even the pretence of a fight. All I could do was run.

But I couldn’t run fast enough. This game was over sooner than the last.

“Again,” he demanded.

And we played again. This time, I was not even a living thing. Bredon was calm and dispassionate as a butcher with a boning knife. The game lasted about the length of time it takes to gut and bone a chicken.

At the end of it Bredon frowned and shook his hands briskly to both sides of the board, as if he had just washed them and was trying to flick them dry.

“Fine,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I take your point. You’ve been going easy on me.”

“No,” Bredon said with a grim look. “That is far gone from the point I am trying to make.”

“What then?”

“I am trying to make you understand the game,” he said. “The entire game, not just the fiddling about with stones. The point is not to play as tight as you can. The point is to be bold. To be dangerous. Be elegant.”

He tapped the board with two fingers. “Any man that’s half awake can spot a trap that’s laid for him. But to stride in boldly with a plan to turn it on its ear, that is a marvelous thing.” He smiled without any of the grimness leaving his face. “To set a trap and know someone will come in wary, ready with a trick of their own, then beat them. That is twice marvelous.”

Bredon’s expression softened, and his voice became almost like an entreaty. “Tak reflects the subtle turning of the world. It is a mirror we hold to life. No one wins a dance, boy. The point of dancing is the motion that a body makes. A well-played game of tak reveals the moving of a mind. There is a beauty to these things for those with eyes to see it.”

He gestured at the brief and brutal lay of stones between us. “Look at that. Why would I ever want to win a game such as this?”

I looked down at the board. “The point isn’t to win?” I asked.

“The point,” Bredon said grandly, “is to play a beautiful game.” He lifted his hands and shrugged, his face breaking into a beatific smile. “Why would I want to win anything other than a beautiful game?”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Within Easy Reach

L
ATER THAT EVENING I sat alone in what I guessed might be my drawing room. Or perhaps my sitting room. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was.

I was surprised to find I liked my new rooms quite a lot. Not for the extra space. Not because they had a better view of the garden. Not because the inlay in the marble floor was more pleasing to the eye. Not even because the room had its own exceptionally well-stocked wine cabinet, though that was quite pleasant.

No. My new rooms were preferable because they had several cushioned, armless chairs that were perfect for playing my lute. It’s uncomfortable to play for any length of time in a chair with armrests. In my previous room, I’d usually ended up sitting on the floor.

I decided to dub the room with the good chairs my lutery. Or perhaps my performatory. I would need a while to come up with something suitably pretentious.

Needless to say, I was pleased by the recent turn of events. By way of celebration, I opened a bottle of fine, dark Feloran wine, relaxed, and brought out my lute.

I started quick and tripping, playing my way through “Tintatatornin” to limber up my fingers. Then I played sweet and easy for a time, slowly growing reacquainted with my lute. By the time I’d played for about half a bottle, I had my feet up and my music was mellow and content as a cat in a sunbeam.

That’s when I heard the noise behind me. I stopped in a jangle of notes and sprang to my feet, expecting Caudicus, or the guards, or some other deadly trouble.

What I found was the Maer, smiling an embarrassed smile, like a child that’s just played a joke. “I trust your new rooms are to your satisfaction?”

I collected myself and made a small bow. “It’s rather much for the likes of me, your grace.”

“It’s rather little, considering my debt to you,” Alveron said. He sat on a nearby couch and made a gracious gesture indicating I should feel free to take a seat myself. “What was that you were playing just now?”

I returned to my chair. “It wasn’t really a proper song, your grace. I was just playing.”

The Maer raised an eyebrow. “It was of your own devising?” I nodded, and he motioned to me. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. Please, continue.”

“What would you like to hear, your grace?”

“I have it on good report that Meluan Lackless is fond of music and sweet words,” he said. “Something along those lines.”

“There are many types of sweet, your grace,” I said. I played the opening to “Violet Bide.” The notes rang out light and sweet and sad. Then I changed to “The Lay of Savien,” my fingers moving quickly through the complex chording, making it sound every bit as hard as it was.

Alveron nodded to himself, his expression growing more satisfied as he listened. “And you can compose as well?”

I nodded easily. “I can, your grace. Though it takes time to do such things properly.”

“How much time?”

I shrugged. “A day or two, or three. Depending on the sort of song you desire. Letters are easier.”

The Maer leaned forward. “It pleases me that Threpe’s praise was not exaggerated,” he said. “I will admit I moved you to these rooms with more than gratitude in mind. A passage connects them to my own rooms.We will need to meet frequently in order to discuss my courting.”

“It should prove most convenient, your grace,” I said, then chose my next words carefully. “I’ve learned her family’s history, but that will only go so far toward courting a woman.”

Alveron chuckled. “You must take me for a fool,” he said gently. “I know you’ll need to meet her. She will be here in two days, visiting with a host of other nobility. I have declared a month of festivities to celebrate the passing of my long illness.”

“Clever,” I complimented him.

He shrugged. “I’ll arrange something to bring the two of you together early on. Is there anything you require for the practice of your art?”

“A goodly amount of paper should suffice, your grace. Ink and pens.”

“Nothing more than that? I’ve heard tell of poets who need certain extravagancies to aid them in their composition.” He made an inarticulate gesture. “A specific type of drink or scenery? I’ve heard of a poet, quite famous in Renere, who has a trunk of rotting apples he keeps close at hand. Whenever his inspiration fails him, he opens it and breathes the fumes they emit.”

I laughed. “I am a
musician
, your grace. Leave the poets to their superstitious bone rattling. All I need is my instrument, two good hands, and a knowledge of my subject.”

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