Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (87 page)

He dropped some of his unconcerned pose and looked me in the eye. “What could be more direct than a sending?”

The Maer was not the sort of man to be moved through words alone, so I picked up an apple from a bowl of fruit and polished it on my sleeve before handing it to him. “Would you hold this for a moment, your grace?”

He took it, suspiciously. “What’s this about then?”

I walked over to where my lovely burgundy cloak hung on the wall, and retrieved a needle from one of its many pockets. “I’m showing you the sort of thing Caudicus is capable of, your grace.” I held out my hand for the apple.

He gave it back and I looked it over. Holding it at an angle to the light, I saw what I’d hoped for, smudged onto the glossy skin of the apple. I muttered a binding, focused my Alar, and pushed the needle into the center of the blurry imprint his forefinger had made on the apple’s skin.

Alveron twitched and made an inarticulate noise of surprise, staring at his hand as if it had been unexpectedly, say, pricked with a pin.

I’d half-expected him to rebuke me, but he did nothing of the sort. His eyes went wide, his face pale. Then his expression grew thoughtful as he watched the bead of blood swell on the pad of his finger.

He licked his lips and slowly put his finger into his mouth. “I see,” he said quietly. “Such things can be guarded against?” It wasn’t really a question.

I nodded, keeping my expression grave. “Somewhat, your grace. I believe I can create a . . . a charm to protect you. I only regret I didn’t think of this sooner, but with one thing and another—”

“Yes, yes.” The Maer waved me into silence. “And what will you require for such a charm?”

It was a layered question. On the surface he was asking what materials I would need. But the Maer was a practical man. He was asking me my price as well.

“The workshop in Caudicus’ tower should have the equipment I need, your grace. What materials he doesn’t have on hand, I should be able to find in Severen, given time.”

Then I paused, considering the second portion of his question, thinking of the hundred things the Maer could grant me: money enough to swim in, a newly crafted lute of the sort only kings could afford. I felt a shock run through me at the thought. An Antressor lute. I’d never even seen one, but my father had. He’d played one once in Anilin, and sometimes when he’d had a cup of wine he would talk about it, his hands making gentle shapes in the air.

The Maer could arrange this sort of thing in the blink of an eye.

All that and more, of course. Alveron could arrange access to a hundred private libraries. A formal patronage would be no small thing either, coming from him. The Maer’s name would open doors as quickly as the king’s.

“There are a few things,” I said slowly. “That I have been hoping to discuss with your grace. I have a project I need assistance to pursue properly. And I have a friend, a talented musician, who could use a well-placed patron. . . .” I trailed off meaningfully.

Alveron nodded, his grey eyes showing he understood. The Maer was no fool. He knew the cost of a loaf. “I’ll have Stapes get you the keys to Caudicus’ tower,” he said. “How long will this charm take to produce?”

I paused as if considering. “At least four days, your grace.” That would give me time for the muddy waters of my creative well to clear. Or time for Denna to return from whatever errand had pulled her suddenly away. “If I was sure of his equipment, it could be sooner, but I will have to move carefully. I don’t know what Caudicus might have done to foul things before he fled.”

Alveron frowned at this. “Will you be able to continue your current projects as well?”

“No your grace. It will be rather exhausting and time-consuming. Especially since I’m assuming you’d prefer I be circumspect while gathering my materials in Severen-Low?”

“Yes of course.” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Damn and bother, things were going so well. Who can I bring in to write letters while you’re occupied?” He said the last musingly, mostly to himself.

I needed to nip that thought in the bud. I did not want to share credit for Meluan’s courtship with anyone. “I don’t think that will be necessary, your grace. Seven or eight days ago, perhaps. But now, as you say, we have her interest. She is excited, eager for the next contact. If a few days pass with nothing from us, she will be disappointed. But more importantly, she will be anxious for the return of your attention.”

The Maer smoothed his beard with one hand, his expression pensive. I considered making a comparison to playing a fish on a line, but I doubted the Maer had ever engaged in anything so rustic as fishing. “Not to presume, your grace. But in your younger days, did you ever attempt to win the affection of a young lady?”

Alveron smiled at my careful phrasing. “You may presume.”

“Which did you find more interesting? The ones who leapt to your arms straightaway, or those who were more difficult, reluctant, even indifferent to your pursuit?” The Maer’s eyes were far away with remembering. “The same is true of women. Some cannot bear it when a man clings to them. And they all appreciate space to make their own choices. It’s hard to long for something that is always there.”

Alveron nodded. “There is some truth in that. Absence feeds affection.” He nodded more firmly. “Very well. Three days.” He glanced at the gear clock again. “And now I must be—”

“One final thing, your grace,” I said quickly. “The charm I will make must be tuned specifically to you. It will require some of your cooperation.” I cleared my throat. “More precisely, some of your . . .” I cleared my throat. “Substance.”

“Speak plainly.”

“A small amount of blood, saliva, skin, hair, and urine.” I sighed internally, knowing that to someone of the superstitious Vintic mind-set, this would sound like a recipe for a sending or some other equally ridiculous thing.

As I’d expected, the Maer’s eyes narrowed at the list. “While I am no expert,” he said slowly, “those seem to be the very things I should avoid parting with. How can I trust you?”

I could have protested my loyalty, pointed out my past service, or brought to his attention that I’d already saved his life. But over the last month I’d come to know how the Maer’s mind worked.

I gave him my best knowing smile. “You are an intelligent man, your grace. I’m sure you know the answer without my telling you.”

He returned my smile. “Humor me, then.”

I shrugged. “You’re of no use to me if you’re dead, your grace.”

His grey eyes searched mine for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “Very true. Send a message when you need those things.” He turned to leave. “Three days.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Such Madness

I
MADE SEVERAL TRIPS TO Severen-Low to gather materials for Alveron’s gram. Raw gold. Nickel and iron. Coal and etching acids. I acquired the money for these purchases by selling off various pieces of equipment from Caudicus’ workshop. I could have asked the Maer for money, but I’d rather he thought of me as independently resourceful rather than an ongoing financial drain.

Quite by coincidence, in the course of this buying and selling, I visited many of the places Denna and I had spent time together.

I’d grown so accustomed to finding her that now I caught glimpses of her when she wasn’t there. Every day my hopeful heart rose at the sight of her turning a corner, stepping into a cobbler’s, raising her hand to wave from across a courtyard. But it was never truly her, and I returned to the Maer’s estate each evening more desolate than the day before.

Making things worse was the fact that Bredon had left Severen several days ago to visit some nearby relatives. I didn’t realize how much I’d come to depend on him until he was gone.

As I’ve already said, a gram is not particularly difficult to make if you have the proper equipment, a schema, and an Alar like a blade of Ramston steel. The metalworking tools in Caudicus’ tower were serviceable, though nowhere near as nice as those in the Fishery. The schema was no difficulty either, as I have a good memory for such things.

While I was working on the Maer’s gram, I started a second one to replace the one I’d lost. Unfortunately, given the relatively crude nature of the equipment I was working with, I didn’t have time to finish it properly.

I finished the Maer’s gram three days after talking to the Maer, six days after Denna’s sudden disappearance. The following day I abandoned my pointless searching and planted myself in one of the open air-cafés where I drank coffee and tried to find inspiration for the song I owed the Maer. Ten hours I spent there, and the only act of creation I accomplished was to magically transform nearly a gallon of coffee into marvelous, aromatic piss.

That night I drank an unwise amount of scutten and fell asleep at my writing desk. Meluan’s song was still unfinished. The Maer was less than pleased.

Denna reappeared on the seventh day as I wandered our haunts in Severen-Low. Despite all my searching, she saw me first and ran laughing to my side, excited to tell me about a song she’d heard the day before. We spent the day together as easily as if she’d never left.

I didn’t ask her about her unexplained disappearance. I’d known Denna for more than a year now, and I understood a few of the hidden turnings of her heart. I knew she valued her privacy. I knew she had secrets.

That night, we were in a small garden that ran along the very edge of the Sheer. We sat on a wooden bench looking out over the dark city below: a messy splay of lamplight, streetlight, gaslight, with a few rare sharp points of sympathy light scattered throughout.

“I am sorry, you know,” she said softly.

We’d been sitting, quietly watching the lights of the city for nearly a quarter hour. If she was continuing some previous conversation, I couldn’t remember what it was. “Beg pardon?”

When Denna didn’t say anything immediately, I turned to look at her. There was no moon, and the night was dark. Her face was dimly illuminated by the thousand lights below.

“Sometimes I leave,” she said at last. “Quick and quiet in the night.”

Denna didn’t look at me as she spoke, keeping her dark eyes fixed on the city below. “It’s what I do,” she continued, her voice quiet. “I leave. No word or warning first. No explanation after. Sometimes it’s the only thing that I can do.”

She turned to meet my eyes then, her face serious in the dim light. “I hope you know without my telling you,” she said. “I hope I don’t need to say it. . . .”

Denna turned back to look at the glimmering lights below. “But for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

We sat for a while then, enjoying a comfortable silence. I wanted to say something. I wanted to say it didn’t bother me, but that would be a lie. I wanted to tell her all that really mattered to me was that she came back, but I was worried that might be too much truth.

So rather that risk saying the wrong thing, I said nothing. I knew what happened to the men who clung to her too tightly. That was the difference between me and the others. I did not clutch at her, try to own her. I did not slip my arm around her, murmur in her ear, or kiss her unsuspecting cheek.

Certainly, I thought of it. I still remembered the warmth of her when she had thrown her arms around me near the horse lift. There were times I would have given my right hand to hold her again.

But then I thought of the faces of the other men when they realized Denna was leaving them. I thought of all the others who had tried to tie her to the ground and failed. So I resisted showing her the songs and poems I had written, knowing that too much truth can ruin a thing.

And if that meant she wasn’t entirely mine, what of it? I would be the one she could always return to without fear of recrimination or question. So I did not try to win her and contented myself with playing a beautiful game.

But there was always a part of me that hoped for more, and so there was a part of me that was always a fool.

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