“The matter was tended to,” Stapes repeated. “Properly.” He said the last with a great weight of grim finality. His normally kind eyes were narrow with hate. In that moment the round-faced little man looked very little like a grocer at all.
I remembered Alveron calmly saying, “take off his thumbs.” Given what I knew of Alveron’s swift and decisive anger, I doubted anyone would ever see Caudicus again.
“Did the Maer manage to uncover why?” Even though I spoke softly, I left the rest unsaid, knowing Stapes would not approve of my mentioning the poisoning openly.
“It’s not my place to say,” Stapes said carefully. His tone was slightly offended, as if I should know better than to ask him such things.
I let the subject go, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get anything else out of Stapes. “You’d be doing me a favor if you could deliver something to the Maer for me,” I said, walking to where I’d dropped my worn travelsack. I rooted through it until I found the Maer’s lockbox down near the bottom.
I held it out to Stapes. “I’m not sure what’s in it,” I said. “But it’s got his crest on the top. And it’s heavy. I hope it might be some of the taxes that were stolen.” I smiled. “Tell him it’s a wedding present.”
Stapes took hold of the box, smiling. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
Three more runners appeared, but only two of them ran past with steaming buckets. The third went to Stapes and handed him a note. There was more splashing in the other room, and all three of the boys left again, stealing glances at me
Stapes skimmed the note then looked up at me. “The Maer is hoping it would be convenient for you to meet him in the garden at fifth bell,” he said.
The garden meant polite conversation. If the Maer had wanted a serious discussion he would have summoned me to his rooms, or paid me a call through the secret passage that connected his rooms with mine.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t a sympathy clock of the sort I was used to at the University. This was a harmony clock, swinging pendulum and all. Beautiful machinery, but not nearly as accurate. Its hands showed a quarter to the hour.
“Is that clock fast, Stapes?” I asked hopefully. Fifteen minutes was barely enough time for me to strip out of my road clothes and lace myself into some sufficiently decorous court finery. But given the layers of dirt and sour sweat that covered me, that would be as pointless as tying a silk ribbon around a steaming cowpat.
Stapes looked over my shoulder, then checked a small gear watch he kept in his pocket. “It looks about five minutes slow, actually.”
I rubbed my face, considering my options. I wasn’t simply mussed from a day’s travel. I was filthy. I had walked hard under the summer sun, then spent days trapped in a stifling-hot carriage. While the Maer was not one to judge things entirely by appearances, he did value propriety. I would not make a good impression if I showed up reeking and filthy.
Unbidden, the memory of the iron gibbet rose up in my mind, and I decided I couldn’t risk making a bad impression. Not with the news I brought. “Stapes, I won’t be ready for at least an hour. I could meet with him at sixth bell if he would like.”
Stapes’ expression turned stiff and affronted. Its message was clear. You simply didn’t request a different meeting time with the Maer Alveron. He asked. You came. That was the way of things.
“Stapes,” I said as gently as I could. “Look at me. Smell me. I’ve come three hundred miles in the last span of days. I’m not going to go strolling in the garden covered in road dust and reeking like a barbarian.”
Stapes’ mouth firmed into a frown. “I’ll tell him you’re otherwise occupied.”
More steaming buckets arrived. “Tell him the truth, Stapes,” I said as I began to unbutton my shirt. “I’m sure he’ll understand.”
After I was scrubbed, brushed, and properly dressed, I sent the Maer my golden ring and a card that said, “Private conversation at your earliest convenience.”
Within an hour a runner returned with a card from the Maer saying, “Await my summons.”
I waited. I sent a runner to fetch dinner, then waited the rest of the evening. The following day passed without any further message. And, because I didn’t know when Alveron’s summons might come, I was effectively trapped in my rooms again, waiting for his ring.
It was nice to have time to catch up on my sleep and have a second bath. But I was worried about the news from Levinshir catching up with me. The fact that I couldn’t make my way down to Severen-Low to look for Denna was a vast irritation as well.
It was the sort of silent rebuke all too common in courtly settings. The Maer’s message was clear: When I call, you come. My terms or not at all.
It was childish in the way only the nobility can be. Still, there was nothing to be done. So I sent my silver ring to Bredon. He arrived in time to share supper with me and caught me up on the season’s worth of gossip I’d missed. Court rumor can be terribly insipid stuff, but Bredon skimmed the cream off the top for me.
Most of it centered around the Maer’s whirlwind courtship and marriage to the Lackless heir. They were besotted with each other, apparently. Many suspected a child might already be on the way. The royal court in Renere was busy too. The Prince Regent Alaitis had been killed in a duel, sending much of the southern farrel into chaos as various nobility did their best to capitalize on the death of such a highly ranked member of the court.
There were rumors too. The Maer’s men had taken care of some bandits off in a remote piece of the Eld. They’d been waylaying tax collectors, apparently. There was grumbling in the north, where folk had to suffer a second visit from the Maer’s collectors. But at least the roads were clear again, and those responsible were dead.
Bredon also mentioned an interesting rumor of a young man who had gone to visit Felurian and come back more or less intact, though slightly fae around the edges. It wasn’t a court rumor, exactly. More the sort of thing you heard in a taproom. A low sort of rumor no highborn person would ever deign to lend an ear to. His dark, owlish eyes glittered merrily as he spoke.
I agreed that such stories were indeed quite low, and beneath the notice of fine persons such as ourselves. My cloak? It was rather fine, was it not? I couldn’t remember where exactly I’d had it tailored. Somewhere exotic. By the way, I’d heard quite an interesting song the other day on the subject of Felurian. Would he like to hear it?
We also played tak, of course. Despite the fact that I had spent a long time away from the board, Bredon said my playing was much improved. It seemed I was learning how to play a beautiful game.
Needless to say, when Alveron sent his next summons, I came. I was tempted to arrive a few minutes late, but I resisted, knowing no good could come of it.
The Maer was walking about on his own when I met him in the garden. He stood straight and tall, looking for all the world as if he’d never needed to lean on my arm or use a walking stick.
“Kvothe,” he smiled warmly. “I’m glad you could find time to visit me.”
“Always my pleasure, your grace.”
“Shall we walk?” he asked. “The view is pleasant from the south bridge this time of day.”
I fell into step beside him, and we began to wind our way among the carefully tended hedges.
“I could not help but notice that you are armed,” he remarked, disapproval heavy on his voice.
My hand went unconsciously to Caesura. It was at my hip now, rather than over my shoulder. “Is there aught amiss with that, your grace? I have understood that all men keep the right to gird themselves in Vintas.”
“It is hardly proper.” He stressed the word.
“I understand that in the king’s court in Renere, there’s not a gentleman would dare be seen without a sword.”
“Well-spoken as you are, you are no gentleman,” Alveron pointed out coolly, “as you would do well to remember.”
I said nothing.
“Besides, it is a barbarian custom, and one that will bring
the king to grief in time. No matter what the custom in Renere, in my city, my house, and my garden, you will not come before me armed.” He turned to look at me with hard eyes.
“I apologize if I have given any offense, your grace.” I stopped and offered him a more earnest bow than the one I’d given before.
My show of submission seemed to appease him. He smiled and laid a hand on my shoulder. “There’s no need for all that. Come, look at the mourningfire. The leaves will be turning soon.”
We walked for a piece of an hour, chatting amiably about small nothings. I was unfailingly polite and Alveron’s mood continued to improve. If catering to his ego kept me in his good graces, it was a small price to pay for his patronage.
“I must say that marriage suits your grace.”
“Thank you.” He nodded graciously. “I have found it much to my liking.”
“And your health continues well?” I asked, pressing the boundaries of public conversation.
“Exceeding well,” he said. “Another benefit of married life, no doubt.” He gave me a look that told me he would not appreciate further inquiry, at least not in so public a place as this.
We continued our walk, nodding to the nobles we passed. The Maer chatted on about trivialities, rumors in the court. I played along, filling my part in the conversation. But the truth was, I needed to have done with this so we could have an earnest conversation in private.
But I also knew Alveron could not be rushed into a discussion. Our talks had a ritual pattern. If I violated that, I would do nothing but annoy him. So I bided my time, smelled the flowers, and pretended interest in the gossip of the court.
After a quarter hour, there was a characteristic pause in the conversation. Next we would engage in an argument. After that we could go somewhere private enough to speak of important matters.
“I have always thought,” Alveron said at last, introducing the topic of our discussion, “that everyone has a question that rests in the center of who they are.”
“How do you mean, your grace?”
“I believe everyone has some question that drives them. A question that keeps them awake nights. A question they worry like a dog with an old bone. If you understand a man’s question, it brings you closer to understanding the man himself.” He looked sideways at me, half-smiling. “Or so I have always believed.”
I thought on it for a moment. “I would have to agree with you, your grace.”
Alveron raised an eyebrow at this. “As easy as that?” He sounded slightly disappointed. “I was expecting a bit of a struggle from you.”
I shook my head, glad for the easy opportunity to introduce a topic of my own. “I’ve been worrying at a question for some years now, and I expect I will worry it some few years more. So what you say makes a perfect sense to me.”
“Really?” he said hungrily. “What is it?”
I considered telling him the truth. About my search for the Chandrian and the death of my troupe. But there was no real chance of that. That secret still sat in my heart, heavy as a great smooth stone. It was too personal a thing to tell someone as clever as the Maer. What’s more, it would reveal my Edema Ruh blood, something I had not made public knowledge in the Maer’s court. The Maer knew I wasn’t nobility, but he didn’t know my blood was quite so low as that.
“It must be a heavy question for you to take so long in weighing it,” Alveron joked as I hesitated. “Come, I insist. In fact I will offer you a trade, a question for a question. Mayhap we will help each other to an answer.”
I could hardly hope for better encouragement than that. I thought for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “Where are the Amyr?”
“The bloody-handed Amyr,” Alveron mused softly to himself. He glanced sideways at me. “I assume you are not asking where their bodies are bestowed?”
“No, your grace,” I said somberly.
His face turned thoughtful. “Interesting.” I drew a relieved breath. I had half expected him to give a flip response, to tell me the Amyr were centuries dead. Instead he said, “I studied the Amyr a great deal when I was younger, you know.”
“Truly, your grace?” I said, surprised by my own good luck.
He looked at me, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Not that surprising. I wanted to be one of the Amyr when I was a boy.” He looked ever so slightly embarrassed. “Not all the stories are dark, you know. They did important things. They made hard choices that no one else was willing to. That sort of thing frightens people, but I believe they were a great force for good.”
“I’ve always thought so too,” I admitted. “Out of curiosity, which was your favorite story?”
“Atreyon,” Alveron said a little wistfully. “I haven’t thought of that in years. I could probably recite the Eight Oaths of Atreyon from memory.” He shook his head and glanced in my direction. “And you?”
“Atreyon is a bit bloody for me,” I admitted.
Alveron looked amused. “They weren’t called the bloody-handed Amyr for nothing,” he said. “The tattoos of the Ciradae were hardly decorative.”
“True,” I admitted. “Still, I prefer Sir Savien.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding. “You’re a romantic.”
We walked in silence for a moment, turning a corner and strolling past a fountain. “I was enamored with them as a child,” Alveron said at last, as if confessing something slightly embarassing. “Men and women with all the power of the church behind them. And that was at a time when all the power of Atur stood behind the church.” He smiled. “Brave, fierce, and answerable to no one save themselves and God.”
“And other Amyr,” I added.
“And, ultimately, the pontifex,” he finished. “I assume you’ve read his proclamation declaiming them?”
“Yes.”
We came to a small arching bridge of wood and stone, then stopped at the top of the arch and looked out over the water, watching the swans maneuver slowly on the current. “Do you know what I found when I was younger?” the Maer asked.
I shook my head.
“Once I’d grown too old for children’s stories of the Amyr, I started wondering more specific things. How many Amyr were there? How many were gentry? How many horse could they put to field for an armed action?” He turned slightly to gauge my reaction. “I was in Felton at the time. They have an old Aturan mendary where they keep church records for the whole of the northern farrel. I looked through their books for two days. Do you know what I found?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You didn’t find anything.”
Alveron turned to look at me. His expression held a carefully controlled surprise.
“I found the same thing at the University,” I said. “It seemed as if someone had removed information about the Amyr from the Archives there. Not everything, of course. But there were scarce few solid details.”
I could see the Maer’s own conclusions sparking to life behind his clever grey eyes. “And who would do such a thing?” he prompted.
“Who would have better reason than the Amyr themselves?” I said. “Which means they are still around, somewhere.”
“Thus your question.” Alveron started walking again, slower than before. “Where are the Amyr?”
We left the bridge and began to walk the path around the pond, the Maer’s face full of serious thought. “Would you believe I had the same thought after searching in the mendary?” he asked me. “I thought the Amyr might have avoided being brought to trial. Gone into hiding. I thought there might even be Amyr in the world after all this while, acting in secret for the greater good.”
I could feel the excitement bubbling in my chest. “What did you discover?” I asked eagerly.
“Discover?” Alveron looked surprised. “Nothing. My father died that year and I became Maer. I dismissed it as a boyish fancy.” He looked out over the water and the gently gliding swans. “But if you found this same thing half a world away. . . .” He trailed off.
“And I drew the same c
onclusion, your grace.”
Alveron nodded slowly. “It is disturbing that there might be a secret this important.” He looked around the garden at the walls of his estate. “And in my own lands. I don’t like that.” He turned back to me, his eyes sharp and clear. “How do you propose to search them out?”
I smiled ruefully. “As your grace pointed out, no matter how well-spoken or well-educated I am, I will never be nobility. I lack the connections and the resources to research this as thoroughly as I would like. But with your name to open doors, I could make a search of many private libraries. I could access archives and records too private or too hidden to be pruned. . . .”
Alveron nodded, his eyes not leaving mine. “I think I understand you. I, for one, would give a great deal to know the truth of this matter.”
He looked away as the sound of laughter drifted upward, mixing with the footsteps of a group of approaching nobles. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about,” he said in softer tones. “We will discuss this further in more privacy.”
“What time would be convenient for you to meet, your grace?”
Alveron gave me a long, speculative look. “Come to my rooms this evening. And since I cannot give you an answer, let me offer you a question of my own instead.”
“I value questions near as much, your grace.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-EIGHT
Notes
WITH NEARLY FIVE HOURS until my meeting with the Maer, I was finally free to go about my business in Severen-Low. From the horse lifts, the sky was so clear and blue it could break your heart to look at it. With that in mind, I made my way to the Four Tapers inn.
The taproom wasn’t busy, so it isn’t surprising that the innkeeper spotted me heading toward the back stairs. “Stop you!” he called out in broken Aturan. “Pay! Room only for paying men!”
Not wanting a scene, I approached the bar. The innkeeper was a thin, greasy man with a thick Lenatti accent. I smiled at him. “I was just visiting a friend. The woman in room three. Long dark hair.” I gestured to show how long. “Is she still here?”