The Wise Man's Fear

Bredon smiled. “By the names on these rings, I can tell you’ve seen nothing but the most gaudy and grasping of us. You’re understandably skittish regarding your secrets, whatever they may be.” He leaned forward. “Consider this instead. Those who have approached you are like magpies. They caw and flap around you, hoping to snatch something bright to carry home with them.” He rolled his eyes disdainfully. “What gain is there in that? Some small notoriety, I suppose. Some brief elevation among one’s gaudy, gossipy peers.”

  Bredon ran a hand over his white beard. “I am no magpie. I need nothing shiny, nor do I care what gossipmongers think. I play a longer, more subtle game.” He began to work the drawstring loose on the black velvet bag. “You are a man of some wit. I know this as the Maer does not waste his time with fools. I know you either stand in the Maer’s good grace, or you have a chance to gain that grace. So here is my plan.” He smiled his warm smile again. “Would you like to hear my plan?”

  I found myself smiling back without meaning to, as I had before. “That would be unusually kind of you.”

  “My plan is to insinuate myself into your favor now. I will make myself useful and entertaining. I will provide conversation and a way to pass the time.” He spilled a set of round stones out onto the marble tabletop. “Then, when your star grows ascendant in the Maer’s sky, I may find myself in possession of an unexpectedly useful friend.” He began to sort the stones into their different colors. “And should your star fail to rise, I am still richer by several games of tak.”

  “I also imagine it won’t hurt your reputation to spend several hours alone with me,” I mentioned. “Given that all my other conversations have been barren things not likely to last a quarter hour.”

  “There is some truth to that as well,” he said as he began to arrange the stones. His curious brown eyes smiled at me again. “Oh yes, I think I’m going to have quite a bit of fun playing with you.”

  My next several hours were spent learning how to play tak. Even if I had not been nearly mad with idleness, I would have enjoyed it. Tak is the best sort of game: simple in its rules, complex in its strategy. Bredon beat me handily in all five games we played, but I am proud to say that he never beat me the same way twice.

  After the fifth game he leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “That was approaching a good game. You got clever in the corner here.” He wiggled his fingers at the edge of the board.

  “Not clever enough.”

  “Clever nonetheless. What you attempted is called a brooker’s fall, just so you know.”

  “And what’s the name for the way you got away from it?”

  “I call it Bredon’s defense,” he said, smiling rakishly. “But that’s what I call any maneuver when I get out of a tight corner by being uncommonly clever.”

  I laughed and began to separate the stones again. “Another?”

  Bredon sighed. “Alas, I have an unavoidable appointment. I needn’t hurry out the door, but I don’t have enough time for another game. Not a proper one.”

  His brown eyes looked me over as he began to gather the stones into the velvet bag. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’re familiar with the local customs,” Bredon said. “However, I thought I might give a few general pieces of advice, on the off chance they might be helpful.” He smiled at me. “It would be best to listen, of course. If you refuse, you reveal your knowledge of these things.”

  “Of course,” I said with a straight face.

  Bredon slid open the table’s drawer and pulled out the handful of iron rings we had swept aside to clear the board for our game. “The presentation of the rings implies a great deal. If they are jumbled in a bowl for example, it implies disinterest in the social aspects of the court.”

  He arranged the rings with their engraved names facing me. “Laid out in careful display, they show you are proud of your connections.” He looked up and smiled. “Either way, a new arrival is usually left alone in the sitting room on some pretext. This gives them a chance to paw through your collection in order to satisfy their curiosity.”

  Shrugging, Bredon pushed the rings toward me. “You have, of course, always made a point of offering to return the rings to their owners.” He was careful not to make it into a question.

  “Of course,” I said honestly. Threpe had known that much.

  “It is the most polite thing to do.” He looked up at me, his brown eyes peering owlishly from the halo of his white hair and beard. “Have you worn any of them in public?”

  I held up my bare hands.

  “Wearing a ring can indicate a debt, or that you are attempting to curry favor.” He looked at me. “If the Maer ever declines to take his ring back from you, it would be an indication he was willing to make your connection somewhat more formal.”

  “And not wearing the ring would be viewed as a slight,” I said.

  Bredon smiled. “Perhaps. It is one thing to display a ring in your sitting room, quite another to display it on your hand. Wearing the ring of one’s better can be viewed as quite presumptuous. Also, if you wore another noble’s ring while visiting the Maer, he might take it amiss. As if someone had poached you from his forest.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I mention these things as general talking points,” he said, “suspecting this information is already well known to you, and you are politely letting an old man ramble.”

  “Perhaps I am still reeling from a series of numbing defeats at tak,” I said.

  He waved my comment away, and I noticed he wore no rings of any sort on his fingers. “You took to it quickly, like a baron at a brothel, as they say. I expect you’ll prove a decent challenge after a month or so.”

  “Wait and see,” I said. “I’ll beat you the next time we play.”

  Bredon chuckled. “I like to hear that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smaller velvet bag. “I have also brought you a small gift.”

  “I couldn’t possibly,” I said reflexively. “You’ve already provided me with an afternoon’s entertainment.”

  “Please,” he said, pushing the bag across the table. “I must insist. These are yours without obligation, let, or lien. A freely given gift.”

  I upended the bag and three rings chimed into my palm. Gold, silver, and iron. Each of them had my name etched into the metal: Kvothe.

  “I heard a rumor your luggage was lost,” Bredon said. “And thought these might prove useful.” He smiled. “Especially if you desire another game of tak.”

  I rolled the rings around in my hand, idly wondering if the gold ring was solid or simply plated. “And what ring would I send my new acquaintance if I desired his company?”

  “Well,” Bredon said slowly. “That is complicated. By my rash and unseemly barging into your rooms, I have neglected a proper introduction and failed to inform you as to my title and rank.” His brown eyes looked into mine seriously.

  “And it would be terribly rude of me to inquire about such things,” I said slowly, not quite sure what he was playing at.

  He nodded. “So for now, you must assume I am without either title or rank. That puts us on a curious footing: you unannounced to the court, and myself unannounced to you. As such, it would be fitting for you to send me a silver ring if, in the future, you would like to share a lunch or graciously lose another game of tak.”

  I rolled the silver ring around in my fingers. If I sent it to him, rumor would get around that I was claiming a rank roughly equal to his, and I had no idea what rank that was. “What will people say?”

  His eyes danced a bit. “What indeed?”

  So the days continued to pass. The Maer summoned me for urbane chatter. Magpie nobles sent their cards and rings and were met with polite conversational rebuffment.

  Bredon alone kept me from growing mad with caged boredom. The next day I sent him my new silver ring with a card saying, “At your leisure. My rooms.” Five minutes later he arrived with his tak table and bag of stones. He offered my ring back to me and I accepted it as graciously as p
ossible. I wouldn’t have minded him keeping it. But as he knew, I only had the one.

  Our fifth game was interrupted when I was summoned by the Maer, his ring of iron sitting darkly on the runner’s polished silver tray. I made my apologies to Bredon and hurried off to the gardens.

  Later that night Bredon sent me his own silver ring and a card saying, “After supper.Your rooms.” I wrote “Delighted” on the card and sent it back.

  When he arrived, I offered to return his ring. He politely declined and it joined the rest in the bowl by my door. It sat there for everyone to see, bright silver glittering among the handful of iron.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Courting

  THE MAER HAD NOT called on me for two days.

  I was trapped in my rooms, and near mad with boredom and irritation. Worst was the fact that I didn’t know why the Maer wasn’t calling on me. Was he busy? Had I offended him? I thought of sending him a card along with the gold ring Bredon had given me. But if Alveron were testing my patience, that could be a grave mistake.

  But I was impatient. I had come here to gain a patron, or at least some assistance in my pursuit of the Amyr. So far, all I had to show for my time in the Maer’s service was a profoundly flattened ass. If it hadn’t been for Bredon, I swear I would have gone frothing mad.

  Worse, my lute and Denna’s lovely case were only two days away from becoming someone else’s property. I had hoped by this point to have gained enough of the Maer’s favor that I could ask him for the money I needed to get it out of pawn. I’d wanted him to be indebted to me, not the other way around. Once you owe something to a member of the nobility, it is notoriously difficult to work your way free of their debt.

  But if Alveron’s lack of summons was any indication, I seemed to be far from his good graces. I racked my memory, trying to think of what I might have said during our last conversation that could have offended him.

  I’d pulled a card from the drawer and was trying to think of a politic way of asking the Maer for money when a knock came at the door. Thinking it was my lunch come early, I called for the boy to leave it on the table.

  There was a significant pause that roused me from my reverie. I hurried to the door and was startled to see the Maer’s manservant, Stapes, standing outside. Alveron’s summons had always been delivered by runner before.

  “The Maer would like to see you,” he said. I noticed the manservant looked worn around the edges. His eyes were weary, as if he hadn’t been sleeping enough.

  “In the garden?”

  “In his rooms,” Stapes said. “I will take you there.”

  If the gossiping courtiers were to be believed, Alveron rarely received visitors in his rooms. As I fell into step behind Stapes, I couldn’t help but feel relief. Anything was better than waiting.

  Alveron was propped upright in his great feather bed. He seemed paler and thinner than when I’d seen him last. His eyes were still clear and sharp, but today they held something else, some hard emotion.

  He gestured to a nearby chair. “Kvothe. Come in. Sit down.” His voice was weaker too, but it still carried the weight of command. I sat at his bedside, sensing the time was not appropriate for thanking him for the privilege.

  “Do you know how old I am, Kvothe?” he said without preamble.

  “No, your grace.”

  “What would your guess be? How old do I seem?” I caught the hard emotion in his eyes again: anger. A slow, smoldering anger, like hot coals beneath a thin layer of ash.

  My mind raced, trying to decide what the best answer might be. I didn’t want to risk giving offense, but flattery irritated the Maer unless it was done with consummate subtlety and skill.

  My last resort then. Honesty. “Fifty-one, your grace. Perhaps fifty-two.”

  He nodded slowly, his anger seeming to fade like thunder in the distance. “Never ask a young man your age. I am forty, with a birthday next span. You’re right though, I look fifty years if I look a day. Some might even say you were being generous.” His hands smoothed the bedcovers absently. “It’s a terrible thing, growing old before your time.”

  He stiffened in pain, grimacing. After a moment it passed, and he drew a deep breath. A faint sheen of sweat covered his face. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to speak with you. I don’t seem to be doing very well today.”

  I stood. “Should I fetch Caudicus, your grace?”

  “No,” he spat. “Sit down.”

  I did.

  “This damnable sickness has crept on me this last month, adding years and making me feel them. I have spent my life tending to my lands, but I have been lax in one regard. I have no family, no heir.”

  “Do you mean to take a wife, your grace?”

  He sagged against his pillows. “The rumor has finally gotten around, has it?”

  “No, your grace. I guessed it from what you’ve said in some of our conversations.”

  He gave me a penetrating look. “Truthfully? A guess and not from a rumor?”

  “Truthfully, your grace. There are rumors, a whole courtload, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

  “ ‘Courtload.’ That’s good.” He smiled a thin whisper of a smile.

  “But most of it concerns some mysterious visitor from the west.” I performed a small seated bow. “There’s nothing of marriage. Everyone sees you as the world’s first bachelor.”

  “Ah,” he said, his face showing his relief. “That used to be the case. My father tried to marry me off when I was younger. I was rather strong-headed about not taking a wife at the time. That’s another problem with power. If you possess too much, people don’t dare point out your mistakes. Power can be a terrible thing.”

  “I imagine so, your grace.”

  “It takes away your choices,” he said. “It gives a man opportunities, but at the same time it takes others away. My situation is difficult, to say the least.”

  Over the course of my life I’ve been hungry too many times to feel much empathy for the nobility. But the Maer looked so pale and weak as he lay there that I felt a flicker of sympathy. “What situation is that, your grace?”

  Alveron struggled to sit upright against his pillows. “If I am to be married, it must be to someone suitable. Someone from a family well-positioned as my own. Not only that, but this cannot be a marriage of alliance. The girl must be young enough to—” He cleared his throat, a papery noise. “Produce an heir. Several if possible.” He looked up at me. “Do you begin to see my problem?”

  I nodded slowly. “Just the bare shape of it, your grace. How many such daughters are there?”

  “A bare handful,” Alveron said, a hint of the old fire coming back to his voice. “But it can’t be one of the young women the king has under his control. Bargaining chips and treaty sealers. My family has fought to hold our plenary powers since the founding of Vintas. I won’t negotiate with that bastard Roderic for a wife. I won’t remit a grain of power to him.”

  “How many women are beyond the king’s control, your grace?”

  “One.” The word fell like a lead weight. “And that is not the worst of it. The woman is perfect in every way. Her family is respectable. She is educated. Young. Beautiful.” The last word seemed to come hard to him.

  “She is pursued by a flock of love-struck courtiers, strong young men with honey on their tongues. They want her for every reason, her name, her land, her wit.” He gave a long pause. “How will she respond to the courting of a sick old man who walks with a stick when he can walk at all?” His mouth twisted, as if the words were bitter.

  “But surely your position . . .” I began.

  He lifted a hand and looked me squarely in the eye. “Would you marry a woman you had bought?”

  I looked down. “No, your grace.”

  “Neither will I. The thought of using my position to persuade this girl to marry me is . . . distasteful.”

  We were quiet for a moment. Outside the window I watched two squirrels chase each other around the ta
ll trunk of an ash tree. “Your grace, if I am going to help you pay court to this lady . . .” I felt the heat of the Maer’s anger before I turned to see it. “I beg pardon, your grace. I’ve overstepped myself.”

  “Is this another one of your guesses then?”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. Then he sighed, and the tension in the room faded. “I must ask your pardon. This clawing pain wears my temper thin, and it is not my custom to discuss personal matters with strangers, much less have them guessed from underneath me. Tell me the rest of what you guess. Be bold, if you must.”

  I breathed a little easier. “I guess you want to marry this woman. To suit your duty, primarily, but also because you love her.”

  There was another pause, not so bad as the last one, but tense nonetheless. “Love,” he said slowly, “is a word the foolish use too often. She is worthy of love, that is certain. And I have a fondness for her.” He looked uncomfortable. “That is all I will say.” He turned to look at me. “Can I count on your discretion?”

  “Of course, your grace. But why so secretive about it?”

  “I prefer to move at a time of my own choosing. Rumor forces us to act before we are ready, or ruins a situation before it becomes fully ripe.”

  “I understand. What is the lady’s name?”

  “Meluan Lackless,” he said her name carefully. “Now, I have discovered for myself that you are charming and well-mannered. What’s more, Count Threpe assures me you are a great maker and player of songs. These things are exactly what I need. Will you enter my service in this regard?”

  I hesitated. “How exactly will your grace be putting me to use?”

  He gave me a skeptical look. “I would think it rather obvious for so excellent a guesser as yourself.”

  “I know you hope to court the lady, your grace. But I don’t know how. Do you want me to compose a letter or two? Write her songs? Will I climb balconies by moonlight to leave flowers on her windowsill? Dance with her wearing a mask, claiming your name as my own?” I gave him a wan smile. “I’m not much of a dancer, your grace.”