The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE Interlude—Din of Whispering

“Reshi!” Bast cried out, his face stricken. “No! Stop!” He held out his hands as if he would press them against the innkeeper’s mouth. “You shouldn’t say such things!”

Kvothe smiled in a humorless way. “Bast, who taught you your name lore in the first place?”

“Not you, Reshi.” Bast shook his head. “There are things every Fae child knows. It’s never good to speak such things aloud. Not ever.”

“And why is that?” Kvothe prompted in his best teacher’s voice.

“Because some things can tell when their names are spoken,” Bast swallowed. “They can tell where they’re spoken.”

Kvothe gave a somewhat exasperated sigh. “There’s small harm in saying a name once, Bast.” He sat back in his chair. “Why do you think the Adem have their traditions surrounding that particular story? Only once and no questions after?”

Bast’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Kvothe gave him a small, tight smile. “Exactly. Trying to find someone who speaks your name once is like tracking a man through a forest from a single footprint.”

Chronicler spoke up hesitantly, as if afraid of interrupting. “Can such a thing really be done?” he asked. “Truthfully?”

Kvothe nodded grimly. “I expect that’s how they found my troupe when I was young.”

Chronicler looked around nervously, then frowned and made an obvious effort to stop. The result was that he sat very still, looking every bit as nervous as before. “Does that mean they might come here? You’ve certainly been talking about them enough. . . .”

Kvothe made a dismissive gesture. “No. Names are the key. Real names. Deep names. And I have been avoiding them for just that reason. My father was a great one for details. He had been asking questions and digging up old stories about the Chandrian for years. I expect he stumbled onto a few of their old names and worked them into his song. . . .”

Understanding washed over Chronicler’s face. “. . . and then rehearsed it again and again.”

The innkeeper gave a faint, fond smile. “Endlessly, if I knew him at all. I have no doubt he and my mother did their solid best to work every tiny burr out of their song before they made it public. They were perfectionists.” He gave a tired sigh. “To the Chandrian, it must have been like someone constantly lighting a signal fire. I expect the only thing that kept them safe for so long was that we were constantly traveling.”

Bast broke in again. “Which is why you shouldn’t say such things, Reshi.”

Kvothe frowned. “I have slept my thousand nights and traveled several thousand miles since then, Bast. It is safe to say them once. With all the hell that’s breaking loose in the world these days you can believe people are telling old stories more often. If the Chandrian are listening for names, I don’t doubt they’ve got a slow din of whispering from Arueh to the Circle Sea.”

Bast’s expression made it clear he was less than reassured.

“Besides,” Kvothe said with a bit of a weary sigh. “It’s good to have them written down. They may prove useful to someone someday.”

“Still Reshi, you should be more careful.”

“What have I been these last years except for careful, Bast?” Kvothe said, his irritation finally bubbling to the surface. “What good has it done me? Besides, if what you say about the Cthaeh is true, then things will end in tears no matter what I do. Isn’t that right?”

Bast opened his mouth, then closed it, obviously at a loss. Then he darted a look toward Chronicler, his eyes pleading for support.

Seeing this, Kvothe turned to look at Chronicler as well, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“I’m sure I don’t know in the least,” Chronicler said, looking down as he opened his satchel and brought out an ink-stained piece of cloth. “Both of you have seen the full extent of my naming prowess: Iron. And that is a fluke by all accounts. Master Namer declared me an utter waste of his time.”

“That sounds familiar,” Kvothe murmured.

Chronicler shrugged. “In my case I took him at his word.”

“Can you remember the excuse he gave you?”

“He had many specific criticisms: I knew too many words. I’d never been hungry. I was too soft. . . .” Chronicler’s hands were busy cleaning the nib of his pen. “I felt he made his overall position clear when he said, ‘Who would have thought a papery little scriv like you could have any iron in him at all?’ ”

Kvothe’s mouth quirked into a sympathetic smile. “Did he really?”

Chronicler shrugged. “He called me a twat, actually. I was trying not to offend the innocent ears of our young friend here.” He nodded at Bast. “From what I can tell, he’s had a rough day.”

Kvothe smiled in full now. “It’s a shame we weren’t ever at the University at the same time.”

Chronicler gave the nib one last rub against the soft cloth and held it up to the fading light from the inn’s window. “Not really,” he said. “You wouldn’t have liked me. I was a papery little twat. And spoiled. And full of myself.”

“And what’s changed since then?” Kvothe asked.

Chronicler blew air through his nose dismissively. “Not much, depending who you ask. But I like to think I’ve had my eyes opened a bit.” He screwed the nib carefully back into his pen.

“And how did that happen, exactly?” Kvothe asked.

Chronicler looked across the table, seeming surprised at the question. “Exactly?” he asked. “Telling a story isn’t what I’m here for.” He tucked the cloth back into his satchel. “In brief, I had a snit and left the University looking for greener pasture. Best thing I ever did. I learned more from a month on the road than I had in three years of classes.”

Kvothe nodded. “Teccam said the same thing: No man is brave that has never walked a hundred miles. If you want to know the truth of who you are, walk until not a person knows your name. Travel is the great leveler, the great teacher, bitter as medicine, crueler than mirror-glass. A long stretch of road will teach you more about yourself than a hundred years of quiet introspection.”