The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX Interlude—Close to Forgetting

Kvothe held up a hand to Chronicler. “Let’s take a moment, shall we?” He looked around the dark inn. “I’ve let myself get a little caught up in the story. I should tend to a few things before it gets any later.”

The innkeeper came stiffly to his feet and stretched. He lit a candle at the fireplace and moved around the inn, lighting the lamps one by one, driving back the dark by slow degrees.

“I was focused rather closely myself,” Chronicler said, standing up and stretching. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Bast said. “I’m hungry.”

Chronicler looked out the dark window into the street. “I’d have thought you’d have had at least a few folks in for dinner by now. You pulled a good crowd for lunch.”

Kvothe nodded. “We would’ve seen a few of my regulars if not for Shep’s funeral.”

“Ah.” Chronicler looked down. “I’d forgotten. Is that something I’ve kept you two from attending?”

Kvothe lit the last lamp behind the bar and blew out his candle. “Not really,” he said. “Bast and I aren’t from around these parts. And they’re practical folk. They know I have a business to run, such as it is.”

“And you don’t get along with Abbe Leodin,” Bast said.

“And I don’t get along with the local priest,” Kvothe admitted. “But you should make an appearance, Bast. It will seem odd if you don’t.”

Bast’s eyes darted around nervously. “I don’t want to leave, Reshi.”

Kvothe smiled warmly at him. “You should, Bast. Shep was a good man, go have a drink to send him off. In fact . . .” He bent and rummaged around under the bar for a moment before coming up with a bottle. “Here. A fine old bottle of brand. Better stuff than anyone around here asks for. Go share it around.” He set it on the bar with a solid sound.

Bast took an involuntary step forward, his face conflicted. “But Reshi, I . . .”

“Pretty girls dancing, Bast,” Kvothe said, his voice low and soothing. “Someone on the fiddle and all of them just glad to be alive. Kicking up their skirts to the music. Laughing and a little tipsy. Their cheeks all rosy and ready to be kissed. . . .” He gave the heavy brown bottle a nudge, and it slid down the bar toward his student. “You’re my ambassador to the town. I may be stuck minding the shop, but you can be there and make my apologies.”

Bast closed his hand around the neck of the bottle. “I’ll have one drink,” he said, his voice thick with resolve. “And one dance. And one kiss with Katie Miller. And maybe another with the Widow Creel. But that’s all.” He looked Kvothe in the eye. “I’ll only be gone half an hour. . . .”

Kvothe gave a warm smile. “I have things to tend to, Bast. I’ll cobble together dinner and we’ll give our friend’s hand a bit of a rest.”

Bast grinned and picked up the bottle. “Two dances then!” He bolted for the door, and when he opened it the wind gusted around him, swirling his hair wildly. “Save me something to eat!” He shouted over his shoulder.

The door banged shut.

Chronicler gave the innkeeper a curious look.

Kvothe gave a small shrug. “He was getting too tangled up in the story. He can’t feel a thing halfway. A little time away will give him some perspective. Besides, I do have dinner to prepare, even if it’s only for three.”

The scribe brought a grimy piece of cloth out of his leather satchel and looked at it with some distaste. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a clean rag?” he asked.

Kvothe nodded and brought out a white linen cloth from beneath the bar. “Is there anything else you need?”

Chronicler stood and walked over to the bar. “If you had some strong spirits it would be a great help,” he said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “I hate to ask, but when I was robbed . . .”

Kvothe waved the comment away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I should have asked you yesterday if there was anything you needed.” He moved out from behind the bar toward the basement stairs. “I’m assuming wood alcohol would work best?”

Chronicler nodded, and Kvothe disappeared into the basement. The scribe picked up the crisply folded square of linen and rubbed it idly between his fingers. Then his eyes wandered up to the sword hanging high on the wall behind the bar. The grey metal of the blade was striking against the dark wood of the mounting board.

Kvothe came back up the steps carrying a small clear bottle. “Is there anything else you need? I have a good stock of paper and ink here too.”

“It may come to that by tomorrow,” Chronicler said. “I’ve used up most of my paper. But I can grind more ink tonight.”

“Don’t put yourself to the trouble,” Kvothe said easily. “I have several bottles of fine Aruean ink.”

“True Aruean ink?” Chronicler asked, surprised.

Kvothe gave a broad smile and nodded.

“That’s terribly kind of you,” Chronicler said, relaxing a bit. “I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to spending an hour grinding tonight.” He gathered up the clear bottle and cloth, then paused. “Would you mind if I asked you a question? Unofficially, as it were?”

A smirk curled the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Very well then, unofficially.”

“I can’t help notice that your description of Caesura doesn’t . . .” Chronicler hesitated. “Well, it doesn’t quite seem to match the actual sword itself.” His eyes flicked to the sword behind the bar. “The hand guard isn’t what you described.”

Kvothe gave a wide grin. “Well you’re just sharp as anything, aren’t you?”

“I don’t mean to imply—” Chronicler said quickly, looking embarrassed.

Kvothe laughed a rich warm laugh. The sound of it tumbled around the room, and for a moment the inn didn’t feel empty at all. “No. You’re absolutely right.” He turned to look at the sword. “This isn’t . . . what did the boy call it this morning?” His eyes went distant for a moment, then he smiled again. “Kaysera. The poet killer.”

“I was just curious,” Chronicler said apologetically.

“Am I supposed to be offended that you’re paying attention?” Kvothe laughed again. “What fun is there in telling a story if nobody’s listening?” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Right then. Dinner. What would you like? Hot or cold? Soup or stew? I’m a dab hand at pudding too.”

They settled on something simple to avoid restoking the stove in the kitchen. Kvothe moved briskly around the inn, gathering what was needed. He hummed to himself as he fetched cold mutton and half a hard, sharp cheese from the basement.

“These will be a nice surprise for Bast.” Kvothe grinned at Chronicler as he brought out a jar of brined olives from the pantry. “He can’t know we have them or he’d have eaten them already.” He untied his apron, pulling it off over his head. “I think we have a few tomatoes left in the garden too.”

Kvothe returned after several minutes with his apron wrapped into a bundle. He was spattered with rain and his hair was in wild disarray. He wore a boyish grin, and at that moment he looked very little like the somber, slowmoving innkeeper.

“It can’t quite decide if it wants to storm,” he said as he set his apron on the bar, carefully removing the tomatoes. “But if it makes up its mind, we’re in for a wagon-tipper tonight.” He began to hum absentmindedly while he cut and arranged everything on a broad wooden platter.

The door of the Waystone opened and a sudden gust of wind made the lamplight flicker. Two soldiers came in, hunched against the weather, their swords sticking out like tails behind them. Dark spatters of rain spotted the fabric of their blue and white tabards.

They dropped their heavy packs, and the shorter of the two pressed his shoulder to the door, forcing it closed against the wind.

“God’s teeth,” said the taller one, straightening his clothes. “It’s a bad night to be caught in the open.” He was bald on top, with a thick black beard that was flat as a spade. He looked at Kvothe, “Ho boy!” he said cheerfully. “We were glad to see your light. Run and fetch the owner, would you? We need to have a word with him.”

Kvothe picked his apron up off the bar and ducked his head into it. “That would be me,” he said, clearing his throat as he tied the strings around his waist. He ran his hands through his tousled hair, smoothing it down.

The bearded soldier peered at him, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Any chance of us getting a spot of dinner?”

The innkeeper gestured to the empty room. “It didn’t seem worth putting the kettle on tonight,” he said. “But we’ve got what you see here.”

The two soldiers strode to the bar. The blonde one ran his hands through his curly hair, shaking a few drops of rain out of it. “This town looks deader than ditchwater,” he said. “We didn’t see a single light but this.”

“Long harvest day,” the innkeeper said. “And there’s a wake tonight at one of the nearby farms. The four of us are probably the only folk in town right now.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Can I interest you fine folk in a drink to take off the chill?” He brought out a bottle of wine and sat it on the bar with a solid, satisfying sound.

“Well that’s a difficulty,” the blonde soldier said with a bit of an embarrassed smile. “I’d dearly love a drink, but my friend and I just took the king’s coin.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a bright gold coin. “This is all the money I have on me. I don’t suppose you have enough to break a whole royal, would you?”

“I’m stuck with mine too,” the bearded soldier groused. “Most money I’ve ever had, but it don’t spend well in a lump. Most of the towns we’ve been through could barely make change for ha’penny.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“I should be able to help you out with that,” the innkeeper said easily.

The two soldiers exchanged a look. The blonde one nodded.

“Right then.” The blonde soldier put the coin back in his pocket. “Here’s the truth. We aren’t really going to be stopping for the night.” He picked up a piece of cheese off the bar and took a bite. “And we aren’t going to be paying for anything either.”

“Ah,” the innkeeper said. “I see.”

“And if you’ve got enough money in your purse to change out two gold royals,” the bearded one said eagerly, “then we’ll have that off you as well.”

The blonde soldier spread his hands in a calming gesture. “Now this don’t need to be any sort of ugly thing. We aren’t bad folk. You pass over your purse and we go on our way. No folk get hurt, and nothing gets wrecked. It’s bound to sting a bit.” He raised an eyebrow at the innkeeper. “But a little sting beats hell out of getting yourself killed. Am I right?”

The bearded soldier looked over at where Chronicler sat near the hearth. “This hain’t got nothing to do with you, either,” he said grimly, his beard waggling as he spoke. “We don’t want anything of yours. You just stay sat where you’re at and don’t get feisty on us.”

Chronicler shot a glance to the man behind the bar, but the innkeeper’s eyes were fixed on the two soldiers.

The blonde one took another bite of cheese while his eyes wandered around the inn. “Young man like you is doing pretty well for himself. You’ll be doing just as well after we’re gone. But if you start trouble, we’ll feed you your teeth, wreck up the place, and you’ll still be out your purse.” He dropped the rest of the cheese on the bar and clapped his hands together briskly. He smiled. “So, are we all going to be civilized folk?”

“That seems reasonable,” Kvothe said as he walked out from behind the bar. He moved slowly and carefully, the way you would approach a skittish horse. “I’m certainly no barbarian.” Kvothe reached down and removed his purse from his pocket. He held it out in one hand.

The blonde soldier walked over to him, swaggering just a bit. He took hold of the purse and hefted it appreciatively. He turned to smile at his friend. “You see, I told—”

In a smooth motion, Kvothe stepped forward and struck the man hard in the jaw. The soldier staggered and fell to one knee. The purse arced through the air and hit the floorboards with a solid metallic thud.

Before the soldier could do more than shake his head, Kvothe stepped forward and calmly kicked him in the shoulder. Not a sharp kick of the sort that breaks bones, but a hard kick that sent him sprawling backward. The man landed hard on the floor, rolling to a stop in a messy tangle of arms and legs.

The other soldier stepped past his friend, grinning wide under his beard. He was taller than Kvothe, and his fists were broad knots of scar and knuckle. “Right cully,” he said, dark satisfaction in his voice. “You’re gettin’ a kickin’ now.”

He snapped out a quick punch, but Kvothe stepped aside and kicked out sharply, hitting the soldier just above the knee. The bearded man grunted in surprise, stumbling slightly. Then Kvothe stepped close, caught the bearded man’s shoulder, gripped his wrist, and twisted his outstretched arm at an awkward angle.

The big man was forced to bend over, grimacing in pain. Then he jerked his arm roughly out of the innkeeper’s grip. Kvothe had half a moment to look startled before the soldier’s elbow caught him in the temple.

The innkeeper staggered backward, trying to gain a little distance and a moment to clear his head. But the soldier followed close after him, fists raised, waiting for an opening.

Before Kvothe could regain his balance, the soldier stepped close and drove a fist hard into his gut. The innkeeper let out a pained huff of air, and as he started to double over the soldier swung his other fist into the side of the innkeeper’s face, snapping Kvothe’s head to the side and sending him reeling.

Kvothe managed to keep his feet by grabbing a nearby table for support. Blinking, he threw a wild punch to keep the bearded man at a distance. But the solider merely brushed it aside and caught hold of the innkeeper’s wrist in one huge hand, easy as a father might grab hold of a wayward child in the street.

Blood running down the side of his face, Kvothe struggled to free his wrist. Dazed, he made a quick motion with both hands, then repeated it, trying to pull away. His eyes half-focused and dull with confusion, he looked down at his wrist and made the motion again, but his hands merely scrabbled uselessly at the soldier’s scarred fist.

The bearded soldier eyed the stupefied innkeeper with amused curiosity, then reached out and slapped him hard on the side of the head. “You’re almost a bit of a scrapper, boy,” he said. “You actually stuck one on me.”

Behind them, the blonde soldier was slowly getting to his feet. “Little bastard sucker-punched me.”

The big soldier yanked the innkeeper’s wrist so he stumbled forward. “Say you’re sorry, cully.”

The innkeeper blinked blearily, opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then staggered. Or rather, he seemed to stagger. Halfway through the stumbling motion became deliberate, and the innkeeper stomped down hard with the heel of his foot, aiming at the soldier’s boot. At the same time he snapped his forehead down at the bearded man’s nose.

But the big man merely laughed, moving his head to the side as he jerked the innkeeper off balance again by his wrist. “None of that,” he chided, backhanding Kvothe across the face.

The innkeeper let out a yelp and lifted a hand to his bleeding nose. The soldier grinned and casually drove a knee hard into the innkeeper’s groin.

Kvothe doubled over, first gasping soundlessly, then making a series of choked retching noises.

Moving casually, the soldier let go of Kvothe’s wrist, then reached out and picked up the bottle of wine from the bar. Gripping it by the neck, he swung it like a club. When it hit the side of the innkeeper’s head, it made a solid, almost metallic sound.

Kvothe crumpled bonelessly to the floor.

The big man looked at the bottle of wine curiously before setting it back on the bar. Then he bent, grabbed the innkeeper’s shirt, and dragged his limp body out onto the open floor. He nudged the unconscious body with a foot until it stirred sluggishly.

“Said I’d give you a kickin’, boy,” the soldier grunted, and drove his foot hard into Kvothe’s side.

The blonde soldier walked over, rubbing at the side of his face. “Had to get all clever, didn’t you?” he said, spitting on the floor. He drew back his boot and landed a hard kick of his own. The innkeeper drew a sharp, hissing breath, but made no other sound.

“And you . . .” The bearded soldier pointed a thick finger at Chronicler. “I’ve got more than one boot. Would you like to see the other? I’ve already skint my knuckles. It’s no bother to me if you want to lose a couple teeth.”

Chronicler looked around and seemed genuinely surprised to find himself standing. He lowered himself slowly back into his chair.

The blonde soldier limped off to reclaim the purse from where it had fallen, while the big bearded man remained standing over Kvothe. “I suppose you figured you had to try,” he said to the crumpled body, giving him another solid kick in the side. “Damn fool. Pasty little innkeep against two of the king’s own.” He shook his head and spat again. “Honestly, who do you think you are?”

Curled on the floor, Kvothe began to make a low, rhythmic sound. It was a dry, quiet noise that scratched around the edges of the room. Kvothe paused as he drew a painful breath.

The bearded soldier frowned and kicked him again. “I asked you a question, cully . . .”

The innkeeper made the same noise again, louder than before. Only then did it become obvious that he was laughing. Each low, broken chuckle sounded like he was coughing up a piece of shattered glass. Despite that, it was a laugh, full of dark amusement, as if the red-haired man had heard a joke that only he could understand.

It went on for some time. The bearded soldier shrugged and drew back his foot again.

Chronicler cleared his throat and the two men turned to look at him. “In the interest of keeping things civilized,” he said. “I feel I should mention that the innkeeper sent his assistant out on an errand. He should be back soon. . . .”

The bearded soldier slapped his companion on the chest with the back of his hand. “He’s right. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait a moment,” the blonde soldier said. He hurried back to the bar and snatched the bottle of wine. “Right, let’s go.”

The bearded soldier grinned and went behind the bar, stepping on the innkeeper’s body rather than over it. He grabbed a random bottle, knocking over half a dozen others as he did so. They rolled and spun on the counter between the two huge barrels, a tall, sapphire-colored one slowly toppling over the edge to shatter on the floor.

In less than a minute the men had gathered up their packs and were out the door.

Chronicler hurried over to where Kvothe lay on the wooden floor. The red-haired man was already struggling into a sitting position.

“Well that was embarrassing,” Kvothe said. He touched his bloody face and looked at his fingers. He chuckled again, a jagged, joyless sound. “Forgot who I was there for a minute.”

“Are you alright?” Chronicler asked.

Kvothe touched his scalp speculatively. “I’ll need a stitch or two, I suspect.”

“What can I do to help?” Chronicler asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Don’t hover over me.” Kvothe pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, then slumped into one of the tall stools at the bar. “If you want, you can fetch me a glass of water. And maybe a wet cloth.”

Chronicler scurried back into the kitchen. There was the sound of frantic rummaging followed by several things falling to the ground.

Kvothe closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the bar.

“Why is the door open?” Bast called as he stepped through the doorway. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here.” He froze, his expression stricken. “Reshi! What happened? What . . . I . . . What happened?”

“Ah Bast,” Kvothe said. “Close the door, would you?”

Bast hurried over, a numb expression on his face. Kvothe sat in a stool at the bar, his face swollen and bloody. Chronicler stood next to him, dabbing awkwardly at the innkeeper’s scalp with a damp cloth.

“I might need to prevail on you for a few stitches, Bast,” Kvothe said. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Reshi,” Bast repeated. “What happened?”

“Devan and I got into a bit of an argument,” Kvothe said, nodding at the scribe, “about the proper use of the subjunctive mood. It got a little heated toward the end.”

Chronicler looked up at Bast, then blanched and took several quick steps backward. “He’s joking!” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It was soldiers!”

Kvothe chuckled painfully to himself. There was blood on his teeth.

Bast looked around the empty taproom. “What did you do with them?”

“Not much, Bast,” the innkeeper said. “They’re probably miles away by now.”

“Was there something wrong with them, Reshi? Like the one last night?” Bast asked.

“Just soldiers, Bast,” Kvothe said. “Just two of the king’s own.”

Bast’s face went ashen. “What?” he asked. “Reshi, why did you let them do this?”

Kvothe gave Bast an incredulous look. He gave a brief, bitter laugh, then stopped with a wince, sucking air through his teeth. “Well they seemed like such clean and virtuous boys,” he said, his voice mocking. “I thought, why not let these nice fellows rob me then beat me to a pulp?”

Bast expression was full of dismay. “But you—”

Kvothe wiped away the blood that was threatening to run into his eye, then looked at Bast as if he were the stupidest creature drawing breath in the entire world. “What?” he demanded. “What do you want me to say?”

“Two soldiers, Reshi?”

“Yes!” Kvothe shouted. “Not even two! Apparently one thick-fisted thug is all it takes to beat me half to death!” He glared furiously at Bast, throwing up his arms. “What is it going to take to shut you up? Do you want a story? Do you want to hear the details?”

Bast took a step backward at the outburst. His face went even paler, his expression panicked.

Kvothe let his arms fall heavily to his sides. “Quit expecting me to be something I’m not,” he said, still breathing hard. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes, smearing blood across his face. He let his head sag wearily. “God’s mother, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Bast stood as still as a startled hart, his eyes wide.

Silence flooded the room, thick and bitter as a lungful of smoke.

Kvothe drew a slow breath, the only motion in the room. “I’m sorry Bast,” he said without looking up. “I’m just in a little pain right now. It got the better of me. Give me a moment and I’ll have it sorted out.”

Still looking down, Kvothe closed his eyes and drew several slow, shallow breaths. When he looked up, his expression was chagrined. “I’m sorry Bast,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

A touch of the color returned to Bast’s cheeks, and some of the tension left his shoulders as he gave a nervous smile.

Kvothe took the damp cloth from Chronicler and wiped the blood away from his eye again. “I’m sorry I interrupted you before, Bast. What is it you were about ask me?”

Bast hesitated, then said. “You killed five scrael not three days ago, Reshi.” He waved toward the door. “What’s some thug compared to that?”

“I picked the time and place for the scrael rather carefully, Bast,” Kvothe said. “And I didn’t exactly dance away unscathed, either.”

Chronicler looked up, surprised. “You were hurt?” he asked. “I didn’t know. You didn’t look it. . . .”

A small, wry smile twisted the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Old habits die hard,” he said. “I do have a reputation to maintain. Besides, we heroes are only hurt in properly dramatic ways. It rather ruins the story if you find out Bast had to knit about ten feet of stitches into me after the fight.”

Realization broke over Bast’s face like a sunrise. “Of course!” he said, his voice thick with relief. “I forgot. You’re still hurt from the scrael. I knew it had to be something like that.”

Kvothe looked at the floor, every line of his body sagging and weary. “Bast . . .” he began.

“I knew it, Reshi,” Bast said emphatically. “There’s no way some thug could get the better of you.”

Kvothe drew a shallow breath, then let it out in a rush. “I’m sure that’s it, Bast,” he said easily. “I expect I could have taken them both if I’d been fresh.”

Bast’s expression grew uncertain again. He turned to face Chronicler. “How could you let this happen?” he demanded.

“It’s not his fault, Bast,” Kvothe said absentmindedly. “I started the fight.” He put a few fingers into his mouth and felt around gingerly. His fingers came out of his mouth bright with blood. “I expect I’m going to lose this tooth,” he mused.

“You will not lose your tooth, Reshi,” Bast said fiercely. “You will not.”

Kvothe made a slight motion with his shoulders, as if trying to shrug without moving any more of his body than he needed to. “It doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, Bast.” He pressed the cloth to his scalp then looked at it. “I probably won’t need those stitches, either.” He pushed himself upright on the stool. “Let’s have our dinner and get back to the story.” He raised an eyebrow at Chronicler. “If you’re still up for it, of course.”

Chronicler stared at him blankly.

“Reshi,” Bast said, worried. “You’re a mess.” He reached out. “Let me look at your eyes.”

“I’m not concussed, Bast,” Kvothe said, irritated. “I’ve got four broken ribs, a ringing in my ears, and a loose tooth. I have a few minor scalp wounds that look more serious than they really are. My nose is bloody but not broken, and tomorrow I will be a vast tapestry of bruises.”

Kvothe gave the faint shrug again. “Still, I’ve had worse. Besides, they reminded me of something I was close to forgetting. I should probably thank them for that.” He prodded at his jaw speculatively and worked his tongue around in his mouth. “Perhaps not a terribly warm thanks.”

“Reshi, you need stitches,” Bast said. “And you need to let me do something about that tooth.”

Kvothe climbed off the stool. “I’ll just chew on the other side for a few days.”

Bast took hold of Kvothe’s arm. His eyes were hard and dark. “Sit down Reshi.” It was nothing like a request. His voice was low and sudden, like a throb of distant thunder. “Sit. Down.”

Kvothe sat.

Chronicler nodded approvingly and turned to Bast. “What can I do to help?”

“Stay out of my way,” Bast said brusquely. “And keep him in this chair until I get back.” He strode upstairs.

There was a moment of silence.

“So,” Chronicler said. “Subjunctive mood.”

“At best,” Kvothe said, “it is a pointless thing. It needlessly complicates the language. It offends me.”

“Oh come now,” Chronicler said, sounding slightly offended. “The subjunctive is the heart of the hypothetical. In the right hands . . .” He broke off as Bast stormed back into the room, scowling and carrying a small wooden box.

“Bring me water,” Bast said imperiously to Chronicler. “Fresh from the rain barrel, not from the pump. Then I need milk from the icebox, some warmed honey, and a broad bowl. Then clean up this mess and stay out of my way.”

Bast washed the cut on Kvothe’s scalp, then threaded one of his own hairs through a bone needle and laced four tight stitches through the innkeeper’s skin more smoothly than a seamstress.

“Open your mouth,” Bast said, then peered inside, frowning while he prodded one of the back teeth with a finger. He nodded to himself.

Bast handed Kvothe the glass of water. “Rinse out your mouth, Reshi. Do it a couple times and spit the water back into the cup.”

Kvothe did. When he finished the water was red as wine.

Chronicler returned with a bottle of milk. Bast sniffed it, then poured a splash into a wide pottery bowl. He added a dollop of honey and swirled it around to mix it. Finally, he dipped his finger into the glass of bloody water, drew it out, and let a single drop fall into the bowl.

Bast swirled it again and handed Kvothe the bowl. “Take a mouthful of this,” he said. “Don’t swallow it. Hold it in your mouth until I tell you.”

His expression curious, Kvothe tipped the bowl and took a mouthful of the milk.

Bast took a mouthful as well. Then he closed his eyes for a long moment, a look of intense concentration on his face. Then he opened his eyes. He brought the bowl close to Kvothe’s mouth and pointed into it.

Kvothe spat out his mouthful of milk. It was a perfect, creamy white.

Bast brought the bowl to his own mouth and spat. It was a frothy pink.

Kvothe’s eyes widened. “Bast,” he said. “You shouldn’t—”

Bast made a sharp gesture with one hand, his eyes still hard. “I did not ask for your opinion, Reshi.”

The innkeeper looked down, uncomfortable. “It’s more than you should do, Bast.”

The dark young man reached out and laid a gentle hand on the side of his master’s face. For a moment he looked tired, weary through to the bone. Bast shook his head slowly, wearing an expression of bemused dismay. “You are an idiot, Reshi.”

Bast drew his hand back, and the weariness was gone. He pointed across the bar where Chronicler stood watching. “Bring the food.” He pointed at Kvothe. “Tell the story.”

Then he spun on his heel, walked back to his chair by the hearth, and lowered himself into it as if it were a throne. He clapped his hands twice, sharply. “Entertain me!” he said with a wide, mad smile. And even from where the others stood near the bar, they could see the blood on his teeth.