The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT The Cost of a Loaf

The days that followed were pleasant ones. My sunlight hours were spent with Denna in Severen-Low, exploring the city and surrounding countryside. We spent time riding, swimming, singing, or simply talking the afternoons away. I flattered her outrageously and without hope, because only a fool would hope to catch her.

Then I would return to my rooms and pen the letter that had been building inside me all day. Or I would pour out a torrent of song to her. And in that letter or song I said all the things I hadn’t dared to tell Denna during the day. Things I knew would only frighten her away.

After I finished the letter or the song, I would write it again. I would dull its edges a little, remove an honesty or two. I slowly smoothed and stitched until it fit Meluan Lackless as snugly as a calfskin glove.

It was idyllic. I had better luck finding Denna in Severen than I ever had in Imre. We met for hours at a stretch, sometimes more than once a day, sometimes three or four days in a row.

Though, in the interest of honesty, things were not perfect. There were a few burrs in the blanket, as my father used to say.

The first was a young gentleman named Gerred who accompanied Denna on one of our early meetings down in Severen-Low. He didn’t know her as Denna, of course. He called her Alora, and so did I for the rest of the day.

Gerred’s face held the doomed expression I had come to know very well. He had known Denna long enough to fall for her, and he was just beginning to realize his time was drawing to an end.

I watched as he made the same mistakes I’d seen others make before him. He put his arm around her possessively. He gave her the gift of a ring. As we strolled the city, if her eye focused on anything for more than three seconds he offered to buy it for her. He tried to pin her down with a promise of some future meeting. A dance at the DeFerre’s manse? Dinner at the Golden Board? The Tenpenny King was being performed tomorrow by Count Abelard’s men . . . ?

Individually, any of these things would have been fine. Perhaps even charming. But taken together they showed themselves as pure, white-knuckled desperation. He clutched at Denna as if he were a drowning man and she a plank of wood.

He glared at me when she wasn’t watching, and when Denna bid the two of us good-bye that evening, his face was drawn and white as if he were already two days dead.

The second burr was worse. After I’d been helping the Maer court his lady for almost two span, Denna disappeared. No trace or word of warning. No note of farewell or apology. I waited for three hours at the livery where we’d agreed to meet. After that I went to her inn, only to find that she had left with all her things the night before.

I went to the park where we had taken lunch the previous day, then to a dozen other places where we’d made a habit of each other’s company. It was near midnight by the time I took the lifts back to the top of the Sheer. Even then some foolish part of me hoped she would greet me at the top, rushing into my arms again with her wild enthusiasm.

But she wasn’t there. That night I wrote no letter or song for Meluan.

The second day I ghosted through Severen-Low for hours, worried and wounded. Later that night in my rooms, I sweat and cursed and crumpled my way through twenty sheets of paper before I arrived at three brief, half-tolerable paragraphs which I gave to the Maer to do with as he wished.

The third day my heart sat like a stone in my chest. I tried to finish the song I’d been writing for the Maer, but nothing worthwhile came of my efforts. For the first hour the notes I played were leaden and lifeless. The second hour they grew discordant and faltering. I pressed on until every sound my lute made grated like a knife against teeth.

I finally let my poor, tortured lute fall silent, remembering something my father had said long ago: “Songs choose their hour and their own season. When your tune’s tin, there is a reason. The tone of a tune is your heart’s mettle, and there’s no clear water from a muddy well. All you can do is let the silt settle, or you’ll sound sour as a broken bell.”

I lowered my lute into its case, knowing the truth of it. I needed a few days before I could productively return to courting Meluan on the Maer’s behalf. The work was too delicate to force or fake.

On the other hand, I knew the Maer would not be pleased with a delay. I needed a diversion, and since the Maer was too clever by half, it needed to be at least halfway legitimate.

I heard the telltale sigh of air that signaled the Maer’s secret passage opening in my dressing room. I made sure I was pacing anxiously by the time he came through the doorway.

Alveron had continued to put on weight in the last two span, and his face was no longer hollow and drawn. He cut quite a figure in his finery, a creamy ivory shirt and stiff jacket of deep sapphire blue. “I got your message,” he said brusquely. “Have you finished the song then?”

I turned to face him. “No, your grace. Something more important than the song has come to my attention.”

“As far as you are concerned, there is nothing more important than the song,” the Maer said firmly, tugging the cuff of his shirt to straighten it. “I’ve heard from several people that Meluan was greatly pleased with the first two. You should focus the whole of your efforts in that direction.”

“Your grace, I am well aware that—”

“Out with it,” Alveron said impatiently, glancing at the face of the tall gear-clock that stood in the corner of the room. “I have appointments to keep.”

“Your life is in further danger from Caudicus.”

I’ll give this to the Maer, he could have made his living on the stage. The only break in his composure was a brief hesitation as he tugged his other cuff into place. “And how is that?” he asked, apparently unconcerned.

“There are ways for him to harm you other than poison. Things that can be done from a distance.”

“A spell, you mean,” Alveron said. “He means to conjure up a sending and set it to bedevil me?”

Tehlu anyway, spells and sendings. It was easy to forget this intelligent, subtle, and otherwise educated man was little better than a child when it came to arcane matters. He probably believed in faeries and the walking dead. Poor fool.

However, attempting to reeducate him would be tiresome and counterproductive. “There is a chance of that, your grace. As well as other, more direct threats.”

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.”