The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  I thought a moment. “Taxes?”

  “Hmm,” the Maer said, surprised. “That’s a rather good example, actually. Have you put much thought into this sort of thing before?”

  “A bit,” I admitted. “But never in these terms.”

  “It is a difficult thing,” he said, sounding pleased by my response. “Which do you think is the greater type of power?”

  I only had to think for a second. “The inherent, your grace.”

  “Interesting. Why do you say that?”

  “Because a power you possess yourself cannot be taken away, your grace.”

  “Ah.” He raised a long finger as if to caution me. “But we’ve already agreed that type of power is severely limited. Granted power has no limits.”

  “No limits, your grace?”

  Alveron nodded his head in concession. “Very few limits, then.”

  I still didn’t agree. The Maer must have seen it on my face because he leaned toward me to explain. “Let’s say I have an enemy, young and strong. Let’s say he has stolen something of mine, some money. Are you with me?”

  I nodded.

  “No manner of training will make me the match of a quarrelsome twenty-year-old. So what do I do? I get one of my young, strong friends to go and box his ears. With that strength I can accomplish a feat which would be otherwise impossible.”

  “Your enemy could box your friend’s ears instead,” I pointed out as we rounded a corner. An arching trellis turned the path ahead of us into a shaded tunnel, thick with deep green leaves.

  “Let’s say I got three friends together,” the Maer amended. “Suddenly I’ve been granted the strength of three men! My enemy, even if he were very strong, could never be as strong as that. Look to the selas. Terribly difficult to cultivate, they tell me.”

  We entered the shadow of the trellis tunnel where hundreds of deep red petals blossomed in the shade of leaf and arch. The smell was sweet and tremulous. I brushed a hand across one of the deep red blooms. It was unspeakably soft. I thought of Denna.

  The Maer returned to our discussion. “You’re missing the point, anyway. The lending of strength is just a small example. Some types of power can only be given.”

  He made a subtle gesture to a corner of the garden. “Do you see Compte Farlend over there? If you asked him about his title, he would say he possesses it. He would claim it is a part of him as much as his own blood. A part of his blood, in fact. Almost any noble would say the same thing. They would argue their lineage imbued them with the right to rule.”

  The Maer looked up at me, his eyes glittering in amusement. “But they’re wrong. It is not inherent power. It is granted. I could take away his lands and leave him a pauper on the street.”

  Alveron motioned me closer, and I leaned a bit. “Here is a great secret. Even my title, my riches, my control over people and the land. It is only granted power. It belongs to me no more than does the strength of your arm.” He patted my hand and smiled at me. “But I know the difference, and that is why I am always in control.”

  He straightened and spoke in normal tones. “Good afternoon, Compte. Lovely day to be out in the sun, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed, your grace. The selas are quite breathtaking.” The Compte was a heavy man with jowls and a thick mustache. “My compliments.”

  After the compte had passed us by, Alveron continued. “You notice he complimented me on the selas? I have never touched a trowel in my life.” He looked sideways at me, his expression slightly smug. “Do you still think inherent power is the better of the two?”

  “You make a compelling point, your grace,” I said. “However—”

  “You’re a hard one to convince. One last example, then. Can we agree that I will never be able to give birth to a child?”

  “I think that is safe to say, your grace.”

  “Yet if a woman grants me the right to wed her, I can give birth to a son. Through granted power, a man can make himself as fast as a horse, as strong as an ox. Can inherent power do this for you?”

  I couldn’t argue that. “I bow to your argument, your grace.”

  “I bow to your wisdom in accepting it.” He chuckled, and at the same time the faint ringing of the hour moved through the garden. “Oh bother,” the Maer said, his expression souring. “I must go take that dreadful nostrum of mine or Caudicus will be completely unmanageable for a span of days.” I gave him a quizzical look and he explained. “He somehow discovered that I poured yesterday’s dose in the chamber pot.”

  “Your grace should be mindful of your health.”

  Alveron scowled. “You overstep yourself,” he snapped.

  I flushed in embarrassment, but before I could apologize he waved me into silence. “You’re right, of course. I know my duty. But you sound just like him. One Caudicus is enough for me.”

  He paused to nod toward an approaching couple. The man was tall and handsome, a few years older than myself. The woman was perhaps thirty, with dark eyes and an elegant, wicked mouth. “Good evening, Lady Hesua. I trust your father is continuing to improve?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “The surgeon says he should be up before the span is through.” She caught my eye and held it briefly, her red mouth curving into a knowing smile.

  Then she was past us. I found myself sweating a bit.

  If the Maer noticed, he ignored it. “Terrible woman. New man every span of days. Her father was wounded in a duel with Esquire Higton over an ‘inappropriate’ remark. A true remark, but that doesn’t count for much once the swords are out.”

  “What of the squire?”

  “Died the day after. Pity too. He was a good man, just didn’t know enough to mind his tongue.” He sighed and looked up at the belling tower. “As I was saying. One physician is quite enough for me. Caudicus clucks over me like a mother hen. I hate taking medicine when I am already on the mend.”

  The Maer did seem better today. He hadn’t really needed the support of my arm during our walk. I sensed he only leaned on me to give us an excuse to be talking so close together. “Your improving health seems proof enough that his ministrations work to heal you,” I said.

  “Yes, yes. His potives drive away my illness for a span of days. Sometimes for months.” He sighed bitterly. “But they always come back. Shall I be drinking potions the rest of my life?”

  “Perhaps the need for them will pass, your grace.”

  “I had hoped the same thing myself. In his recent travels Caudicus gathered some herbs that worked wondrous well. His last treatment left me hale for nearly a year. I thought I was finally free of it.” The Maer scowled down at his walking stick. “Yet here I am.”

  “If I could aid you in any way, your grace, I would.”

  Alveron turned his head to look me in the eye. After a moment he nodded to himself. “I do believe you would,” he said. “How extraordinary.”

  Several conversations of a similar sort followed. I could tell the Maer was trying to get a feel for me. With all the skill learned in forty years of courtly intrigue, he steered the conversation in subtle ways, learning my opinions, determining whether or not I was worthy of his trust.

  While I didn’t have the Maer’s experience, I was a fair conversationalist myself. I was always careful with my answers, always courteous. After a few days, a mutual respect began to grow between us. Not a friendship such as I had with Count Threpe. The Maer never encouraged me to disregard his title or sit in his presence, but we were growing closer. While Threpe was a friend, the Maer was like a distant grandfather: kind but older, serious, and reserved.

  I got the impression the Maer was a lonely man, forced to remain aloof from his subjects and the members of his court. I almost suspected he might have sent to Threpe for a companion. Someone clever but removed from the politics of court so he could have an honest conversation once in a while.

  At first I dismissed such an idea as unlikely, but the days continued to pass and still the Maer avoided any mention of what use he
planned to put me to.

  If I’d had my lute I could have passed the time pleasantly, but it still lay in Severen-Low, seven days away from belonging to the pawnshop. So there was no music, just my echoing rooms and my damnable useless idleness.

  As rumors about me spread, various members of the court came to visit. Some made a pretense of welcoming me. Others made a show of wanting to gossip. I even suspected there were a few attempts at seduction, but at that point in my life I knew so little of women that I was immune to those games. One gentleman even tried to borrow money from me, and I was hard pressed not to laugh in his face.

  They told different stories and used different degrees of subtlety, but they were all there for the same reason: to glean information from me. However, since I was under the Maer’s instructions to be tight-lipped about myself, all the conversations were brief and unsatisfying.

  All but one, I should say. The exception proves the rule.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  A Handful of Iron

  I MET BREDON ON MY fourth day in Severen. It was early, but I was already pacing my rooms, nearly insane with boredom. I’d had my breakfast, and it was hours before lunch.

  So far today I’d dealt with three courtiers come to pry at me. I dealt with them deftly, running our conversations aground at every opportunity. So where are you from, my boy? Oh, you know how it is. One travels so. And your parents? Yes actually. I had them. Two in fact. What brings you to Severen? A coach and four, for the most part. Though I walked a bit as well. Good for the lungs, you know. And what are you doing here? Enjoying good conversation, of course. Meeting interesting people. Really? Who? Why all sorts. Including you, Lord Praevek. You are quite the fascinating fellow . . . .

  And so on. It wasn’t long before even the most tenacious rumormonger grew weary and left.

  Worst of all, these brief exchanges would be the most interesting part of my day if the Maer didn’t call for me. So far we’d conversed over a light lunch, three times during brief walks in the garden, and once late at night when most sensible people would be abed. Twice Alveron’s runner woke me from a sound sleep before the sky began to color with the blue beginning of dawn’s light.

  I know when I am being tested. Alveron wanted to see if I was truly willing to make myself available to him at any unreasonable hour of the day or night. He was watching to see if I would become impatient or irritated by his casual use of me.

  So I played the game. I was charming and unfailingly polite. I came when he called and left as soon as he was through with me. I asked no impertinent questions, made no demands on him, and spent the remainder of my day grinding my teeth, pacing my overlarge rooms, and trying not to think about how many days I had left before the span note on my lute expired.

  Small wonder that a knock on that fourth day sent me scrambling for the door. I hoped it was a summons from the Maer, but at this point, any distraction would be welcome.

  I opened the door to reveal an older man, a gentleman down to his bones. His clothes gave him away, certainly, but more important was the fact that he wore his wealth with the comfortable indifference of someone born into it. New-made nobles, pretenders, and rich merchants simply don’t carry themselves the same way.

  Alveron’s manservant, for example, had finer clothes than half the gentry, but despite the self-assurance Stapes possessed, he looked like a baker wearing his holiday best.

  Thanks to Alveron’s tailors, I was dressed as well as anyone. The colors were good on me, leaf green, black, and burgundy, with silver workings on the cuff and collar. However, unlike Stapes, I wore the clothes with the casual ease of nobility. True, the brocade itched. True, the buttons, buckles, and endless layers made every outfit stiff and awkward as a suit of mercenary’s leathers. But I lounged in it as easily as if it were a second skin. It was a costume, you see, and I played my part as only a trouper can.

  As I was saying, I opened the door to see an older gentleman standing in the hall.

  “So you’re Kvothe, are you?” he asked.

  I nodded, caught slightly off my stride. The custom in northern Vintas was to send a servant ahead to request a meeting. The runner brought a note and a ring with the noble’s name inscribed.You sent a gold ring to request a meeting with a noble of higher rank than yourself, silver for someone of roughly the same rank, and iron for someone beneath you.

  I didn’t have any rank, of course. No title, no lands, no family, and no blood. I was lowborn as they come, but no one here knew that. Everyone assumed the mysterious red-haired man spending time with Alveron was some flavor of nobility, and my origin and standing was a much-debated topic.

  The important thing was that I had not been officially introduced to the court. As such, I had no official ranking. That meant all the rings sent to me were iron. And one does not typically refuse a request sent with an iron ring, lest one offend one’s betters.

  So it was rather surprising to find this older gentleman standing outside the door. Obviously noble, but unannounced and uninvited.

  “You may call me Bredon,” he said, looking me in the eye. “Do you know how to play tak?”

  I shook my head, unsure what to make of this.

  He gave a small, disappointed sigh. “Ah well, I can teach you.” He thrust a black velvet sack toward me and I took hold of it with both hands. It felt as if it were full of small, smooth stones.

  Bredon gestured behind him, and a pair of young men bustled into my room carrying a small table. I stepped out of their way, and Bredon swept through the door in their wake. “Set it by the window,” he directed them, pointing with his walking stick. “And bring some chairs—No, the rail-back chairs.”

  In a short moment everything was arranged to his satisfaction. The two servants left, and Bredon turned to me with an apologetic look on his face. “You’ll forgive an old man a dramatic entrance, I hope?”

  “Of course,” I said graciously. “Please have a seat.” I gestured toward the new table by the window.

  “Such aplomb,” he chuckled, leaning his walking stick against the window sill. The sunlight caught on the polished silver handle wrought in the shape of a snarling wolf ’s head.

  Bredon was older. Not elderly by any means, but what I consider grandfather old. His colors weren’t colors at all, merely ash grey and a dark charcoal. His hair and beard were pure white, and all cut to the same length, making a frame for his face. As he sat there, peering at me with his lively brown eyes, he reminded me of an owl.

  I took a seat across from him and wondered idly how he was going to attempt to wheedle information out of me. He’d obviously brought a game. Perhaps he’d try to gamble it out of me. That would be a new approach at least.

  He smiled at me. An honest smile I found myself returning before I realized what I was doing. “You must have a fair collection of rings by this point,” he said.

  I nodded.

  He leaned forward curiously. “Would you mind terribly if I looked them over?”

  “Not at all.” I went into the other room and brought back a handful of rings, spilling them onto the table.

  He looked them over, nodding to himself. “You’ve had all our best gossipmongers descend on you. Veston, Praevek, and Temenlovy have all taken a crack.” His eyebrows went up as he saw the name on another ring. “Praevek twice. And none of them got a shred of anything out of you. Nothing half as solid as a whisper.”

  Bredon glanced up at me. “That tells me you are keeping your tongue tightly between your teeth, and you are good at it. Rest assured, I’m not here in some vain attempt to pry at your secrets.”

  I didn’t entirely believe him, but it was nice to hear. “I’ll admit that’s a relief.”

  “As a brief aside,” he mentioned casually. “I’ll mention the rings are traditionally left in the sitting room near the door. They are displayed as a mark of status.”

  I hadn’t known that, but I didn’t want to admit to it. If I was unfamiliar with the customs of the local court, it
would let him know I was either a foreigner or not one of the gentry. “There’s no real status in a handful of iron,” I said dismissively. Count Threpe had explained the basics of the rings to me before I left Imre. But he wasn’t from Vintas, and obviously hadn’t known the fine points.

  “There’s some truth to that,” Bredon said easily. “But not the truth entire. Gold rings imply those below you are working to curry your favor. Silver indicates a healthy working relationship with your peers.” He laid the rings in a row on the table. “However, iron means you have the attention of your betters. It indicates you are desirable.”

  I nodded slowly. “Of course,” I said. “Any ring the Maer sends will be an iron one.”

  “Exactly.” Bredon nodded. “To have a ring from the Maer is a mark of great favor.” He pushed the rings toward me across the top of the smooth marble table. “But there is no such ring here, and that itself is meaningful.”

  “It seems you’re no stranger to courtly politics yourself,” I pointed out.

  Bredon closed his eyes and nodded a weary agreement. “I was quite fond of it when I was young. I was even something of a power, as these things go. But at present, I have no machinations to advance. That takes the spice from such maneuverings.” He looked at me again, meeting my eyes directly.“I have simpler tastes now. I travel. I enjoy wines and conversation with interesting people. I’ve even been learning how to dance.”

  He smiled again, warmly, and rapped a knuckle on the board. “More than anything, however, I enjoy playing tak. However, I know few people with time or wit enough to play the game properly.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

  I hesitated. “One might assume that someone well-skilled in the subtle art of conversation could use long stretches of idle chatter to glean information from an unsuspecting victim.”