The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “Prouder than that,” Kvothe said. “The poorer you are, the more your pride is worth. I know the feeling. I never could have asked a friend for money. I would have starved first.”

  “A loan?” Chronicler asked.

  “Who has money to lend these days?” Kvothe asked grimly. “It’s already going to be a hungry winter for most folk. But after a third levy tax the Bentleys will be sharing blankets and eating their seed grain before the snow thaws. That’s if they don’t lose their house as well. . . .”

  The innkeeper looked down at his hands on the table and seemed surprised that one of them was curled into a fist. He opened it slowly and spread both hands flat against the tabletop. Then he looked up at Chronicler, a rueful smile on his face. “Did you know I never paid taxes before I came here? The Edema don’t own property, as a rule.” He gestured at the inn. “I never understood how galling it was. Some smug bastard with a ledger comes into town, makes you pay for the privilege of owning something.”

  Kvothe gestured for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “Now, of course, I understand the truth of things. I know what sort of dark desires lead a group of men to wait beside the road, killing tax collectors in open defiance of the king.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  The Broken Road

  WE FINISHED SEARCHING THE north side of the king’s highway and started on the southern half. Often the only thing that marked one day from the next were the stories we told around the fire at night. Stories of Oren Velciter, Laniel Young-Again, and Illien. Stories of helpful swineherds and the luck of tinker’s sons. Stories of demons and faeries, of riddle games and barrow draugs.

  The Edema Ruh know all the stories in the world, and I am Edema down to the center of my bones. My parents told stories around the fire every night while I was young. I grew up watching stories in dumbshow, listening to them in songs, and acting them out on stage.

  Given this, it was hardly surprising that I already knew the stories Dedan, Hespe, and Marten told at night. Not every detail, but I knew the bones of them. I knew their shapes and how they would end.

  Don’t mistake me. I still enjoyed them. Stories don’t need to be new to bring you joy. Some stories are like familiar friends. Some are dependable as bread.

  Still, a story I haven’t heard before is a rare and precious thing. And after twenty days of searching the Eld, I was rewarded with one of those.

  “Once, long ago and far from here,” Hespe said as we sat around the fire after dinner, “there was a boy named Jax, and he fell in love with the moon.

  “Jax was a strange boy. A thoughtful boy. A lonely boy. He lived in an old house at the end of a broken road. He—”

  Dedan interrupted. “Did you say a broken road?”

  Hespe’s mouth went firm. She didn’t scowl exactly, but it looked like she was getting all the pieces of a scowl together in one place, just in case she needed them in a hurry. “I did. A broken road. That’s how my mother told this story a hundred times when I was little.”

  For a minute it looked like Dedan was going to ask another question. But instead he showed a rare foresight and simply nodded.

  Hespe reluctantly put the pieces of her scowl away. Then she looked down at her hands, frowning. Her mouth moved silently for a moment, then she nodded to herself and continued.

  Everyone who saw Jax could tell there was something different about him. He didn’t play. He didn’t run around getting into trouble. And he never laughed.

  Some folk said, “What can you expect of a boy who lives alone in a broken house at the end of a broken road?” Some said the problem was that he never had any parents. Some said he had a drop of faerie blood in him and that kept his heart from ever knowing joy.

  He was an unlucky boy. There was no denying that. When he got a new shirt, he would tear a hole in it. If you gave him a sweet, he would drop it in the road.

  Some said the boy was born under a bad star, that he was cursed, that he had a demon riding his shadow. Other folks simply felt bad for him, but not so bad that they cared to help.

  One day, a tinker came down the road to Jax’s house. This was something of a surprise, because the road was broken, so nobody ever used it.

  “Hoy there, boy!” the tinker shouted, leaning on his stick. “Can you give an old man a drink?”

  Jax brought out some water in a cracked clay mug. The tinker drank and looked down at the boy. “You don’t look happy, son. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter,” Jax said. “It seems to me a person needs something to be happy about, and I don’t have any such thing.”

  Jax said this in a tone so flat and resigned that it broke the tinker’s heart. “I’m betting I have something in my pack that will make you happy,” he said to the boy. “What do you say to that?”

  “I’d say that if you make me happy, I’ll be grateful indeed,” Jax said. “But I haven’t got any money to spend, not a penny to borrow to beg or to lend.”

  “Well that is a problem,” said the tinker. “I am in business, you see.”

  “If you can find something in your pack that will make me happy,” Jax said. “I will give you my house. It’s old and broken, but it’s worth something.”

  The tinker looked up at the huge old house, one short step away from being a mansion. “It is at that,” he said.

  Then Jax looked up at the tinker, his small face serious. “And if you can’t make me happy, what then? Will you give me the packs off your back, the stick in your hand, and the hat off your head?”

  Now the tinker was fond of a wager, and he knew a good bet when he heard one. Besides, his packs were bulging with treasures from all over the Four Corners, and he was confident he could impress a small boy. So he agreed, and the two of them shook hands.

  First the tinker brought out a bag of marbles all the colors of sunlight. But they didn’t make Jax happy. The tinker brought out a ball and cup. But that didn’t make Jax happy.

  “Ball and cup doesn’t make anyone happy,” Marten muttered. “That’s the worst toy ever. Nobody in their right mind enjoys ball and cup.”

  The tinker went through his first pack. It was full of ordinary things that would have pleased an ordinary boy: dice, puppets, a folding knife, a rubber ball. But nothing made Jax happy.

  So the tinker moved on to his second pack. It held rarer things. A gear soldier that marched if you wound him. A bright set of paints with four different brushes. A book of secrets. A piece of iron that fell from the sky. . . .

  This went on all day and late into the night, and eventually the tinker began to worry. He wasn’t worried about losing his stick. But his packs were how he made his living, and he was rather fond of his hat.

  Eventually, he realized he was going to have to open his third pack. It was small, and it only had three items in it. But they were things he only showed to his wealthiest customers. Each was worth much more than a broken house. But still, he thought, better to lose one than to lose everything and his hat besides.

  Just as the tinker was reaching for his third pack, Jax pointed. “What is that?”

  “Those are spectacles,” the tinker said. “They’re a second pair of eyes that help a person see better.” He picked them up and settled them onto Jax’s face.

  Jax looked around. “Things look the same,” he said. Then he looked up. “What are those?”

  “Those are stars,” the tinker said.

  “I’ve never seen them before.” He turned, still looking up. Then he stopped stock still. “What is that?”

  “That is the moon,” the tinker said.

  “I think that would make me happy,” Jax said.

  “Well there you go,” the tinker said, relieved. “You have your spectacles. . . .”

  “Looking at it doesn’t make me happy,” Jax said. “No more than looking at my dinner makes me full. I want it. I want to have it for my own.”

  “I can’t give you the moon,” the tinker said. “She doesn’t belong to me. She bel
ongs only to herself.”

  “Only the moon will do,” Jax said.

  “Well I can’t help you with that,” the tinker said with a heavy sigh. “My packs and everything in them are yours.”

  Jax nodded, unsmiling.

  “And here’s my stick. A good sturdy one it is, too.”

  Jax took it in his hand.

  “I don’t suppose,” the tinker said reluctantly, “that you’d mind leaving me with my hat? I’m rather fond of it. . . .”

  “It’s mine by right,” Jax said. “If you were fond of it, you shouldn’t have gambled it away.” The tinker scowled as he handed over his hat.

  Tempi made a low noise in his throat and shook his head. Hespe smiled and nodded. Apparently even the Adem know it’s bad luck to be rude to a tinker.

  So Jax settled the hat on his head, took the stick in his hand, and gathered up the tinker’s packs. When he found the third one, still unopened, he asked, “What’s in here?”

  “Something for you to choke on,” the tinker spat.

  “No need to get tetchy over a hat,” the boy said. “I have greater need of it than you. I have a long way to walk if I’m to find the moon and make her mine.”

  “But for the taking of my hat, you could have had my help in catching her,” the tinker said.

  “I will leave you with the broken house,” Jax said. “That is something. Though it will be up to you to mend it.”

  Jax put the spectacles on his face and started walking down the road in the direction of the moon. He walked all night, only stopping when she went out of sight behind the mountains.

  So Jax walked day after day, endlessly searching—

  Dedan snorted. “Doesn’t that sound just a little too familiar?” he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. “I wonder if he was pissing his time up a tree like we are?”

  Hespe glared at him, the muscles in her jaw clenching.

  I gave a quiet sigh.

  “Are you done?” Hespe asked pointedly, glaring at Dedan for a long moment.

  “What?” Dedan asked.

  “Shut up while I’m telling my story is what,” Hespe said.

  “Everyone else had their say!” Dedan climbed to his feet, indignant. “Even the mute chimed in.” He waved a hand at Tempi. “How come I’m the only one you get hissy at?”

  Hespe seethed for a moment, then said. “You’re trying to pick a fight halfway through my story is why.”

  “Tellin’ the truth isn’t picking a fight,” Dedan grumbled. “Someone needs to speak some sense around here.”

  Hespe threw her hands up in the air, “You’re still doing it! Can’t you set it down for one evening? Every chance you get you have to bitch and minge on!”

  “At least when I don’t agree I speak my mind,” Dedan said. “I don’t take the coward’s way out.”

  Hespe’s eyes flashed, and despite my better judgment, I decided to jump in. “Fine,” I interrupted, looking at Dedan. “If you’ve got a better idea for finding these folk, let’s hear it. Let’s talk it over like adults.”

  My interjection didn’t slow Dedan down the least bit. It just pointed him in my direction. “What would you know about adults?” he said. “I’m sick and tired of being talked down to by some boy who probably doesn’t even have hair on his balls yet.”

  “I’m sure if the Maer had known how hairy your balls were, he would have put you in charge,” I said with what I hoped was infuriating calmness. “Unfortunately, it seems he missed that fact and decided on me instead.”

  Dedan drew a breath, but Tempi broke in before he could start. “Balls,” the Adem said curiously. “What is balls?”

  All the air went out of Dedan in a rush, and he turned to look at Tempi, half irritated, half amused. The big mercenary chuckled and made a very clear motion between his legs with a cupped hand. “You know. Balls,” he said without a trace of self-consciousness.

  Behind his back, Hespe rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

  “Ah,” Tempi said, nodding to show his understanding. “Why is the Maer looking at hairy balls?”

  A pause, then a storm of laughter rolled through our camp, exploding with all the force of the pent-up tension that had been ready to boil into a fight. Hespe laughed herself breathless, clutching at her stomach. Marten wiped tears from his eyes. Dedan laughed so hard he couldn’t stand upright and ended up crouching with one hand on the ground to steady himself.

  By the end of it, everyone was sitting around the fire, breathing hard and grinning like silly idiots. The tension that had been thick as winter fog was gone for the first time in days. It was only then that Tempi briefly caught my eye. His thumb and forefinger rubbed together gently. Gladness? No. Satisfaction . Realization dawned on me as I met his eye again, his expression was blank as always. Studiously blank. So blank it was almost smug.

  “Can we get back to your story, love?” Dedan asked Hespe. “I’d like to know how this boy gets the moon into bed.”

  Hespe smiled at him, the first honest smile I’d seen her give Dedan in a handful of days. “I’ve lost my place,” she said. “There’s a rhythm to it, like a song. I can tell it from the beginning, but if I start halfway through I’ll get it all tangled up in my head.”

  “Will you start over tomorrow if I promise to keep my mouth shut?”

  “I will,” she agreed, “if you promise.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  The Lethani

  THE NEXT DAY TEMPI and I went to Crosson for supplies. It meant a long day of walking, but not having to look for trail sign every step of the way made it feel like we were flying down the road.

  As we walked, Tempi and I traded words back and forth. I learned the word for dream, and smell, and bone. I learned there were different words in Ademic for iron and sword-iron.

  Then we had a long hour’s worth of fruitless conversation as he tried to help me understand what it meant when he rubbed his fingers over his eyebrow. It almost seemed to be the same thing as a shrug, but he made it clear it wasn’t the same. Was it indifference? Ambiguity?

  “Is it the feeling you have when someone offers you a choice?” I tried again. “Someone offers you an apple or a plum?” I held up both hands in front of myself. “But you like both the same.” I pressed my fingers together and smoothed them over my eyebrow twice. “This feeling?”

  Tempi shook his head. “No.” He stopped walking for a moment, then resumed. At his side, his left hand said: Dishonesty. “What is plum?” Attentive.

  Confused, I looked at him. “What?”

  “What does plum mean?” He gestured again: Profoundly serious. Attentive.

  I turned my attention to the trees and immediately heard it: movement in the undergrowth.

  The noise came from the south side of the road. The side we hadn’t searched yet. The bandits. Excitement and fear swelled in my chest. Would they attack us? In my tatty cloak I doubted I looked like much of a target, but I was carrying my lute in its dark, expensive case.

  Tempi had changed back to his tight mercenary reds for the trip into town. Would that discourage a man with a longbow? Or would it seem I was a minstrel rich enough to hire an Adem bodyguard? We might look like fruit ripe for the picking.

  I thought longingly of the arrowcatch I’d sold to Kilvin, and realized he’d been right. People would pay dearly for them. I’d give every penny in my pocket for one right now.

  I gestured to Tempi: Acceptance. Dishonesty. Agreement. “A plum is a sweet fruit,” I said, straining my ears for telltale sounds from the surrounding trees.

  Should we run to the trees for cover, or would it be better to pretend we were unaware of them? What could I do if they attacked? I had the knife I’d bought from the tinker on my belt, but I had no idea how to use it. I was suddenly aware of how terribly unprepared I was. What in God’s name was I doing out here? I didn’t belong in this situation. Why had the Maer sent me?

  Just as I was starting to sweat in earnest, I heard a sudden snap and rustl
e in the underbrush. A horned hart burst from the trees and was across the road in three easy bounds. A moment later, two hinds followed. One paused in the center of the road and turned to look at us curiously, her long ear twitching. Then she was off and lost among the trees.

  My heart was racing, and I let out a low, nervous laugh. I turned to look at Tempi, only to find him with his sword drawn. The fingers of his left hand curled into embarrassment, then made several quick gestures I couldn’t identify.

  He sheathed the sword without a flourish of any sort. A gesture as casual as putting your hand in your pocket. Frustration.

  I nodded. Glad as I was to not be sprouting arrows from my back, an ambush would at least have given us a clue as to where the bandits were. Agreement. Understatement.

  We silently continued our walk toward Crosson.

  Crosson wasn’t much as far as towns go. Twenty or thirty buildings with thick forest on every side. If it hadn’t been on the king’s highway, it probably wouldn’t even have warranted a name.

  But since it was on the king’s highway, there was a reasonably stocked general goods store that supplied travelers and the scattering of nearby farms. There was a small post station that was also a livery and a farrier, and a small church that was also a brewery.

  And an inn, of course. While the Laughing Moon was barely a third the size of the Pennysworth, it was still several steps above what you’d expect for a town like this. It was two stories tall, with three private rooms and a bathhouse. A large handpainted sign showed a gibbous moon wearing a waistcoat, holding its belly while it rocked with laughter.

  I’d brought my lute that morning, hoping I might be able to play in exchange for a bit of lunch. But that was just an excuse. I was desperate for any excuse to play. My enforced silence was wearing on me as much as Dedan’s muttering. I hadn’t gone so long without my music since I’d been homeless on the streets of Tarbean.