Taking a step back, Chronicler regained his composure and leveled the sword at the mercenary. “And my horse is just for starters. Afterward I think he’s looking to give me my money back and have a nice chat with the constable.”
The mercenary looked at the point of the sword where it swayed unsteadily in front of his chest. His eyes followed the gently swaying motion for a long moment.
“Just leave him be!” Bast’s voice was shrill. “Please!”
Cob nodded. “Boy’s right, Devan. Fella’s not right in his head. Don’t go pointing that at him. He looks likely to pass out on top of it.”
The mercenary absentmindedly lifted a hand. “I am looking …” he said, brushing the sword aside as if it were a branch blocking his path. Chronicler sucked in a breath and jerked the sword away as the man’s hand ran along the edge of the blade, drawing blood.
“See?” Old Cob said. “What I tell you? Sod’s a danger to hisself.”
The mercenary’s head tilted to the side. He held up his hand, examining it. A slow trickle of dark blood made its way down his thumb, where it gathered and swelled for a moment before dripping onto the floor. The mercenary drew a deep breath through his nose, and his glassy sunken eyes came into sudden, sharp focus.
He smiled wide at Chronicler, all the vagueness gone from his expression. “Те varaiyn aroi Seathaloi vex mela,” he said in a deep voice.
“I … I don’t follow you,” Chronicler said, disconcerted.
The man’s smile fell away. His eyes hardened, grew angry. “Te-tauren sciyr-loet? Amauen.”
“I can’t tell what you’re saying,” Chronicler said. “But I don’t care for your tone.” He brought the sword back up between them, pointing at the man’s chest.
The mercenary looked down at the heavy, notched blade, his forehead furrowing in confusion. Then sudden understanding spread across his face and the wide smile returned. He threw back his head and laughed.
It was no human sound. It was wild and exulting, like a hawk’s shrill cry.
The mercenary brought up his injured hand and grabbed the tip of the sword, moving with such sudden speed that the metal rang dully with the contact. Still smiling, he tightened his grip, bowing the blade. Blood ran from his hand, down the sword’s edge to patter onto the floor.
Everyone in the room watched in stunned disbelief. The only sound was the faint grating of the mercenary’s finger bones grinding against the bare edges of the blade.
Looking Chronicler full in the face, the mercenary twisted his hand sharply and the sword broke with a sound like a shattered bell. As Chronicler stared dumbly at the ruined weapon the mercenary took a step forward and laid his empty hand lightly on the scribe’s shoulder.
Chronicler gave a choked scream and jerked away as if he had been jabbed with a hot poker. He swung the broken sword wildly, knocking the hand away and notching it deep into the meat of the mercenary’s arm. The man’s face showed no pain or fear, or any sign of awareness that he’d been wounded at all.
Still holding the broken tip of the sword in his bloody hand, the mercenary took another step toward Chronicler.
Then Bast was there, barreling into the mercenary with one shoulder, striking him with such force that the man’s body shattered one of the heavy barstools before slamming into the mahogany bar. Quick as a blink, Bast grabbed the mercenary’s head with both hands and slammed it into the edge of the bar. Lips pulled back in a grimace, Bast drove the man’s head viciously into the mahogany: once, twice… .
Then, as if Bast’s action had startled everyone awake, chaos erupted in the room. Old Cob pushed himself away from the bar, tipping his stool over as he backed away. Graham began shouting something about the constable. Jake tried to bolt for the door and tripped over Cob’s fallen stool, sprawling to the floor in a tangle. The smith’s prentice grabbed for his iron rod and ended up knocking it to the floor where it rolled in a wide arc and came to rest under a table.
Bast gave a startled yelp and was thrown violently across the room to land on one of the heavy timber tables. It broke under his weight and he lay sprawled in the wreckage, limp as a rag doll. The mercenary came to his feet, blood flowing freely down the left-hand side of his face. He seemed utterly unconcerned as he turned back to Chronicler, still holding the tip of the broken sword in his bleeding hand.
Behind him, Shep picked up a knife from where it lay next to the half-eaten wheel of cheese. It was just a kitchen knife, its blade about a handspan long. Face grim, the farmer stepped close behind the mercenary and stabbed down hard, driving the whole of the short blade deep into the mercenary’s body where the shoulder meets the neck.
Instead of collapsing, the mercenary spun around and lashed Shep across the face with the jagged edge of the sword. Blood sprayed and Shep lifted his hands to his face. Then, moving so quickly it was little more than a twitch, the mercenary brought the piece of metal back around, burying it in the farmer’s chest. Shep staggered backward against the bar, then collapsed to the floor with the broken end of the sword still jutting between his ribs.
The mercenary reached up and curiously touched the handle of the knife lodged in his own neck. His expression more puzzled than angry, he tugged at it. When it didn’t budge, he gave another wild, birdlike laugh.
As the farmer lay gasping and bleeding on the floor, the mercenary’s attention seemed to wander, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. His eyes slowly wandered around the room, moving lazily past the broken tables, the black stone fireplace, the huge oak barrels. Finally the mercenary’s gaze came to rest on the red-haired man behind the bar. Kvothe did not blanch or back away when the man’s attention settled onto him. Their eyes met.
The mercenary’s eyes sharpened again, focusing on Kvothe. The wide, humorless smile reappeared, made macabre by the blood running down his face. “Те aithiyn Seathaloi?” he demanded. “Те Rhintae?”
With an almost casual motion, Kvothe grabbed a dark bottle from the counter and flung it across the bar. It struck the mercenary in the mouth and shattered. The air filled with the sharp tang of elderberry, dousing the man’s still-grinning head and shoulders.
Reaching out one hand, Kvothe dipped a finger into the liquor that spattered the bar. He muttered something under his breath, his forehead furrowed in concentration. He stared intently at the bloody man standing on the other side of the bar.
Nothing happened.
The mercenary reached across the bar, catching hold of Kvothe’s sleeve. The innkeeper simply stood, and in that moment his expression held no fear, no anger or surprise. He only seemed weary, numb, and dismayed.
Before the mercenary could get a grip on Kvothe’s arm, he staggered as Bast tackled him from behind. Bast managed to get one arm around the mercenary’s neck while the other raked at the man’s face. The mercenary let go of Kvothe and laid both hands on the arm that circled his neck, trying to twist away. When the mercenary’s hands touched him, Bast’s face became a tight mask of pain. Teeth bared, he clawed wildly at the mercenary’s eyes with his free hand.
At the far end of the bar, the smith’s prentice finally retrieved his iron rod from under the table and stretched to his full height. He charged over the fallen stools and strewn bodies on the floor. Bellowing, he lifted the iron rod high over one shoulder.
Still clinging to the mercenary, Bast’s eyes grew wide with sudden panic as he saw the smith’s prentice approaching. He released his grip and backed away, his feet tangling in the wreckage of the broken barstool. Falling backward, he scuttled madly away from the both of them.
Turning, the mercenary saw the tall boy charging. He smiled and stretched out a bloody hand. The motion was graceful, almost lazy.
The smith’s prentice swatted the arm away. When the iron bar struck him, the mercenary’s smile fell away. He clutched at his arm, hissing and spitting like an angry cat.
The boy swung the iron rod again, striking the mercenary squarely in the ribs. The force of it knocked him away from the b
ar, and he fell to his hands and knees, screaming like a slaughtered lamb.
The smith’s prentice grabbed the bar with both hands and brought it down across the mercenary’s back like a man splitting wood. There was the gristly sound of bones cracking. The iron bar rang softly, like a distant, fog-muffled bell.
Back broken, the bloody man still tried to crawl toward the inn’s door. His face was blank now, his mouth open in a low howl as constant and unthinking as the sound of wind through winter trees. The prentice struck again and again, swinging the heavy iron rod lightly as a willow switch. He scored a deep groove in the wooden floor, then broke a leg, an arm, more ribs. Still the mercenary continued to claw his way toward the door, shrieking and moaning, sounding more animal than human.
Finally the boy landed a blow to the head and the mercenary went limp. There was a moment of perfect quiet, then the mercenary made a deep, wet, coughing sound and vomited up a foul fluid, thick as pitch and black as ink.
It was some time before the boy stopped battering at the motionless corpse, and even when he did stop, he held the bar poised over one shoulder, panting raggedly and looking around wildly. As he slowly caught his breath, the sound of low prayers could be heard from the other side of the room where Old Cob crouched against the black stone of the fireplace.
After a few minutes even the praying stopped, and silence returned to the Waystone Inn.
For the next several hours the Waystone was the center of the town’s attention. The common room was crowded, full of whispers, murmured questions, and broken sobbing. Folk with less curiosity or more propriety stayed outside, peering through the wide windows and gossiping over what they’d heard.
There were no stories yet, just a roiling mass of rumor. The dead man was a bandit come to rob the inn. He’d come looking for revenge against Chronicler, who’d deflowered his sister off in Abbott’s Ford. He was a woodsman gone rabid. He was an old acquaintance of the innkeeper, come to collect a debt. He was an ex soldier, gone tabard-mad while fighting the rebels off in Resavek.
Jake and Carter made a point of the mercenary’s smile, and while denner addiction was a city problem, folk had still heard of sweet-eaters here. Three-finger Tom knew about these things, as he’d soldiered under the old king nearly thirty years ago. He explained that with four grains of denner resin, a man could have his foot amputated without a twinge of pain. With eight grains he’d saw through the bone himself. With twelve grains he’d go for a jog afterward, laughing and singing “Tinker Tanner.”
Shep’s body was covered with a blanket and prayed over by the priest. Later, the constable looked at it as well, but the man was clearly out of his depth, and was looking because he felt he should rather than because he knew what to look for.
The crowd began to thin after an hour or so. Shep’s brothers showed up with a cart to collect the body. Their grim, red-eyed stares drove away most of the remaining spectators who were idling about.
Still, there was much to be done. The constable tried to piece together what had happened from witnesses and the more opinionated onlookers. After hours of speculation, the story finally began to coalesce. Eventually it was agreed that the man was a deserter and denner addict come to their little town just in time to go crazy.
It was clear to everyone that the smith’s prentice had done the right thing, a brave thing in fact. Still, the iron law demanded a trial, so there’d be one next month, when the quarter court came through these parts on its rounds.
The constable went home to his wife and children. The priest took the mercenary’s remains off to the church. Bast cleared the wrecked furniture away, stacking it near the kitchen door to be used as firewood. The innkeeper mopped the inn’s hardwood floor seven times, until the water in the bucket no longer tinged red when he rinsed it out. Eventually even the most dedicated gawkers drifted away, leaving the usual Felling night crowd, minus one.
Jake, Cob, and the rest made halting conversation, speaking of everything other than what had happened, clinging to the comfort of each other’s company.
One by one, exhaustion drove them out of the Waystone. Eventually only the smith’s prentice remained, looking down into the cup in his hands. The iron rod lay near his elbow on the top of the mahogany bar.
Nearly half an hour passed without anyone speaking. Chronicler sat at a nearby table, making a pretense of finishing a bowl of stew. Kvothe and Bast puttered about, trying to look busy. A vague tension built in the room as they snuck glances at each other, waiting for the boy to leave.
The innkeeper strolled over to the boy, wiping his hands on a clean linen cloth. “Well, boy, I guess—”
“Aaron,” the smith’s prentice interjected, not looking up from his drink. “My name’s Aaron.”
Kvothe nodded seriously. “Aaron, then. I suppose you deserve that.”
“I don’t think it was denner,” Aaron said abruptly.
Kvothe paused. “Beg pardon?”
“I don’t think that fellow was a sweet-eater.”
“You with Cob then?” Kvothe asked. “Think he was rabid?”
“I think he had a demon in him,” the boy said with careful deliberation, as if he’d been thinking about the words for a long time. “I didn’t say anything before ’cause I didn’t want folk to think I’d gone all cracked in the head like Crazy Martin.” He looked up from his drink. “But I still think he had a demon in him.”
Kvothe put on a gentle smile and gestured to Bast and Chronicler. “Aren’t you worried we’ll think the same?”
Aaron shook his head seriously. “You aren’t from around here. You’ve been places. You know what sort of things are out in the world.” He gave Kvothe a flat look. “I figure you know it was a demon too.”
Bast grew still where he stood sweeping near the hearth. Kvothe tilted his head curiously without looking away. “Why would you say that?”
The smith’s prentice gestured behind the bar. “I know you got a big oak drunk-thumper under the bar there. And, well …” His eyes flickered upward to the sword hanging menacingly behind the bar. “There’s only one reason I can think you’d grab a bottle instead of that. You weren’t trying to knock that fellow’s teeth in. You were gonta light him on fire. ’Cept you didn’t have any matches, and there weren’t any candles closeby.”
“My ma used to read to me from the Book of the Path,” he continued. “There’s plenty of demons in there. Some hide in men’s bodies, like we’d hide under a sheepskin. I think he was just some regular fella who’d got a demon inside him. That’s why nothing hurt him. It’d be like someone poking holes in your shirt. That’s why he din’t make no sense, either. He was talking demon talk.”
Aaron’s eyes slid back to the cup he held in his hands, nodding to himself. “The more I think, the better it makes sense. Iron and fire. That’s for demons.”
“Sweet-eaters are stronger than you’d think,” Bast said from across the room. “Once I saw—”
“You’re right,” Kvothe said. “It was a demon.”
Aaron looked up to meet Kvothe’s eye, then nodded and looked down into his mug again. “And you didn’t say anything because you’re new in town, and business is shy enough.”
Kvothe nodded.
“And it won’t do me any good to tell folk, will it?”
Kvothe drew a deep breath, then let it out slow. “Probably not.”
Aaron drank off the last swallow of his beer and pushed the empty mug away from himself on the bar. “Alright. I just needed to hear it. Needed to know I hadn’t gone all crazy.” He came to his feet and picked up the heavy iron rod with one hand resting it on his shoulder as he turned toward the door. No one spoke as he made his way across the room and let himself out, closing the door behind him. His heavy boots sounded hollowly on the wooden landing outside, then there was nothing.
“There’s more to that one than I would’ve guessed,” Kvothe said at last.
“It’s because he’s big,” Bast said matter-of-factly as he gave u
p the pretense of sweeping. “You people are easily confused by the look of things. I’ve had my eye on him for a while now. He’s cleverer than folk give him credit for. Always looking at things and asking questions.” He carried the broom back toward the bar. “He makes me nervous.”
Kvothe looked amused. “Nervous? You?”
“The boy reeks of iron. Spends all day handling it, baking it, breathing its smoke. Then comes in here with clever eyes.” Bast gave a profoundly disapproving look. “It’s not natural.”
“Natural?” Chronicler finally spoke up. There was a tinge of hysteria in his voice. “What do you know about natural? I just saw a demon kill a man, was that natural?” Chronicler turned to face Kvothe. “What the hell was that thing doing here anyway?” Chronicler asked.
“ ‘Looking,’ apparently,” Kvothe said. “That’s about all I got. How about you, Bast? Could you understand it?”
Bast shook his head. “I recognized the sound more than anything, Reshi. Its phrasing was very old, archaic. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Fine. It was looking,” Chronicler said abruptly. “Looking for what?”
“Me, probably,” Kvothe said grimly.
“Reshi,” Bast admonished him, “you’re just being maudlin. This isn’t your fault.”
Kvothe gave his student a long, weary look. “You know better than that, Bast. All of this is my fault. The scrael, the war. All my fault.”
Bast looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t find the words. After a long moment, he looked away, beaten.
Kvothe leaned his elbows onto the bar, sighing, “What do you think it was, anyway?”
Bast shook his head. “It seemed like one of the Mahael-uret, Reshi. A skin dancer.” He frowned as he said it, sounding anything but certain.
Kvothe raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t one of your kind?”
Bast’s normally affable expression sharpened into a glare. “It was not ‘my kind,’ ” he said indignantly. “The Mael doesn’t even share a border with us. It’s as far away as anywhere can be in the Fae.”
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