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.
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
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
