The Wise Man's Fear

I heard Denna draw a breath, then let it out again slowly. “Because someone helped me once when I needed it,” she said. “And because if you don’t get some help you’ll be dead in a span of days. Take it from someone who’s made her own share of bad decisions.”

There was the sound of coins sliding on the table. “Okay,” Denna said. “First option. We get you apprenticed up. You’re a little old, and it will cost, but we could do it. Nothing fancy. Weaving. Cobbling. They’ll work you hard, but you’d have your room and board, and you’d learn a trade.”

A questioning murmur.

“With your accent?” Denna asked archly. “Can you curl a lady’s hair? Paint her face? Mend her dress? Tat lace?” A pause. “No, you don’t have the training to be a maidservant, and I wouldn’t know who to bribe.”

The sound of coins being gathered together. “Option two,” Denna said. “We get you a room until that bruise is gone.” Coins sliding. “Then buy you a seat on a coach back home.” More coins. “You’ve been gone a month. That’s the perfect amount of time for some serious worry to set in. When you come home they’ll just be happy you’re alive.”

Murmur.

“Tell them whatever you like,” Denna said. “But if you’ve got half a brain in your head you’ll make it sensible. Nobody’s going to believe you met some prince who sent you home.”

A murmur so soft I could hardly hear it.

“Of course it will be hard, you silly little bint,” Denna said sharply. “They’ll hold it over your head for the rest of your life. Folk will whisper when you walk by on the street. It will be hard to find a husband. You’ll lose friends. But that’s the price you’ll have to pay if you want to have anything like your normal life back again.”

The coins clinked as they were gathered together again. “Third option. If you’re certain you want to make a go of whoring, we can arrange it so you don’t end up dead in a ditch. You’ve got a nice face, but you’ll need proper clothes.” Coins sliding. “And someone to teach you manners.” More coins. “And someone else to get rid of that accent of yours.” Coins again.

Murmur.

“Because it’s the only sensible way to do it,” Denna said flatly.

Another murmur.

Denna gave a tight, irritated sigh. “Okay. Your father’s stable master, right? Think about the different horses the baron owns: plow horses, carriage horses, hunting horses. . . .”

Excited murmur.

“Exactly,” Denna said. “So if you had to pick, what sort of horse would you want to be? A plow horse works hard, but does it get the best stall? The best feed?”

Murmur.

“That’s right. That goes to the fancy horses. They get petted and fed and only have to work when there’s a parade or someone goes hunting.”

Denna continued, “So if you’re going to be a whore, you do it smart. You don’t want to be some dockside drab, you want to be a duchess. You want men to court you. Send you gifts.”

Murmur.

“Yes, gifts. If they pay, they’ll feel like they own you. You saw how that turned out tonight. You can keep your accent and that low bodice and have sailors paw you for ha’penny a throw. Or you can learn some manners, get your hair done, and start entertaining gentlemen callers. If you’re interesting, and pretty, and you know how to listen, men will desire your company. They’ll want to take you dancing as much as take you to bed. Then you have the control. Nobody makes a duchess pay for her room in advance. Nobody bends a duchess over a barrel in an alley then kicks out her teeth once he’s had his fun.”

Murmur.

“No.” Denna said, her voice grim. There was the sound of coins being clinked softly into a purse. “Don’t lie to yourself. Even the fanciest horse is still a horse. That means sooner or later, you’re going to get ridden.”

A questioning murmur.

“Then you leave,” Denna said. “If they want more than you’re willing to give, that’s the only way. You leave, quick and quiet in the night. But if you do, you’ll burn your bridges. That’s the price you pay.”

A hesitant murmur.

“I can’t tell you that,” Denna said. “You need to decide what you want for yourself. You want to go home? There’s a price. You want control over your life? There’s a price. You want the freedom to say no? There’s a price. There’s always a price.”

There was the sound of a chair being pushed away from a table, and I pressed myself back against the wall as I heard the two of them stand up. “It’s something everyone has to figure out on their own,” Denna said, her voice growing more distant. “What do you want more than anything else? What do you want so badly you’ll pay anything to get it?”

I sat for a long time after they left, trying to drink my wine.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE Blood and Ink

In the Theophany, Teccam writes of secrets, calling them painful treasures of the mind. He explains that what most people think of as secrets are really nothing of the sort. Mysteries, for example, are not secrets. Neither are little-known facts or forgotten truths. A secret, Teccam explains, is true knowledge actively concealed.

Philosophers have quibbled over his definition for centuries. They point out the logical problems with it, the loopholes, the exceptions. But in all this time none of them has managed to come up with a better definition. That, perhaps, tells us more than all the quibbling combined.

In a later chapter, less argued over and less well-known, Teccam explains that there are two types of secrets. There are secrets of the mouth and secrets of the heart.

Most secrets are secrets of the mouth. Gossip shared and small scandals whispered. These secrets long to be let loose upon the world. A secret of the mouth is like a stone in your boot. At first you’re barely aware of it. Then it grows irritating, then intolerable. Secrets of the mouth grow larger the longer you keep them, swelling until they press against your lips. They fight to be let free.

Secrets of the heart are different. They are private and painful, and we want nothing more than to hide them from the world. They do not swell and press against the mouth. They live in the heart, and the longer they are kept, the heavier they become.

Teccam claims it is better to have a mouthful of poison than a secret of the heart. Any fool will spit out poison, he says, but we hoard these painful treasures. We swallow hard against them every day, forcing them deep inside us. There they sit, growing heavier, festering. Given enough time, they cannot help but crush the heart that holds them.

Modern philosophers scorn Teccam, but they are vultures picking at the bones of a giant. Quibble all you like, Teccam understood the shape of the world.

The day after I’d followed Denna through the city, she sent me a note, and I met her outside the Four Tapers. We’d met there dozens of times in the last several span, but today something was different. Today Denna wore a long, elegant dress, not layered and high necked in the current fashion, but close fitting and open at the throat. It was a deep blue, and when she took a step I could glimpse a long stretch of her bare leg beneath.

Her harp case leaned against the wall behind her, and she had an expectant look in her eye. Her dark hair was lustrous in the sunlight, unadorned except for three narrow braids tied with blue string. She was barefoot, and her feet were grass-stained. She smiled.

“It’s done,” she said, excitement thrumming through her voice like distant thunder. “Done enough to play you a piece at any rate. Would you like to hear it?” I caught a bit of well-hidden shyness in her voice.

As we were both working for patrons who valued their privacy, Denna and I didn’t often discuss our work. We compared our ink-stained fingers and bemoaned our difficulties, but only in vague ways.