Kvothe looked curiously at his student, then shrugged. “I expect he’s writing wills and dispositions, not letters. You want that sort of thing done in a clear hand, spelled properly and with no confusion.” He motioned to where Chronicler was pressing a heavy seal onto a sheet of paper. “See? That shows he’s a court official. Everything he witnesses has legal weight.”
“But the priest does that,” Bast said. “Abbe Grimes is all sorts of official. He writes the marriage records and the deed when someone buys a plot of land. You said yourself, they love their records.”
Kvothe nodded. “True, but a priest likes it when you leave money to the church. If he writes up your will and you don’t give the church as much as a bent penny . . .” He shrugged. “That can make life hard in a little town like this. And if you can’t read . . . well, then the priest can write down whatever he wants, can’t he? And who’s to argue with him after you’re dead?”
Bast looked shocked. “Abbe Grimes wouldn’t do something like that!”
“He probably wouldn’t,” Kvothe conceded. “Grimes is a decent sort for a priest. But maybe you want to leave a piece of land to the young widow down the lane and some money to her second son?” Kvothe raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “That’s the sort of thing a fellow doesn’t care to have his priest writing down. Better to have that news come out after you’re dead and buried deep.”
Understanding came into Bast’s eyes and he looked at the young couple as if trying to guess what secrets they were trying to hide.
Kvothe pulled out a white cloth and began to polish the bar absentmindedly. “Most times it’s simpler than that. Some folk just want to leave Ellie the music box and not hear the other sisters wail about it for the next ten years.”
“Like when the Widow Graden died?”
“Exactly like when Widow Graden died. You saw how that family tore itself up fighting over her things. Half of them still aren’t on speaking terms.”
Across the room, the little girl stepped close to her mother and tugged insistently on her dress. A moment later Mary came over to the bar with the little girl in tow. “Little Syl has to tend to her necessary,” she said apologetically. “Could we . . . ?”
Kote nodded and pointed to the door near the stairway.
Mary turned and held out the little boy to Bast. “Would you mind?”
Moving mostly on reflex, Bast reached out with both hands to take hold of the boy, then stood there awkwardly as Mary escorted her daughter away.
The little boy looked around brightly, not sure what to make of this new situation. Bast turned to face Kvothe, the baby held stiffly in front of himself. The child’s expression slowly shifted from curious to uncertain to unhappy. Finally he began to make a soft, anxious noise. He looked as if he were thinking about whether or not he wanted to cry, and was slowly starting to realize that, yes, as a matter of fact, he probably did.
“Oh for goodness sake, Bast,” Kvothe said in an exasperated voice. “Here.” He stepped forward and took hold of the boy, sitting him on top of the bar and holding him steady with both hands.
The boy seemed happier there. He rubbed a curious hand on the smooth top of the bar, leaving a smudge. He looked at Bast and smiled. “Dog,” he said.
“Charming,” Bast said, his voice dry.
Little Ben began to chew on his fingers and looked around again, more purposefully this time. “Mam,” he said. “Mamamama.” Then he began to look concerned and make the same, low anxious noise as before.
“Hold him up,” Kvothe said, moving to stand directly in front of the little boy. Once Bast was steadying him, the innkeeper grabbed hold of the boy’s feet and began a singsong chant.
The little boy watched as Kvothe made a different hand motion for each line, pretending to plant wheat and knead bread. By the final line the little boy was laughing a delighted, burbling laugh as he clapped his hands to his own head along with the red-haired man.
Kvothe made no gesture for the last line, instead he tilted his head, eyeing Bast expectantly.
Bast merely stood there, confused. Then realization dawned on his face. “Reshi, how could you think that?” he asked, his voice slightly offended. He pointed at the little boy. “He’s blonde!”
Looking back and forth between the two men, the boy decided that he would, actually, like to have a bit of a cry. His face clouded over, and he began to wail.
“This is your fault,” Bast said flatly.
Kvothe picked the little boy up off the bar and jiggled him in a marginally successful attempt to calm him. A moment later when Mary came back into the taproom, the baby howled even louder and leaned toward her, reaching with both hands.
“Sorry,” Kvothe said, sounding abashed.
Mary took him back and he went instantly quiet, tears still standing in his eyes. “None of yours,” she said. “He’s just mother-hungry lately.” She touched her nose to his, smiling, and the baby gave another delighted, burbling laugh.
“How much did you charge them?” Kvothe asked as he walked back to Chronicler’s table.
Chronicler shrugged. “Penny and a half.”
Kvothe paused in the act of sitting down. His eyes narrowed. “That won’t cover the cost of your paper.”
Chronicler asked. “I have ears, don’t I? The smith’s prentice mentioned the Bentleys are on hard times. Even if he hadn’t, I still have eyes. Fellow’s got seams on both knees and boots worn nearly through. Little girl’s dress is too short for her and half patches besides.”
Kvothe nodded, his expression grim. “Their south field’s been flooded out two years running. And they had both their goats die this spring. Even if these were good times it would be a bad year for them. With their new little boy . . .” He drew a long breath and let it out in a long, pensive sigh. “It’s the levy taxes. Two this year already.”
“Do you want me to wreck the fence again, Reshi?” Bast said eagerly.
“Hush about that, Bast.” A smile flickered around the edges of Kvothe’s mouth. “We’ll need something different this time.” His smile faded. “Before the next levy.”
“Maybe there won’t be another,” Chronicler said.
Kvothe shook his head. “It won’t come until after the harvest, but it’ll come. Regular taxmen are bad enough, but they know enough to occasionally look the other way. They know they’ll be back next year, and the year after. But the bleeders . . .”
Chronicler nodded. “They’re different,” he said grimly. Then recited, “ ‘If they could, they’d take the rain. If they can’t get gold, they’ll take the grain.’ ”
Kvothe gave a thin smile and continued.
