The Wise Man's Fear

would have enjoyed some friendly company, I couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing how badly things had gone. I wouldn’t even need to tell him. The mark on my face said it plainly for everyone in the room to see.

I kept my face impassive and my eyes low as I moved through the line and filled my plate. Then I chose an empty section of table, not wanting to force my company on anyone.

I have been alone for most of my life. But rarely have I felt it so much as at that moment. I knew one person within four hundred miles, and he’d been ordered to keep away from me. I was unfamiliar with the culture, barely competent with the language, and the burning all across my back and face was a constant reminder of how much I was unwelcome.

The food was good though. Roasted chicken, crisp longbeans, and a slice of sweet molasses pudding. Better fare than I could usually afford for myself at the University, and hotter than the food at the Maer’s estate. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but I’ve been hungry enough in my life that I have a hard time walking away from an easy meal.

There was a shadow of movement on the edge of my vision as someone sat down across the table from me. I felt my mood lighten. At least one person was brave enough to visit the barbarian. Someone was kind enough to comfort me, or at least curious enough to come and talk.

Lifting my head I saw Carceret’s lean, scarred face. She set her wide wooden plate down across from me.

“How do you like our town?” she said quietly, her left hand resting on the surface of the table. Her gestures were different, as we were sitting, but I could still recognize curious and polite. To anyone watching, it would seem like we were having a pleasant conversation. “How do you like your new teacher? She thinks as I think. That you do not belong.”

I chewed another mouthful of chicken and swallowed mechanically, not looking up.

Concern. “I heard you cry out,” she continued softly. She spoke slower now, as if talking to a child. I wasn’t sure if it was meant as an insult, or to ensure I understood her. “It was like a tiny bird.”

I took a drink of warm goat’s milk and wiped my mouth. The motion of my arm pulled my shirt across the welt on my back, stinging like a hundred wasps.

“Was it a cry of love?” she asked, making a gesture I didn’t recognize. “Did Vashet embrace you? Does your cheek bear the mark of her tongue?”

I took a bit of pudding. It wasn’t as sweet as I remembered.

Carceret took a bite of her own pudding. “Everyone gambles on when you will leave,” she continued, still speaking slow and low, for my ears only. “I have two talents wagered that you will not last a second day. If you leave in the night, as I hope, I win silver. If I am wrong and you stay, I win in bruises and listening to your cries.” Entreaty. “Stay.”

I looked up at her. “You speak as a dog barks,” I said. “With no end. With no sense.”

I spoke quietly enough to be polite. But not so quietly that my voice didn’t reach the ears of everyone sitting close to us. I know how to make a soft voice carry. We Ruh invented the stage whisper.

I saw her face flush, making the pale scars on her jaw and eyebrow stand out.

I looked down and continued to eat, the very picture of calm unconcern. It’s tricky, insulting someone from a different culture. But I’d chosen my words carefully, based on things I’d heard Tempi say. If she responded in any way, it would only seem to prove my point.

I finished the rest of my meal slowly and methodically, imagining I could feel the rage rolling off her like waves of heat. This small battle, at least, I could win. It was a hollow victory, of course. But sometimes you have to take what you can get.

When Vashet returned to the small park, I was already sitting on one of the stone benches, waiting for her.

She stood before me and sighed gustily. “Lovely. A slow learner,” she said in her perfect Aturan. “Go fetch your stick then. We’ll see if I can make my point more clearly this time.”

“I’ve already found my stick,” I said. I reached behind the bench and brought out a wooden training sword I’d borrowed from the school.

It was old, oiled wood, worn smooth by countless hands, hard and heavy as a bar of iron. If she used this to strike my shoulders as she had with the willow rod, it would break bones. If she struck my face, it would shatter my jaw.

I set it on the bench beside me. The wood didn’t clatter against the stone. It was so hard it almost rang like a bell.

After I set down the training sword, I began to pull my shirt up over my head, sucking a breath through my teeth when it dragged against the hot welt on my back.

“Are you hoping to sway me with the offer of your tender young body?” Vashet asked. “You’re pretty, but not so pretty as that.”

I laid my shirt carefully on the bench. “I just thought it would be best if I showed you something.” I turned so she could see my back.

“You’ve been whipped,” she said. “I cannot say I’m surprised. I already knew you to be a thief.”

“These are not from thieving,” I said. “These are from the University. I was brought up on charges and sentenced to be whipped. When this happens, many students simply leave and take their education elsewhere. I decided to stay. It was only three lashes, after all.”

I waited, still facing away. After a moment she took the bait. “There are more scars here than three lashes can account for.”

“Some time after that,” I said, “I was brought up on charges again. Six lashes this time. Still I stayed.” I turned back to face her. “I stayed because there was no other place I could learn what I desired. Mere whipping could not keep me away from it.”

I picked up the heavy wooden sword from the bench. “I thought it only fair that you should know this. I cannot be frightened away with the threat of pain. I will not abandon Tempi after the trust he has shown me. There are things I desire to learn, and I can only learn them here.”

I handed her the hard, dark piece of wood. “If you want me to leave, you must do worse than welts.”

I stepped back and let my hands hang at my sides. I closed my eyes.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN Barbarian Tongue

I’d like to say I kept my eyes closed, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I heard the gritty sound of dirt beneath the soles of Vashet’s shoes and couldn’t help but open them.

I didn’t peek. That would only make me seem childish. I simply opened my eyes and looked at her. She stared back, making more eye contact than I would get from Tempi in a span of days. Her pale grey eyes were hard in her delicate face. Her broken nose no longer looked out of place. It was a grim warning to the world.

The wind swirled between us, raising gooseflesh on my naked arms.

Vashet drew a resigned breath and shrugged, then flipped the wooden rod to grip the handle end. She hefted it thoughtfully with both hands, getting a feel for its weight. Then she brought it up to her shoulder and swung.

Except she didn’t.

“Fine!” she said, exasperated, throwing up her hands. “You twiggy little skeeth. Fine! Shit and onions. Put your shirt back on. You’re making me cold.”

I sank down until I was sitting on the bench. “Thank God,” I said. I started to put my shirt back on, but it was difficult, as my hands were shaking. It wasn’t from the cold.

Vashet saw. “I knew it!” she said triumphantly, pointing a finger at me. “You standing there like you’re ready to be hanged. I knew you were ready to run like a rabbit!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “I knew I should have taken a swing at you!”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I said. I managed to get my shirt on, then realized it was inside out. I decided to leave