The Wise Man's Fear

say this as a well-traveled woman. I have spent eight years among the barbarians. I have even listened to music in a group of people.” She said this proudly, with a defiant tilt to her head. “I have done it more than once.”

“Have you ever sung in public?” I asked.

Vashet’s face went stony. “That is not a polite question to ask,” she said, stiffly. “And you will make no friends with it here.”

“All I mean,” I said quickly, “is that if you tried it, you might find it is nothing shameful. It is a great joy to everyone.”

Vashet gave me a severe look and made a hard gesture of refusal and finality. “Kvothe, I have traveled much and seen much. Many of the Adem here are worldly. We know of musicians. And, to be completely forthright, many of us have a secret, guilty fascination with them. Much the same way your folk are enamored with the skill of the Modegan courtesans.”

She gave me a hard look. “But for all that, I would not want my daughter to bring one home, if you catch my meaning. Neither would it improve anyone’s opinion of Tempi if others knew he had shared the Ketan with such as you. Keep it to yourself. You have enough to overcome without all Ademre knowing you are a musician on top of everything.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN His Sharp and Single Arrow

Reluctantly, I took Vashet’s advice. And though my fingers itched for it, I did not bring out my lute that night and fill my small corner of the school with music. I even went so far as to slide my lute case underneath my bed, lest the mere sight of it fill the school with rumor.

For several days I did little but study under Vashet. I ate alone and made no attempt to speak with anyone, as I was suddenly self-conscious of my language. Carceret kept her distance, but she was always there, watching me, her eyes flat and angry as a snake’s.

I took advantage of Vashet’s excellent Aturan and asked a thousand questions that would have been too subtle for Tempi to understand.

I waited three entire days until I asked her the question that had been slowly smoldering inside me since I’d climbed the foothill of the Stormwal. Personally, I thought this showed exceptional restraint.

“Vashet,” I asked. “Do your people have stories of the Chandrian?”

She looked at me, her normally expressive face gone suddenly impassive. “And what does this have to do with your hand-talk?” Her hand flickered through several different variations of the gesture that indicated disapproval and reproach.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Does it have something to do with your fighting, then?” she asked.

“No,” I admitted. “But—”

“Surely it relates to the Ketan?” Vashet said. “Or to the Lethani? Or perhaps it touches on some subtle shade of meaning you have difficulty grasping in Ademic.”

“I am merely curious.”

Vashet sighed. “Can I persuade you to focus your curiosity on more pressing matters?” She asked, gesturing exasperated. Firm rebuke.

I quickly let the matter drop. Not only was Vashet my teacher, she was my only companion. The last thing I wanted to do was irritate her, or give the impression that I was less than attentive to her lessons.

With that one disappointing exception, Vashet was a sparkling font of information. She answered my endless questions quickly and clearly. As a result, I couldn’t help but feel that my skill in speaking and fighting was progressing in great leaps and bounds.

Vashet did not share my enthusiasm, and was not bashful about saying so. Eloquently. In two languages.

Vashet and I were down in the hidden valley that contained the sword tree. We had been practicing our hand fighting for about an hour, and were now sitting in the long grass, catching our breath.

Rather, I was catching my breath. Vashet was not winded at all. Fighting me was nothing to her, and there was no time when she couldn’t chide me for sloppiness by reaching lazily past my defenses to cuff me on the side of the head.

“Vashet,” I said, mustering the courage to ask a question that had been bothering me for some time. “May I ask a question that is perhaps presumptuous?”

“I prefer a presumptuous student,” she said. “I had hoped we were beyond the point of worrying about such things.”

“What is the purpose of all of this?” I gestured between the two of us.

“The purpose of this,” she mimicked my gesture, “is to teach you enough so that you no longer fight like a little boy, drunk on his mother’s wine.”

Today her sandy hair was tied in two short braids that hung down her back on either side of her neck. This made her look oddly girlish, and had not done wonders for my self-esteem over the last hour as she had repeatedly thrown me to the ground, forced me into submission, and struck me with countless solid but generously pulled punches and kicks.

And once, laughing, she had stepped easily behind me and slapped me firmly on the ass, as if she were a lecherous taproom drunk and I some low-bodiced serving girl.

“But why?” I asked. “To what purpose are you teaching me? If Tempi was wrong to teach me, why continue to teach me more?”

Vashet nodded approvingly. “I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to ask that,” she said. “It should have been one of your first questions.”

“I’ve been told I ask too many questions,” I said. “I’ve been trying to step a little more carefully here.”

Vashet sat forward, suddenly businesslike. “You know things you should not. Shehyn does not mind that you know of the Lethani, though others feel differently. But there is agreement on the subject of our Ketan. It is not for barbarians. It is only for the Adem, and only for those who follow the path of the sword tree.”

Vashet continued, “Shehyn’s thought is thus. If you were part of the school, you would be part of Ademre. If you are part of Ademre, you are no longer a barbarian. And if you are no longer a barbarian, it would not be wrong for you to know these things.”

It had a certain convoluted logic to it. “That also means Tempi would not be wrong for teaching me.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Instead of bringing home an unwanted puppy, it would be as if he had returned a lost lamb to the fold.”

“Must I be a lamb or a puppy?” I sighed. “It’s undignified.”

“You fight as a puppy fights,” she said. “Eager and clumsy.”

“But aren’t I already part of the school?” I asked. “You are teaching me, after all.”

Vashet shook her head. “You sleep in the school and eat our food, but that does not make you a student. Many children study the Ketan with hopes of entering the school and someday wearing the red. They live and study with us. They are in the school, but not of the school, if you follow me.”

“It seems odd to me that so many want to become mercenaries,” I said as gently as possible.

“You seem eager enough,” she said with an edge to her voice.

“I am eager to learn,” I said, “not take the life of a mercenary. I mean no offense.”

Vashet stretched her neck, working out some stiffness. “It is your language getting in the way. In the barbarian lands, mercenaries are the lowest rung of society. No matter how thick or useless a man might be, he can carry a cudgel and earn a ha’penny a day guarding a caravan. Am I right?”

“The lifestyle does tend to attract a rough sort of person,” I said.

“We are not mercenaries of that kind. We are paid, but we choose which jobs we take.” She paused. “If you fight for your purse, you are a mercenary. What are you called if you fight out of duty for your country?”