The Wise Man's Fear

The old woman gestured for me to climb up onto the stone. I looked out over the group of Adem and had an unprecedented moment of stage fright.

Bending a bit, I spoke softly to Magwyn. “Is it appropriate for me to raise my voice when reciting this?” I asked her nervously. “I do not mean to be offensive, but if I do not, those in the back will not be able to hear.”

Magwyn smiled at me for the first time, her wrinkled face suddenly sweet. She patted my hand. “No one will be offended at a loud voice here,” she said, gesturing considerate moderation. “Give.”

I unbuckled Saicere and handed it over. Then Magwyn urged me onto the stone.

I recited the Atas while Magwyn watched. Though I was confident of my memory, it was still nerve-wracking. I wondered what would happen if I skipped an owner or misplaced a name.

It took the better part of an hour before I was done, the audience of Adem listening with an almost eerie quiet. When I finished, Magwyn offered her hand, helping me down from the stone as if I were a lady descending from a carriage. Then she gestured up the hill.

I wiped the sweat from my hand and gripped the wooden hilt of my dueling sword as I started up the path. Carceret’s reds were strapped tightly across her long arms and broad shoulders. The leather straps she used were wider and thicker than Tempi’s. They looked to be a brighter red, too, and I wonder if she had dyed them especially for today. As I came closer, I saw she had the fading remains of a black eye.

Once she saw I was watching, Carceret tossed her wooden sword away in a slow, deliberate motion. She gestured disdain broadly enough so they could see it in the ha’penny seats at the back of the crowd.

There was a murmur from the crowd and I stopped walking, uncertain what to do. After a moment’s thought, I lay my own training sword down by the side of the path and continued to walk.

Carceret waited in the center of a flat, grassy circle about thirty feet across. The ground was soft here, so I wouldn’t ordinarily worry about being thrown. Ordinarily. Vashet had taught me the difference between throwing someone to the ground and throwing someone at the ground. The first was what you did during a polite bout. The second was what you would use in a true fight where the intention was to maim or kill your opponent.

Before I came too close, I fell into the now-familiar fighter’s crouch. I raised my hands, bent my knees, and fought the urge to rise up onto the balls of my feet, knowing I would feel quicker, and ruin my balance as a result. I took a deep, steadying breath and slowly moved toward her.

Carceret fell into a similar crouch, and just as I was coming to the outside limits of her reach, she made a feint toward me. It was only a slight twitch of the hand and shoulder, but, anxious as I was, I fell for it wholeheartedly and skittered away like a startled rabbit.

Carceret lowered her hands and stood up straight, abandoning her fighting crouch. Amusement, she gestured broadly, invitation. Then she beckoned with both hands. I heard a few pieces of laughter drift up from the crowd below.

Humiliating as her attitude was, I was eager to take advantage of her lowered guard. I moved forward and made a cautious attempt at Hands like Knives. Too cautious, and she stepped away from it without even needing to lift her hands.

I knew I was outclassed as a fighter. That meant my only hope was to play on her already hot emotions. If I could infuriate her, she might make mistakes. If she made mistakes, I might be able to win. “First came Chael,” I said, giving her my widest, most barbaric smile.

Carceret took a half step closer. “I am going to crush your pretty hands,” she hissed in perfect Aturan. As she spoke she reached out and made a vicious gripping motion at me.

She was trying to scare me, make me recoil and lose my balance. And honestly, the raw venom in her voice made me want to do just that.

But I was ready. I resisted my reflex to pull back. In doing so I froze for a moment, neither retreating nor advancing.

Of course, this is what Carceret was truly waiting for, a half-moment’s hesitation as I fought the urge to flee. She closed on me in a single easy step and caught my wrist, her hand tight as a band of iron.

Without thinking, I used Celean’s curious two-handed version of Break Lion. Perfect for a small girl struggling against a grown man, or a hopelessly outclassed musician trying to escape an Adem mercenary.

I regained control of my hand, and the unorthodox movement startled Carceret ever so slightly. I took advantage of it and struck out quickly with Sowing Barley, snapping my knuckles hard against the meat of her inner bicep.

It wasn’t a hard punch, I was too close for that. But if I managed to hit the nerve properly, the blow would numb her hand. This wouldn’t just make her weak on her left side, but it would make all the two-handed motions of the Ketan more difficult. A significant advantage.

Since I was still so close, I immediately followed Sowing Barley with Turn Millstone, giving her a short, firm push to knock her off balance. I managed to get both hands on her, and even pushed her backward by perhaps four inches, but Carceret came nowhere near to losing her balance.

Then I saw her eyes. I’d thought she’d been angry before, but it was nothing compared to now. Now I’d managed to actually strike her. Not just once, but twice. A barbarian with less than two months of training had struck her twice, while everyone in the school looked on.

I cannot describe how she looked. And even if I could, it would not impress upon you the truth of things, as her face was still almost entirely impassive. Instead let me say this. I have never seen anyone so furious in my entire life. Not Ambrose. Not Hemme. Not Denna when I criticized her song or the Maer when I defied him. Those angers were pale candles compared to the forge fire burning in Carceret’s eyes.

But even in the full flower of her fury, Carceret was perfectly in control. She didn’t lash out wildly or snarl at me. She kept her words inside her, burning them like fuel.

I couldn’t win this fight. But my hands moved automatically, trained by hundreds of hours of practice to take advantage of her nearness. I stepped forward and tried to grab hold of her for Thunder Upward. Her hands snapped out, brushing the attack away. Then she lashed out with Bargeman at the Dock.

I don’t think she expected it to connect. A more competent opponent would have avoided or blocked it. But I had let myself get slightly wrongfooted, so I was off balance, so I was slow, so her foot caught me in the stomach and pushed.

Bargeman at the Dock isn’t a quick kick meant to break bones. It is a kick that shoves the opponent off balance. As I was already off balance, it pushed me right off my feet. I landed jarringly on my back, then rolled to a stop in a messy tangle of limbs.

Now some might say that I had taken a bad fall and was obviously too stupefied to find my feet and continue the fight. Others might say that while it was messy, the fall wasn’t quite as hard as all that, and I had certainly found my feet after worse.

Personally, I think the line between being stupefied and being wise is sometimes very thin. How thin, I suppose, I will leave to you to decide.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SEVEN Anger

“What were you thinking?” Tempi demanded. Disappointment. Fierce chastisement. “What fool sets his sword aside?”

“She threw her sword away first!” I protested.

“Only to lure you in,” Tempi said. “Only as a trap.”

I was buckling Caesura’s scabbard so the hilt hung over my shoulder. There hadn’t been any particular ceremony after I had lost. Magwyn simply returned my sword and smiled at me, patting my hand in a comforting way.

I watched the crowd slowly dispersing below, and gestured polite disbelief to Tempi. “Should I have kept my sword when she was unarmed?”