He laughed at this. “Don’t see why not. You need more than fifteen minutes on account of it being mysterious and all?”
“Ten should be a great plenty,” I said as I unpacked my lute case and travelsack from Greytail and handed the mayor the reins. “You’d be doing me a favor if you took care of him until Bil is up and about,” I said.
“You leaving your horse?” he asked.
“He’s just lost his.” I shrugged. “And we Ruh are used to walking. I wouldn’t know what to do with a horse, anyway,” I said half-honestly.
The big man gripped the reins and gave me a long look, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. “Is there anything we can do for you?” he asked at last.
“Remember it was bandits who took them,” I said as I turned to leave. “And remember it was one of the Edema Ruh who brought them back.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
Interlude—Close to Forgetting
Kvothe held up a hand to Chronicler. “Let’s take a moment, shall we?” He looked around the dark inn. “I’ve let myself get a little caught up in the story. I should tend to a few things before it gets any later.”
The innkeeper came stiffly to his feet and stretched. He lit a candle at the fireplace and moved around the inn, lighting the lamps one by one, driving back the dark by slow degrees.
“I was focused rather closely myself,” Chronicler said, standing up and stretching. “What time is it?”
“Late,” Bast said. “I’m hungry.”
Chronicler looked out the dark window into the street. “I’d have thought you’d have had at least a few folks in for dinner by now. You pulled a good crowd for lunch.”
Kvothe nodded. “We would’ve seen a few of my regulars if not for Shep’s funeral.”
“Ah.” Chronicler looked down. “I’d forgotten. Is that something I’ve kept you two from attending?”
Kvothe lit the last lamp behind the bar and blew out his candle. “Not really,” he said. “Bast and I aren’t from around these parts. And they’re practical folk. They know I have a business to run, such as it is.”
“And you don’t get along with Abbe Leodin,” Bast said.
“And I don’t get along with the local priest,” Kvothe admitted. “But you should make an appearance, Bast. It will seem odd if you don’t.”
Bast’s eyes darted around nervously. “I don’t want to leave, Reshi.”
Kvothe smiled warmly at him. “You should, Bast. Shep was a good man, go have a drink to send him off. In fact . . .” He bent and rummaged around under the bar for a moment before coming up with a bottle. “Here. A fine old bottle of brand. Better stuff than anyone around here asks for. Go share it around.” He set it on the bar with a solid sound.
Bast took an involuntary step forward, his face conflicted. “But Reshi, I . . .”
“Pretty girls dancing, Bast,” Kvothe said, his voice low and soothing. “Someone on the fiddle and all of them just glad to be alive. Kicking up their skirts to the music. Laughing and a little tipsy. Their cheeks all rosy and ready to be kissed. . . .” He gave the heavy brown bottle a nudge, and it slid down the bar toward his student. “You’re my ambassador to the town. I may be stuck minding the shop, but you can be there and make my apologies.”
Bast closed his hand around the neck of the bottle. “I’ll have one drink,” he said, his voice thick with resolve. “And one dance. And one kiss with Katie Miller. And maybe another with the Widow Creel. But that’s all.” He looked Kvothe in the eye. “I’ll only be gone half an hour. . . .”
Kvothe gave a warm smile. “I have things to tend to, Bast. I’ll cobble together dinner and we’ll give our friend’s hand a bit of a rest.”
Bast grinned and picked up the bottle. “Two dances then!” He bolted for the door, and when he opened it the wind gusted around him, swirling his hair wildly. “Save me something to eat!” He shouted over his shoulder.
The door banged shut.
Chronicler gave the innkeeper a curious look.
Kvothe gave a small shrug. “He was getting too tangled up in the story. He can’t feel a thing halfway. A little time away will give him some perspective. Besides, I do have dinner to prepare, even if it’s only for three.”
The scribe brought a grimy piece of cloth out of his leather satchel and looked at it with some distaste. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a clean rag?” he asked.
Kvothe nodded and brought out a white linen cloth from beneath the bar. “Is there anything else you need?”
Chronicler stood and walked over to the bar. “If you had some strong spirits it would be a great help,” he said, sounding slightly embarrassed. “I hate to ask, but when I was robbed . . .”
Kvothe waved the comment away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I should have asked you yesterday if there was anything you needed.” He moved out from behind the bar toward the basement stairs. “I’m assuming wood alcohol would work best?”
Chronicler nodded, and Kvothe disappeared into the basement. The scribe picked up the crisply folded square of linen and rubbed it idly between his fingers. Then his eyes wandered up to the sword hanging high on the wall behind the bar. The grey metal of the blade was striking against the dark wood of the mounting board.
Kvothe came back up the steps carrying a small clear bottle. “Is there anything else you need? I have a good stock of paper and ink here too.”
“It may come to that by tomorrow,” Chronicler said. “I’ve used up most of my paper. But I can grind more ink tonight.”
“Don’t put yourself to the trouble,” Kvothe said easily. “I have several bottles of fine Aruean ink.”
“True Aruean ink?” Chronicler asked, surprised.
Kvothe gave a broad smile and nodded.
“That’s terribly kind of you,” Chronicler said, relaxing a bit. “I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to spending an hour grinding tonight.” He gathered up the clear bottle and cloth, then paused. “Would you mind if I asked you a question? Unofficially, as it were?”
A smirk curled the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Very well then, unofficially.”
“I can’t help notice that your description of Caesura doesn’t . . .” Chronicler hesitated. “Well, it doesn’t quite seem to match the actual sword itself.” His eyes flicked to the sword behind the bar. “The hand guard isn’t what you described.”
Kvothe gave a wide grin. “Well you’re just sharp as anything, aren’t you?”
“I don’t mean to imply—” Chronicler said quickly, looking embarrassed.
Kvothe laughed a rich warm laugh. The sound of it tumbled around the room, and for a moment the inn didn’t feel empty at all. “No. You’re absolutely right.” He turned to look at the sword. “This isn’t . . . what did the boy call it this morning?” His eyes went distant for a moment, then he smiled again. “Kaysera. The poet killer.”
“I was just curious,” Chronicler said apologetically.
“Am I supposed to be offended that you’re paying attention?” Kvothe laughed again. “What fun is there in telling a story if nobody’s listening?” He rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Right then. Dinner. What would you like? Hot or cold? Soup or stew? I’m a dab hand at pudding too.”
They settled on something simple to avoid restoking the stove in the kitchen. Kvothe moved briskly around the inn, gathering what was needed. He hummed to himself as he fetched cold mutton and half a hard, sharp cheese from the basement.
“These will be a nice surprise for Bast.” Kvothe grinned at Chronicler as he brought out a jar of brined olives from the pantry. “He can’t know we have them or he’d have eaten them already.” He untied his apron, pulling it off over his head. “I think we have a few tomatoes left in the garden too.”
Kvothe returned after several minutes with his apron wrapped into a bundle. He was spattered with rain and his hair was in wild disarray. He wore a boyish grin, and at that moment he looked very little like the somber, slowmoving innkeeper.
“It can’t quite decide if it wants to storm,” he said as he set his apron on the bar, carefully removing the tomatoes. “But if it makes up its mind, we’re in for a wagon-tipper tonight.” He began to hum absentmindedly while
