foot until it stirred sluggishly.
“Said I’d give you a kickin’, boy,” the soldier grunted, and drove his foot hard into Kvothe’s side.
The blonde soldier walked over, rubbing at the side of his face. “Had to get all clever, didn’t you?” he said, spitting on the floor. He drew back his boot and landed a hard kick of his own. The innkeeper drew a sharp, hissing breath, but made no other sound.
“And you . . .” The bearded soldier pointed a thick finger at Chronicler. “I’ve got more than one boot. Would you like to see the other? I’ve already skint my knuckles. It’s no bother to me if you want to lose a couple teeth.”
Chronicler looked around and seemed genuinely surprised to find himself standing. He lowered himself slowly back into his chair.
The blonde soldier limped off to reclaim the purse from where it had fallen, while the big bearded man remained standing over Kvothe. “I suppose you figured you had to try,” he said to the crumpled body, giving him another solid kick in the side. “Damn fool. Pasty little innkeep against two of the king’s own.” He shook his head and spat again. “Honestly, who do you think you are?”
Curled on the floor, Kvothe began to make a low, rhythmic sound. It was a dry, quiet noise that scratched around the edges of the room. Kvothe paused as he drew a painful breath.
The bearded soldier frowned and kicked him again. “I asked you a question, cully . . .”
The innkeeper made the same noise again, louder than before. Only then did it become obvious that he was laughing. Each low, broken chuckle sounded like he was coughing up a piece of shattered glass. Despite that, it was a laugh, full of dark amusement, as if the red-haired man had heard a joke that only he could understand.
It went on for some time. The bearded soldier shrugged and drew back his foot again.
Chronicler cleared his throat and the two men turned to look at him. “In the interest of keeping things civilized,” he said. “I feel I should mention that the innkeeper sent his assistant out on an errand. He should be back soon. . . .”
The bearded soldier slapped his companion on the chest with the back of his hand. “He’s right. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait a moment,” the blonde soldier said. He hurried back to the bar and snatched the bottle of wine. “Right, let’s go.”
The bearded soldier grinned and went behind the bar, stepping on the innkeeper’s body rather than over it. He grabbed a random bottle, knocking over half a dozen others as he did so. They rolled and spun on the counter between the two huge barrels, a tall, sapphire-colored one slowly toppling over the edge to shatter on the floor.
In less than a minute the men had gathered up their packs and were out the door.
Chronicler hurried over to where Kvothe lay on the wooden floor. The red-haired man was already struggling into a sitting position.
“Well that was embarrassing,” Kvothe said. He touched his bloody face and looked at his fingers. He chuckled again, a jagged, joyless sound. “Forgot who I was there for a minute.”
“Are you alright?” Chronicler asked.
Kvothe touched his scalp speculatively. “I’ll need a stitch or two, I suspect.”
“What can I do to help?” Chronicler asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Don’t hover over me.” Kvothe pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, then slumped into one of the tall stools at the bar. “If you want, you can fetch me a glass of water. And maybe a wet cloth.”
Chronicler scurried back into the kitchen. There was the sound of frantic rummaging followed by several things falling to the ground.
Kvothe closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the bar.
“Why is the door open?” Bast called as he stepped through the doorway. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here.” He froze, his expression stricken. “Reshi! What happened? What . . . I . . . What happened?”
“Ah Bast,” Kvothe said. “Close the door, would you?”
Bast hurried over, a numb expression on his face. Kvothe sat in a stool at the bar, his face swollen and bloody. Chronicler stood next to him, dabbing awkwardly at the innkeeper’s scalp with a damp cloth.
“I might need to prevail on you for a few stitches, Bast,” Kvothe said. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Reshi,” Bast repeated. “What happened?”
“Devan and I got into a bit of an argument,” Kvothe said, nodding at the scribe, “about the proper use of the subjunctive mood. It got a little heated toward the end.”
Chronicler looked up at Bast, then blanched and took several quick steps backward. “He’s joking!” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It was soldiers!”
Kvothe chuckled painfully to himself. There was blood on his teeth.
Bast looked around the empty taproom. “What did you do with them?”
“Not much, Bast,” the innkeeper said. “They’re probably miles away by now.”
“Was there something wrong with them, Reshi? Like the one last night?” Bast asked.
“Just soldiers, Bast,” Kvothe said. “Just two of the king’s own.”
Bast’s face went ashen. “What?” he asked. “Reshi, why did you let them do this?”
Kvothe gave Bast an incredulous look. He gave a brief, bitter laugh, then stopped with a wince, sucking air through his teeth. “Well they seemed like such clean and virtuous boys,” he said, his voice mocking. “I thought, why not let these nice fellows rob me then beat me to a pulp?”
Bast expression was full of dismay. “But you—”
Kvothe wiped away the blood that was threatening to run into his eye, then looked at Bast as if he were the stupidest creature drawing breath in the entire world. “What?” he demanded. “What do you want me to say?”
“Two soldiers, Reshi?”
“Yes!” Kvothe shouted. “Not even two! Apparently one thick-fisted thug is all it takes to beat me half to death!” He glared furiously at Bast, throwing up his arms. “What is it going to take to shut you up? Do you want a story? Do you want to hear the details?”
Bast took a step backward at the outburst. His face went even paler, his expression panicked.
Kvothe let his arms fall heavily to his sides. “Quit expecting me to be something I’m not,” he said, still breathing hard. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed at his eyes, smearing blood across his face. He let his head sag wearily. “God’s mother, why can’t you just leave me alone?”
Bast stood as still as a startled hart, his eyes wide.
Silence flooded the room, thick and bitter as a lungful of smoke.
Kvothe drew a slow breath, the only motion in the room. “I’m sorry Bast,” he said without looking up. “I’m just in a little pain right now. It got the better of me. Give me a moment and I’ll have it sorted out.”
Still looking down, Kvothe closed his eyes and drew several slow, shallow breaths. When he looked up, his expression was chagrined. “I’m sorry Bast,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
A touch of the color returned to Bast’s cheeks, and some of the tension left his shoulders as he gave a nervous smile.
Kvothe took the damp cloth from Chronicler and wiped the blood away from his eye again. “I’m sorry I interrupted you before, Bast. What is it you were about ask me?”
Bast hesitated, then said. “You killed five scrael not three days ago, Reshi.” He waved toward the door. “What’s some thug compared to that?”
“I picked the time and place for the scrael rather carefully, Bast,” Kvothe said. “And I didn’t exactly dance away unscathed, either.”
Chronicler looked up, surprised. “You were hurt?” he asked. “I didn’t know. You didn’t look it. . . .”
A small, wry smile twisted the corner of Kvothe’s mouth. “Old habits die hard,” he said. “I do have a reputation to maintain. Besides, we heroes are only hurt in properly dramatic ways. It rather ruins the story if you find out Bast had to knit about ten feet of stitches into me after the fight.”
Realization broke over Bast’s face like a sunrise. “Of course!” he said, his voice thick with relief. “I forgot. You’re still hurt from the scrael. I knew it had to be something like that.”
Kvothe looked at the floor, every line of his body sagging and weary. “Bast . . .” he began.
