“I knew it, Reshi,” Bast said emphatically. “There’s no way some thug could get the better of you.”
Kvothe drew a shallow breath, then let it out in a rush. “I’m sure that’s it, Bast,” he said easily. “I expect I could have taken them both if I’d been fresh.”
Bast’s expression grew uncertain again. He turned to face Chronicler. “How could you let this happen?” he demanded.
“It’s not his fault, Bast,” Kvothe said absentmindedly. “I started the fight.” He put a few fingers into his mouth and felt around gingerly. His fingers came out of his mouth bright with blood. “I expect I’m going to lose this tooth,” he mused.
“You will not lose your tooth, Reshi,” Bast said fiercely. “You will
Kvothe made a slight motion with his shoulders, as if trying to shrug without moving any more of his body than he needed to. “It doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things, Bast.” He pressed the cloth to his scalp then looked at it. “I probably won’t need those stitches, either.” He pushed himself upright on the stool. “Let’s have our dinner and get back to the story.” He raised an eyebrow at Chronicler. “If you’re still up for it, of course.”
Chronicler stared at him blankly.
“Reshi,” Bast said, worried. “You’re a mess.” He reached out. “Let me look at your eyes.”
“I’m not concussed, Bast,” Kvothe said, irritated. “I’ve got four broken ribs, a ringing in my ears, and a loose tooth. I have a few minor scalp wounds that look more serious than they really are. My nose is bloody but not broken, and tomorrow I will be a vast tapestry of bruises.”
Kvothe gave the faint shrug again. “Still, I’ve had worse. Besides, they reminded me of something I was close to forgetting. I should probably thank them for that.” He prodded at his jaw speculatively and worked his tongue around in his mouth. “Perhaps not a terribly warm thanks.”
“Reshi, you need stitches,” Bast said. “And you need to let me do something about that tooth.”
Kvothe climbed off the stool. “I’ll just chew on the other side for a few days.”
Bast took hold of Kvothe’s arm. His eyes were hard and dark. “Sit down Reshi.” It was nothing like a request. His voice was low and sudden, like a throb of distant thunder. “Sit. Down.”
Kvothe sat.
Chronicler nodded approvingly and turned to Bast. “What can I do to help?”
“Stay out of my way,” Bast said brusquely. “And keep him in this chair until I get back.” He strode upstairs.
There was a moment of silence.
“So,” Chronicler said. “Subjunctive mood.”
“At best,” Kvothe said, “it is a pointless thing. It needlessly complicates the language. It offends me.”
“Oh come now,” Chronicler said, sounding slightly offended. “The subjunctive is the heart of the hypothetical. In the right hands . . .” He broke off as Bast stormed back into the room, scowling and carrying a small wooden box.
“Bring me water,” Bast said imperiously to Chronicler. “Fresh from the rain barrel, not from the pump. Then I need milk from the icebox, some warmed honey, and a broad bowl. Then clean up this mess and stay out of my way.”
Bast washed the cut on Kvothe’s scalp, then threaded one of his own hairs through a bone needle and laced four tight stitches through the innkeeper’s skin more smoothly than a seamstress.
“Open your mouth,” Bast said, then peered inside, frowning while he prodded one of the back teeth with a finger. He nodded to himself.
Bast handed Kvothe the glass of water. “Rinse out your mouth, Reshi. Do it a couple times and spit the water back into the cup.”
Kvothe did. When he finished the water was red as wine.
Chronicler returned with a bottle of milk. Bast sniffed it, then poured a splash into a wide pottery bowl. He added a dollop of honey and swirled it around to mix it. Finally, he dipped his finger into the glass of bloody water, drew it out, and let a single drop fall into the bowl.
Bast swirled it again and handed Kvothe the bowl. “Take a mouthful of this,” he said. “Don’t swallow it. Hold it in your mouth until I tell you.”
His expression curious, Kvothe tipped the bowl and took a mouthful of the milk.
Bast took a mouthful as well. Then he closed his eyes for a long moment, a look of intense concentration on his face. Then he opened his eyes. He brought the bowl close to Kvothe’s mouth and pointed into it.
Kvothe spat out his mouthful of milk. It was a perfect, creamy white.
Bast brought the bowl to his own mouth and spat. It was a frothy pink.
Kvothe’s eyes widened. “Bast,” he said. “You shouldn’t—”
Bast made a sharp gesture with one hand, his eyes still hard. “I did not ask for your opinion, Reshi.”
The innkeeper looked down, uncomfortable. “It’s more than you should do, Bast.”
The dark young man reached out and laid a gentle hand on the side of his master’s face. For a moment he looked tired, weary through to the bone. Bast shook his head slowly, wearing an expression of bemused dismay. “You are an idiot, Reshi.”
Bast drew his hand back, and the weariness was gone. He pointed across the bar where Chronicler stood watching. “Bring the food.” He pointed at Kvothe. “Tell the story.”
Then he spun on his heel, walked back to his chair by the hearth, and lowered himself into it as if it were a throne. He clapped his hands twice, sharply. “Entertain me!” he said with a wide, mad smile. And even from where the others stood near the bar, they could see the blood on his teeth.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN
Questions
While the mayor of Levinshir seemed to approve of how I’d handled the false troupers, I knew matters weren’t as simple as that. According to the iron law, I was guilty of at least three egregious crimes, any one of which would be enough to see me hanged.
Unfortunately, everyone in Levinshir knew my name and description, and I worried the story might run ahead of me on the road. If that happened, I could easily come to a town where the local constables would do their duty and lock me up until a traveling magistrate arrived to judge my case.
So I made my best speed toward Severen. I put in two days of hard walking, then paid for a seat on a coach heading south. Rumor travels fast, but you can keep ahead of it if you’re willing to ride hard and lose a little sleep.
After three days of bone-jarring ride, I arrived in Severen. The coach entered the city by the eastern gate, and for the first time I saw the gibbet Bredon had told me about. The sight of the bleached bones in the iron cage did not ease my anxieties. The Maer had put a man in there for simple banditry. What might he do to someone who had slaughtered nine traveling players on the road?
I was sorely tempted to head straight to the Four Tapers, where I hoped to find Denna despite what the Cthaeh had said. But I was covered in several days of grime and sweat. I needed a bath and a brush before I spoke with anyone.
As soon as I was inside the Maer’s estate I sent a ring and note to Stapes, knowing it would be the quickest way to get in touch with the Maer for a private conversation. I made it back to my room with little delay, though it meant brushing roughly past a few courtiers in the halls. I had just set down my travelsack and sent runners for hot water when Stapes appeared in the doorway.
“Young Master Kvothe!” he beamed, grabbing my hand to shake it. “It’s good to have you back. Lord and lady, but I’ve been worried about you.”
His enthusiasm wrung a tired smile from me. “It’s good to be back, Stapes. Have I missed much?”
“Much?” He laughed. “The wedding for one.”
“Wedding?” I asked, but I knew the answer as soon as I said it. “The Maer’s wedding?”
Stapes nodded excitedly. “Oh, it was a grand thing. It’s a shame you had to be gone for it, considering.” He gave a knowing look, but didn’t say anything else. Stapes was always very discreet.
