The Wise Man's Fear

I looked up and met their eyes. “You don’t give a body much to work with, do you?” I smiled to soften any offense the words might bring.

Alveron sat forward in his chair. “You must admit,” he said with thinly veiled excitement, “this is a most excellent question. You’ve shown me your gift at guessing before.” His eyes glittered grey. “So what can you guess about this?”

“It’s an heirloom,” I said easily. “Very old—”

“How old would you think?” Alveron interjected hungrily.

“Perhaps three thousand years,” I said. “Give or take.” Meluan stiffened in surprise. “I am close to your own guesses I take it?”

She nodded mutely.

“The carving has no doubt been eroded over the long years of handling.”

“Carving?” Alveron asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“It’s very faint,” I said, closing my eyes. “But I can feel it.”

“I felt no such thing.”

“Nor I,” said Meluan. She seemed slightly offended.

“I have exceptionally sensitive hands,” I said honestly. “They’re necessary for my work.”

“Your magic?” she asked with a well-hidden hint of childlike awe.

“And music,” I said. “If you’ll allow me?” She nodded. So I took her hand in my own, and pressed it to the top of the box. “There. Can you feel it?”

She furrowed her forehead in concentration. “Perhaps, just a bit.” She took her hand away. “Are you sure it’s a carving?”

“It’s too regular to be an accident. How can it be you haven’t noticed it before? Isn’t it mentioned in any of your histories?”

Meluan was taken aback. “No one would think of writing down anything regarding the Loeclos Box. Haven’t I said this is the most secret of secrets?”

“Show me,” Alveron said. I guided his fingers over the pattern. He frowned. “Nothing. My fingers must be too old. Could it be letters?”

I shook my head. “It’s a flowing pattern, like scrollwork. But it doesn’t repeat, it changes . . .” A thought struck me. “It might be a Yllish story knot.”

“Can you read it?” Alveron asked.

I ran my fingers over it. “I don’t know enough Yllish to read a simple knot if I had the string between my fingers.” I shook my head. “Besides, the knots would have changed in the last three thousand years. I know a few people who might be able to translate it at the University.”

Alveron looked to Meluan, but she shook her head firmly. “I will not have this spoken of to strangers.”

The Maer seemed disappointed by this answer, but didn’t press the point. Instead he turned back to me. “Let me ask you your own questions back again. What sort of wood is it?”

“It’s lasted three thousand years,” I mused aloud. “It’s heavy despite being hollow. So it has to be a slow wood, like hornbeam or rennel. Its color and weight make me think it has a good deal of metal in it too, like roah. Probably iron and copper.” I shrugged. “That’s the best I can do.”

“What’s inside it?”

I thought for a long moment before saying anything. “Something smaller than a saltbox. . . .” I began. Meluan smiled, but Alveron gave the barest of frowns so I hurried on. “Something metal, by the way the weight shifts when I tilt it.” I closed my eyes and listened to the padded thump of its contents moving in the box. “No. By the weight of it, perhaps something made of glass or stone.”

“Something precious,” Alveron said.

I opened my eyes. “Not necessarily. It has become precious because it is old, and because it has been with a family for so long. It is also precious because it is a mystery. But was it precious to begin with?” I shrugged. “Who can say?”

“But you lock up precious things,” Alveron pointed out.

“Precisely.” I held up the box, displaying its smooth face. “This isn’t locked up. In fact, it might be locked away. It may be something dangerous.”

“Why would you say that?” Alveron asked curiously.

“Why go through this trouble?” Meluan protested. “Why save something dangerous? If something is dangerous, you destroy it.” She seemed to answer her own question as soon as she had voiced it. “Unless it was precious as well as dangerous.”

“Perhaps it was too useful to destroy,” Alveron suggested.

“Perhaps it couldn’t be destroyed,” I said.

“Last and best,” Alveron said, leaning forward even further in his seat. “How do you open it?”

I gave the box a long look, turned it in my hands, pressed the sides. I ran my fingers over the patterns, feeling for a seam my eyes could not detect. I shook it gently, tasted the air around it, held it to the light.

“I have no idea,” I admitted.

Alveron slumped a little. “It was too much to expect, I suppose. Perhaps some piece of magic?”

I hesitated to tell him that sort of magic only existed in stories. “None I have at my command.”

“Have you ever considered simply cutting it open?” Alveron asked his wife.

Meluan looked every bit as horrified as I felt at the suggestion. “Never!” She said as soon as she caught her breath. “It is the very root of our family. I would sooner think of salting every acre of our lands.”

“And hard as this wood is,” I hurried to say, “you would most likely ruin whatever was inside. Especially if it is delicate.”

“It was only a thought.” Alveron reassured his wife.

“An ill-considered one,” Meluan said sharply, then seemed to regret her words. “I’m sorry, but the very thought . . .” She trailed off, obviously distraught.

He patted her hand. “I understand, my dear. You’re right, it was ill-considered.”

“Might I put it away now?” Meluan asked him.

I reluctantly handed the box back to Meluan. “If there were a lock I could attempt to circumvent it, but I can’t even make a guess at where the hinge might be, or the seam for the lid.” In a box, no lid or locks / Lackless keeps her husband’s rocks. The child’s skipping rhyme ran madly through my head and I only barely managed to turn my laugh into a cough.

Alveron didn’t seem to notice. “As always, I trust to your discretion.” He got to his feet. “Unfortunately, I fear I have used up the better portion of our time. I’m certain you have other matters to attend to. Shall we meet tomorrow to discuss the Amyr? Second bell?”

I had risen to my feet with the Maer. “If it please your grace, I have another matter that warrants some discussion.”

He gave me a serious look. “I trust this is an important matter.”

“Most urgent, your grace,” I said nervously. “It should not wait another day. I would have mentioned it sooner, had we both privacy and time.”

“Very well,” he sat back down. “What presses you so direly?”

“Lerand,” Meluan said with slight reproach. “It is past the hour. Hayanis will be waiting.”

“Let him wait,” he said. “Kvothe has served me well in all regards. He does nothing lightly, and I ignore him only to my detriment.”

“You flatter me, your grace. This matter is a grave one.” I glanced at Meluan. “And somewhat delicate as well. If your lady desires to leave, it might be for the best.”

“If the matter is important, should I not stay?” she asked archly.

I gave the Maer a questioning look.

“Anything you wish to say to me you can tell my lady wife,” he said.

I hesitated. I needed to tell Alveron about the false troupers soon. I was sure if he heard my version of events first, I could present them in a way that cast me in a favorable light. If word came through official channels first he might not be willing to overlook the bald facts of the situation, that I had slaughtered nine travelers of my own free will.

Despite that, the last thing I wanted was Meluan present for the conversation. It couldn’t help but complicate