The Wise Man's Fear

Old Cob climbed stiffly down off his stool and motioned to Graham and Jake. “Come on then, we can walk together as far as Byres’ place. I’ll tell you two all about it. Now this Chronicler, he’s tall and pale, and thin as a rail, with hair as black as ink—”

The door of the Waystone Inn banged closed.

“What in God’s name was that all about?” Chronicler demanded.

Kvothe looked sideways at Chronicler. He smiled a small, sharp smile. “How does it feel,” he asked, “knowing people out there are telling stories about you?”

“They’re not telling stories about me!” Chronicler said. “They’re just a bunch of nonsense.”

“Not nonsense,” Kvothe said, seeming a little bit offended. “It might not be true, but that doesn’t mean it’s nonsense.” He looked at Bast. “I liked the paper sword.”

Bast beamed. “The king’s task was a nice touch, Reshi. I don’t know about the Faerie blood though.”

“Demon blood would have been too sinister,” Kvothe said. “He needed a twist.”

“At least I won’t have to hear him tell it,” Chronicler said sullenly, prodding a bit of potato with his spoon.

Kvothe looked up, then chuckled darkly. “You don’t understand, do you? A fresh story like that on a harvest day? They’ll be at it like a child with a new toy. Old Cob will talk about Chronicler to a dozen people while they’re bucking hay and drinking water in the shade. Tonight at Shep’s wake, folk from ten towns will hear about the Lord of Stories. It will spread like a fire in a field.”

Chronicler looked back and forth between the two of them, his expression vaguely horrified. “Why?”

“It’s a gift,” Kvothe said.

“You think I want this?” Chronicler said incredulously. “Fame?”

“Not fame,” Kvothe said grimly. “Perspective. You go rummaging around in other people’s lives. You hear rumors and go digging for the painful truth beneath the lovely lies. You believe you have a right to these things. But you don’t.” He looked hard at the scribe. “When someone tells you a piece of their life, they’re giving you a gift, not granting you your due.”

Kvothe wiped his hands on the clean linen cloth. “I’m giving you my story with all the grubby truths intact. All my mistakes and idiocies laid out naked in the light. If I decide to pass over some small piece because it bores me, I’m well within my rights. I won’t be goaded into changing my mind by some farmer’s tale. I’m not an idiot.”

Chronicler looked down at his soup. “It was a little heavy-handed, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Kvothe said.

Chronicler looked up with a sigh and gave a small, embarrassed smile. “Well. You can’t blame me for trying.”

“I can, actually,” Kvothe said. “But I believe I’ve made my point. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for any trouble that might cause you.” He gestured to the door and the departed farmers. “I might have overreacted a bit. I’ve never responded well to manipulation.”

Kvothe stepped out from behind the bar, heading to the table near the hearth. “Come on now, both of you. The trial itself was tedious business. But it had important repercussions.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT A Significant Absence

I went through the admissions lottery and was lucky enough to draw a late slot. I was glad for the extra time, as my trial had left me little opportunity to study for my exams.

Still, I wasn’t terribly worried. I had time to study and free access to the Archives. What’s more, for the first time since I’d come to the University, I wasn’t a pauper. I had thirteen talents in my purse. Even after I paid Devi the interest on her loan, I would easily have enough for tuition.

Best of all, the long hours spent searching for the gram had taught me a great deal about the Archives. While I might not know as much as an experienced scriv, I was familiar with many of her hidden corners and quiet secrets. So while I studied, I also allowed myself the freedom to do other reading while I prepared for admissions.

I closed the book I’d been poring over. A well-written, comprehensive history of the Aturan church. It was as useless as all the rest.

Wilem looked up as my book thumped shut. “Nothing?” he asked.

“Less than nothing,” I said.

The two of us were studying in one of the fourth-floor reading holes, much smaller than our customary place on the third floor, but given how close we were to admissions, we’d been lucky to find a private room at all.

“Why don’t you let it go?” Wil suggested. “You’ve been beating this Amyr thing like a dead horse for what, two span?”

I nodded, not wanting to admit my research into the Amyr had actually started long before our bet had taken us to Puppet.

“And what have you found so far?”

“Shelves of books,” I said. “Dozens of stories. Mentions in a hundred histories.”

He gave me a level look. “And this wealth of information irritates you.”

“No,” I said. “The lack of information troubles me. There isn’t any solid information about the Amyr in any of these books.”

“None?” Wilem said skeptically.

“Oh, every historian in the last three hundred years talks about them,” I said. “They speculate on how the Amyr influenced the decline of the empire. Philosophers talk about the ethical ramifications of their actions.” I gestured to the books. “That tells me what people think about the Amyr. It doesn’t tell me anything about the Amyr themselves.”

Wilem frowned at my stack of books. “It can’t all be historians and philosophers.”

“There are stories too,” I said. “Early on there are stories about the great wrongs they righted. Later you get stories about the terrible things they did. An Amyr in Renere kills a corrupt judge. Another in Junpui puts down a peasant uprising. A third in Melithi poisons half the town’s nobility.”

“And that isn’t solid information?” Wilem asked.

“They’re soft stories,” I said. “Second- or third-hand. Three-quarters of them are simply hearsay. I can’t find corroborating evidence for them anywhere. Why can’t I find any mention of the corrupt judge in the church records? His name should be recorded in every case he tried. What was the date of this peasant uprising, and why can’t I find it mentioned in any of the other histories?”

“It was three hundred years ago,” Wilem said reproachfully. “You can’t expect all those little details to survive.”

“I expect some of the little details to survive. You know how obsessive the Tehlins are about their records,” I said. “We have a thousand years of court documents from a hundred different cities squirreled away down in sub-two. Whole rooms full . . .”

I waved my hands dismissively. “But fine, let’s abandon the small details. There are huge questions I can’t find any answers for. When was the Order Amyr founded? How many Amyr were there? Who paid them, and how much? Where did that money come from? Where were they trained? How did they come to be a part of the Tehlin church?”

“Feltemi Reis answered that,” Wilem said. “They grew out of the tradition of the mendicant judges.”

I picked up a book at random and thumped it onto the table in front of him. “Find me one bit of proof to support that theory. Find me one record that shows a mendicant judge being promoted into the ranks of the Amyr. Show me one record of an Amyr being employed by a court. Find me one church document that shows an Amyr presiding over a case.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest belligerently. “Go on, I’ll wait.”

Wilem ignored the book. “Maybe there weren’t as many Amyr as people assume. Perhaps there were only a few of them and their reputation grew out of their control.” He gave me a pointed look. “You should understand how that works.”