Deeper still, we came to Throughbottom, a room like a cathedral, so big that neither Auri’s blue light nor my red one reached the highest peaks of the ceiling. All around us were huge, ancient machines. Some lay in pieces: broken gears taller than a man, leather straps gone brittle with age, great wooden beams that were now explosions of white fungus, huge as hedgerows.
Other machines were intact but worn by centuries of neglect. I approached an iron block as big as a farmer’s cottage and broke off a single flake of rust large as a dinner plate. Underneath was nothing but more rust. Nearby there were three great pillars covered in green verdigris so thick it looked like moss. Many of the huge machines were beyond identifying, looking more melted than rusted. But I saw something that might have been a waterwheel, three stories tall, lying in a dry canal that ran like a chasm through the middle of the room.
I had only the vaguest of ideas as to what any of the machines might have done. I had no guess at all as to why they had lain here for uncounted centuries, deep underground. There didn’t seem—
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Interlude—Looking
The sound of heavy boots on the wooden landing startled the men sitting in the Waystone Inn. Kvothe bolted to his feet midsentence and was halfway to the bar before the front door opened and the first of the Felling night crowd made their way inside.
“You’ve got hungry men here, Kote!” Cob called out as he opened the door. Shep, Jake, and Graham followed him inside.
“We might have a little something in the back,” Kote said. “I could run and fetch it straightaway, unless you’d like drinks first.” There was a chorus of friendly assent as the men settled onto their stools at the bar. The exchange had a well-worn feel, comfortable as old shoes.
Chronicler stared at the red-haired man behind the bar. There was nothing left of Kvothe in him. It was just an innkeeper: friendly, servile, and so unassuming as to almost be invisible.
Jake took a long drink before noticing Chronicler sitting at the far end of the room. “Well look at you, Kote! A new customer. Hell, we’re lucky to have got any seats at all.”
Shep chuckled. Cob swiveled his stool around and peered at where Chronicler sat next to Bast, pen still poised over his paper. “Is he a scribe or sommat?”
“He is,” Kote said quickly. “Came into town late last night.”
Cob squinted toward them. “What’s he writing?”
Kote lowered his voice a bit, drawing the attention of the customers away from the guest and back to his side of the bar. “Remember that trip Bast made to Baedn?” They nodded attentively. “Well, turns out he had a scare with the pox, and he’s been feeling his years a bit since then. He thought he’d best get his will writ down while he had the chance.”
“Sense enough in that, these days,” Shep said darkly He drank off the last of his beer and knocked the empty mug down. “I’ll do another of those.”
“Whatsoever monies I have saved at the time of my death shall go to the Widow Sage,” Bast said loudly across the room. “To help in raising and dowering her three daughters, as they are soon to be of marriaging age.” He gave Chronicler a troubled look. “Is ‘marriaging’ a word?”
“Little Katie certainly has grown up a bit this last year, hasn’t she?” Graham mused. The others nodded in agreement.
“To my employer, I leave my best pair of boots,” Bast continued magnanimously. “And whatsoever of my pants he finds fit him.”
“Boy does have a fine pair of boots,” Cob said to Kote. “Always thought so.”
“I leave it to Pater Leoden to distribute the remainder of my worldly goods among the parish, as, being an immoral soul, I will have no further need of them.”
“You mean,
Bast shrugged. “That’s all I can think of for now” Chronicler nodded and quickly shuffled the paper, pens, and ink into his flat leather satchel.
“Come on over then,” Cob called to him. “Don’t be a stranger.” Chronicler froze, then made his way slowly toward the bar. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Devan,” he said, then looked stricken and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Carverson. Devan Carverson.”
Cob made introductions all around, then turned back to the newcomer. “Which way you from, Devan?” Cob asked.
“Off past Abbott’s Ford.”
“Any news from that way?”
Chronicler shifted uncomfortably in his seat while Kote eyed him darkly from the other side of the bar. “Well ... the roads are rather bad....”
This sparked a chorus of familiar complaints, and Chronicler relaxed. While they were still grousing, the door opened and the smith’s prentice came in, boyish and broad-shouldered with the smell of coalsmoke in his hair. A long rod of iron rested on his shoulder as he held the door open for Carter.
“You look a fool, boy,” Carter groused as he made his way slowly through the door, walking with the stiff care of the recently injured. “You keep hauling that around, and folk’ll start talking about you like they do Crazy Martin. You’ll be that crazy boy from Rannish. You want to listen to that for the next fifty years?”
The smith’s prentice shifted his grip on the iron bar self-consciously. “Let ’em talk,” he mumbled with a hint of defiance. “Since I went out and took care of Nelly I’ve been having dreams about that spider thing.” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d think you’d be carrying one in each hand. That thing could’ve killed you.”
Carter ignored him, his expression stiff as he walked gingerly toward the bar.
“Good to see you up and about, Carter,” Shep called out, raising his mug. “I thought we might not see you out of bed for another day or two.”
“Take more than a few stitches to keep me down,” Carter said.
Bast made a show of offering up his stool to the injured man, then quietly took a seat as far from the smith’s prentice as possible. There was a warm murmur of welcome from everyone.
The innkeeper ducked into the back room and emerged a few minutes later carrying a tray loaded with hot bread and steaming bowls of stew.
Everyone was listening to Chronicler. “... if I remember right, Kvothe was off in Severen when it happened. He was walking home—”
“It weren’t Severen,” Old Cob said. “It was off by the University.”
“Could have been,” Chronicler conceded. “Anyway, he was walking home late at night and some bandits jumped him in an alleyway.”
“It was broad daylight,” Cob said testily. “In the middle of town. All manner of folk were around to see it.”
Chronicler shook his head stubbornly. “I remember an alley. Anyway, the bandits surprised Kvothe. They wanted his horse,” he paused and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Wait, that’s not right. He wouldn’t have his horse in an alley. Maybe he was on the road to Severen.”
“I told you, it weren’t Severen!” Cob demanded, slapping his hand down on the bar, plainly irritated. “Tehlu anyway, just stop. You’ve got it all mixed up.”
Chronicler flushed in embarrassment. “I only heard it once, years ago.”
Shooting Chronicler a dark look, Kote clattered the tray down loudly onto the bar and the story was momentarily forgotten. Old Cob ate so quickly he almost choked himself, and washed it down with a long swallow of beer.
“Seeing as how you’re still working on your dinner there,” he said none too casually to Chronicler as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Would you mind terrible if I picked up the story? Just so’s the boy can hear it?”
