CHAPTER SIX

Love

S TANCHION LED ME ONTO the stage and brought out an armless chair. Then he walked to the front of the stage to chat with the audience. I spread my cloak over the back of the chair as the lights began to dim.

I laid my battered lute case on the floor. It was even shabbier than I was. It had been quite nice once, but that was years ago and miles away. Now the leather hinges were cracked and stiff, and the body was worn thin as parchment in places. Only one of the original clasps remained, a delicate thing of worked silver. I’d replaced the others with whatever I could scavenge, so now the case sported mismatched clasps of bright brass and dull iron.

But inside the case was something else entirely. Inside was the reason I was scrambling for tuition tomorrow. I had driven a hard bargain for it, and even then it had cost me more money than I had ever spent on anything in my life. So much money I couldn’t afford a case that fit it properly, and made do by padding my old one with rags.

The wood was the color of dark coffee, of freshly turned earth. The curve of the bowl was perfect as a woman’s hip. It was hushed echo and bright string and thrum. My lute. My tangible soul.

I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched sailors on the shore stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king’s colors stretched against the wind.

Listen to me: these men know nothing of love.

You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of sailors. If you want to know of love, look to a trouper’s hands as he makes his music. A trouper knows.

I looked out at my audience as they grew slowly still. Simmon waved enthusiastically, and I smiled in return. I saw Count Threpe’s white hair near the rail on the second tier now. He was speaking earnestly to the well-dressed couple, gesturing in my direction. Still campaigning on my behalf though we both knew it was a hopeless cause.

I brought the lute out of its shabby case and began to tune it. It was not the finest lute in the Eolian. Not by half. Its neck was slightly bent, but not bowed. One of the pegs was loose and was prone to changing its tune.

I brushed a soft chord and tipped my ear to the strings. As I looked up, I could see Denna’s face, clear as the moon. She smiled excitedly at me and wiggled her fingers below the level of the table where her gentleman couldn’t see.

I touched the loose peg gently, running my hands over the warm wood of the lute. The varnish was scraped and scuffed in places. It had been treated unkindly in the past, but that didn’t make it less lovely underneath.

So yes. It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because .That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite . To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

Stanchion made a sweeping gesture in my direction. There was brief applause followed by an attentive hush.

I plucked two notes and felt the audience lean toward me. I touched a string, tuned it slightly, and began to play. Before a handful of notes rang out, everyone had caught the tune.

It was “Bell-Wether.” A tune shepherds have been whistling for ten thousand years. The simplest of simple melodies. A tune anyone with a bucket could carry. A bucket was overkill, actually. A pair of cupped hands would manage nicely. A single hand. Two fingers, even.

It was, plainly said, folk music.

There have been a hundred songs written to the tune of “Bell-Wether.” Songs of love and war. Songs of humor, tragedy, and lust. I did not bother with any of these. No words. Just the music. Just the tune.

I looked up and saw Lord Brickjaw leaning close to Denna, making a dismissive gesture. I smiled as I teased the song carefully from the strings of my lute.

But before much longer, my smile grew strained. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. I hunched over the lute, concentrating on what my hands were doing. My fingers darted, then danced, then flew.

I played hard as a hailstorm, like a hammer beating brass. I played soft as sun on autumn wheat, gentle as a single stirring leaf. Before long, my breath began to catch from the strain of it. My lips made a thin, bloodless line across my face.

As I pushed through the middle refrain I shook my head to clear my hair away from my eyes. Sweat flew in an arc to patter out along the wood of the stage. I breathed hard, my chest working like a bellows, straining like a horse run to lather.

The song rang out, each note bright and clear. I almost stumbled once. The rhythm faltered for the space of a split hair. . . .Then somehow I recovered, pushed through, and managed to finish the final line, plucking the notes sweet and light despite the fact that my fingers were a weary blur.

Then, just when it was obvious I couldn’t carry on a moment longer, the last chord rang through the room and I slumped in my chair, exhausted.

The audience burst into thunderous applause.

But not the whole audience. Scattered through the room dozens of people burst into laughter instead, a few of them pounding the tables and stomping the floor, shouting their amusement.

The applause sputtered and died almost immediately. Men and women stopped with their hands frozen midclap as they stared at the laughing members of the audience. Some looked angry, others confused. Many were plainly offended on my behalf, and angry mutterings began to ripple through the room.

Before any serious discussion could take root, I struck a single high note and held up a hand, pulling their attention back to me. I wasn’t done yet. Not by half.

I shifted in my seat and rolled my shoulders. I strummed once, touched the loose peg, and rolled effortlessly into my second song.

It was one of Illien’s: “Tintatatornin.” I doubt you’ve ever heard of it. It’s something of an oddity compared to Illien’s other works. First, it has no lyrics. Second, while it’s a lovely song, it isn’t nearly as catchy or moving as many of his better-known melodies.

Most importantly, it is perversely difficult to play. My father referred to it as “the finest song ever written for fifteen fingers.” He made me play it when I was getting too full of myself and felt I needed humbling. Suffice to say I practiced it with fair regularity, sometimes more than once a day.

So I played “Tintatatornin.” I leaned back into my chair and crossed my ankles, relaxing a bit. My hands strolled idly over the strings. After the first chorus, I drew a breath and gave a short sigh, like a young boy trapped inside on a sunny day. My eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, bored.

Still playing, I fidgeted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position and failing. I frowned, stood up, and looked at the chair as if it was somehow to blame. Then I reclaimed my seat and wriggled, an uncomfortable expression on my face.

All the while the ten thousand notes of “Tintatatornin” danced and capered. I took a moment between one chord and the next to scratch myself idly behind the ear.

I was so deeply into my little act that I actually felt a yawn swelling up. I let it out in full earnest, so wide and long that the people the front row could count my teeth. I shook my head as if to clear it, and daubed at my watery eyes with my sleeve.

Through all of this, “Tintatatornin” tripped into the air. Maddening harmony and counterpoint weaving together, skipping apart. All of it flawless and sweet and easy as breathing. When the end came, drawing together a dozen tangled threads of song, I made no flourish. I simply stopped and rubbed my eyes a bit. No crescendo. No bow. Nothing. I cracked my knuckles distractedly and leaned forward to set my lute back in the case.

This time the laughter came first. The same people as before, hooting and hammering at their tables twice as loudly as before. My people. The musicians. I let my bored expression fall away and grinned knowingly out at them.

The applause followed a few heartbeats later, but it was scattered and confused. Even before the house lights rose, it had dissolved into a hundred murmuring discussions throughout the room.

Marie rushed up to greet me as I came down the stairs, her face full of laughter. She shook my hand and clapped me on the back. She was the first of many, all musicians. Before I could get bogged down, Marie linked her arm in mine and led me back to my table.

“Good lord, boy,” Manet said. “You’re like a tiny king here.”

“This isn’t half the attention he usually gets,” Wilem said. “Normally they’re still cheering when he makes it back to the table. Young women bat their eyes and strew his path with flowers.”

Sim looked around the room curiously. “The reaction did seem . . .” he groped for a word. “Mixed. Why is that?”

“Because young six-string here is so sharp he can hardly help but cut himself,” Stanchion said as he made his way over to our table.

“You’ve noticed that too?” Manet asked dryly.

“Hush,” Marie said. “It was brilliant.”

Stanchion sighed and shook his head.

“I for one,” Wilem said pointedly, “would like to know what is being discussed.”

“Kvothe here played the simplest song in the world and made it look like he was spinning gold out of flax,” Marie said. “Then he took a real piece of music, something only a handful of folk in the whole place could play, and made it look so easy you’d think a child could blow it on a tin whistle.”

“I’m not denying that it was cleverly done,” Stanchion said. “The problem is the way he did it. Everyone who jumped in clapping on the first song feels like an idiot. They feel they’ve been toyed with.”

“Which they were,” Marie pointed out. “A performer manipulates the audience. That’s the point of the joke.”

“People don’t like being toyed with,” Stanchion replied. “They resent it, in fact. Nobody likes having a joke played on them.”

“Technically,” Simmon interjected, grinning, “he played the joke on the lute.”

Everyone turned to look at him, and his grin faded a bit. “You see? He actually played a joke. On a lute.” He looked down at the table, his grin fading as his face flushed a sudden embarrassed red. “Sorry.”

Marie laughed an easy laugh.

Manet spoke up. “So it’s really an issue of two audiences,” he said slowly. “There’s those that know enough about music to get the joke, and those who need the joke explained to them.”

Marie made a triumphant gesture toward Manet. “That’s it exactly,” she said to Stanchion. “If you come here and don’t know enough to get the joke on your own, then you deserve to have your nose tweaked a bit.”

“Except most of those people are the gentry,” Stanchion said. “And our clever-jack doesn’t have a patron yet.”

“What?” Marie said. “Threpe put word out months ago.Why hasn’t someone snatched you up?”

“Ambrose Jakis,” I explained.

Her face didn’t show any recognition. “Is he a musician?”

“Baron’s son,” Wilem said.

She gave a puzzled frown. “How can he possibly keep you away from a patron?”

“Ample free time and twice as much money as God,” I said dryly.

“His father’s one of the most powerful men in Vintas,” Manet added, then turned to Simmon. “What is he, sixteenth in line to the throne?”

“Thirteenth,” Simmon said sullenly. “The entire Surthen family was lost at sea two months ago. Ambrose won’t shut up about the fact that his father’s barely a dozen steps from being king.”

Manet turned back to Marie. “The point is, this particular baron’s son has got all manner of weight, and he’s not afraid to throw it around.”

“To be completely fair,” Stanchion said, “it should be mentioned that young Kvothe is not the savviest socialite in the Commonwealth.” He cleared his throat. “As evidenced by tonight’s performance.”

“I hate it when people call me young Kvothe ,” I said in an aside to Sim. He gave me a sympathetic look.

“I still say it was brilliant,” Marie said, turning to face Stanchion, planting her feet solidly on the floor. “It’s the cleverest thing anyone’s done here in a month, and you know it.”

I lay my hand on Marie’s arm. “He’s right,” I said. “It was stupid.” I made a vacillating shrug. “Or at least it would be if I still had the slightest hope of getting a patron.” I looked Stanchion in the eye. “But I don’t. We both know Ambrose has poisoned that well for me.”

“Wells don’t stay poisoned forever,” Stanchion said.

I shrugged. “How about this then? I’d prefer to play songs that amuse my friends, rather than cater to folk who dislike me based on hearsay.”

Stanchion drew a breath, then let it out in a rush. “Fair enough,” he said, smiling a bit.

In the brief lull that followed, Manet cleared his throat meaningfully and darted his eyes around the table.

I took his hint and made a round of introductions. “Stanchion, you’ve already met my fellow students Wil and Sim. This is Manet, student and my sometimes mentor at the University. Everyone, this is Stanchion: host, owner, and master of the Eolian’s stage.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Stanchion said, giving a polite nod before looking anxiously around the room. “Speaking of hosting, I should be about my business.” He patted me on the back as he turned to leave. “I’ll see if I can put out a few fires while I’m at it.”

I smiled my thanks to him, then made a flourishing gesture. “Everyone, this is Marie. As you’ve already heard with your own ears, the Eolian’s finest fiddler. As you can see with your own eyes, the most beautiful woman in a thousand miles. As your wit discerns, the wisest of . . .”

Grinning, she swatted at me. “If I were half as wise as I am tall, I wouldn’t be stepping in to defend you,” she said. “Has poor Threpe really been out stumping for you all this while?”

I nodded. “I told him it was a lost cause.”

“It is if you keep thumbing your nose at folk,” she said. “I swear I’ve never met a man who has your knack for lack of social grace. If you weren’t naturally charming, someone would have stabbed you by now.”

“You’re assuming,” I muttered.

Marie turned to my friends at the table. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

Wil nodded, and Sim smiled. Manet, however, came to his feet in a smooth motion and held out his hand. Marie took it, and Manet clasped it warmly between his own.

“Marie,” he said. “You intrigue me. Is there any chance I could buy you a drink and enjoy the pleasure of your conversation at some point tonight?”

I was too startled to do anything but stare. Standing there, the two of them looked like badly matched bookends. Marie stood six inches taller than Manet, her boots making her long legs look even longer.

Manet, on the other hand, looked as he always did, grizzled and disheveled, plus older than Marie by at least a decade.

Marie blinked and cocked her head a bit, as if considering. “I’m here with some friends right now,” she said. “It might be late by the time I finish up with them.”

“When makes no difference to me,” Manet said easily. “I’m willing to lose some sleep if it comes to that. I can’t think of the last time I shared the company of a woman who speaks her mind firmly and without hesitation. Your kind are in short supply these days.”

Marie looked him over again.

Manet met her eye and flashed a smile so confident and charming that it belonged on stage. “I’ve no desire to pull you away from your friends,” he said, “but you’re the first fiddler in ten years that’s set my feet dancing. It seems a drink is the least I can do.”

Marie smiled back at him, half amused, half wry. “I’m on the second tier right now,” she said, gesturing toward the stairway. “But I should be free in, say, two hours. . . .”

“You’re terribly kind,” he said. “Should I come and find you?”

“You should,” she said. Then gave him a thoughtful look as she turned to walk away.

Manet reclaimed his seat and took a drink.

Simmon looked as flabbergasted as we all felt. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

Manet chuckled into his beard and leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug to his chest. “That,” he said smugly, “is just one more thing I understand that you pups don’t. Take note. Take heed.”

* * *

When members of the nobility want to show a musician their appreciation, they give money. When I first began playing in the Eolian, I’d received a few such gifts, and for a time it had been enough to help pay my tuition and keep my head above water, if only barely. But Ambrose had been persistent in his campaign against me, and it had been months since I had received anything of the sort.

Musicians are poorer than the gentry, but they still enjoy a show. So when they appreciate your playing, they buy you drinks. That was the real reason I was at the Eolian tonight.

Manet wandered off to fetch a wet rag from the bar so we could clean the table and play another round of corners. Before he could make it back, a young Cealdish piper came over to ask if there was any chance he could stand us a round.

There was a chance, as it turned out. He caught the eye of a nearby serving girl and we each ordered what we liked best, and a beer for Manet besides.

We drank, played cards, and listened to music. Manet and I had a run of bad cards and went down three hands in a row. It soured my mood a bit, but not nearly as much as the sneaking suspicion that Stanchion might be right about what he’d said.

A rich patron would solve many of my problems. Even a poor patron would be able to give me a little room to breathe, financially speaking. If nothing else, it would give me someone I could borrow money from in a tight spot, rather than being forced into dealing with dangerous folk.

While my mind was occupied, I misplayed and we lost another hand, putting us down four in a row with a forfeit besides.

Manet glared at me while he gathered in the cards. “Here’s a primer for admissions.” He held up his hand, three fingers spearing angrily into the air. “Let’s say you have three spades in your hand, and there have been five spades laid down.” He held up his other hand, fingers splayed wide. “How many spades is that, total?” He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Take your time.”

“He’s still reeling from the knowledge that Marie is willing to have a drink with you,” Wilem said dryly. “We all are.”

“Not me,” Simmon chirped. “I knew you had it in you.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of Lily, one of the regular serving girls at the Eolian. “What’s going on here?” she said playfully. “Is someone throwing a handsome party?”

“Lily,” Simmon asked, “If I asked you to have a drink with me, would you consider it?”

“I would,” she said easily. “But not for very long.” She laid her hand on his shoulder. “You gents are in luck. An anonymous admirer of fine music has offered to stand your table a round of drinks.”

“Scutten for me,” Wilem said.

“Mead,” Simmon said, grinning.

“I’ll have a sounten,” I said.

Manet raised an eyebrow. “A sounten, eh?” he asked, glancing at me. “I’ll have one too.” He gave the serving girl a knowing look and nodded toward me. “On his, of course.”

“Really?” Lily said, then shrugged. “Back in a shake.”

“Now that you’ve impressed the hell out of everyone you can have some fun, right?” Simmon asked. “Something about a donkey. . .?”

“For the last time no,” I said. “I’m done with Ambrose. There’s no percentage in antagonizing him any further.”

“You broke his arm,” Wil said. “I think he’s as antagonized as he’s going to get.”

“He broke my lute,” I said. “We’re even. I’m ready to let bygones be bygones.”

“Like hell,” Sim said. “You dropped that pound of rancid butter down his chimney. You loosened the cinch on his saddle. . . .”

“Black hands, shut up!” I said, looking around. “That was nearly a month ago, and no one knows it was me except for you two. And now Manet. And everyone within earshot.”

Sim flushed an embarrassed red and the conversation lulled until Lily returned with our drinks. Wil’s scutten was in its traditional stone cup. Sim’s mead shone golden in a tall glass. Manet and I got wooden mugs.

Manet smiled. “I can’t remember the last time I ordered a sounten,” he mused. “I don’t think I’ve ever ordered one for myself before.”

“You’re the only other person I’ve ever known to drink it,” Sim said. “Kvothe here throws them back like nobody’s business. Three or four a night.”

Manet raised a bushy eyebrow at me. “They don’t know?” he asked.

I shook my head as I drank out of my own mug, not sure if I should be amused or embarrassed.

Manet slid his mug toward Simmon, who picked it up and took a sip. He frowned and took another. “Water?”

Manet nodded. “It’s an old whore’s trick. You’re chatting them up in the taproom of the brothel, and you want to show you’re not like all the rest. You’re a man of refinement. So you offer to buy a drink.”

He reached across the table and took his mug back from Sim. “But they’re working. They don’t want a drink. They’d rather have the money. So they order a sounten or a peveret or something else. You pay your money, the barman gives her water, and at the end of the night she splits the money with the house. If she’s a good listener a girl can make as much at the bar as she does in bed.”

I chimed in. “Actually, we split it three ways. A third to the house, a third to the barman, and a third to me.”

“You’re getting screwed, then,” Manet said frankly. “The barman should get his piece from the house.”

“I’ve never seen you order a sounten at Anker’s,” Sim said.

“It must be the Greysdale mead,” Wil said. “You order that all the time.”

“But I’ve ordered Greysdale,” Sim protested. “It tasted like sweet pickles and piss. Besides . . .” Sim trailed off.

“It was more expensive than you thought it would be?” Manet asked, grinning. “Wouldn’t make much sense to go through all of this for the price of a short beer, would it?”

“They know what I mean when I order Greysdale at Anker’s,” I told him. “If I ordered something that didn’t actually exist, it would be a pretty easy game to figure out.”

“How do you know about this?” Sim asked Manet.

Manet chuckled. “No new tricks to an old dog like me,” he said.

The lights began to dim and we turned toward the stage.

* * *

The night rambled on from there. Manet left for greener pastures, while Wil, Sim, and I and did our best to keep our table clear of glasses while amused musicians bought us round after round of drinks. An obscene amount of drinks, really. Far more than I’d dared to hope for.

I drank sounten for the most part, since raising money to cover tuition was the main reason I’d come to the Eolian tonight. Wil and Sim ordered a few rounds too, now that they knew the trick of it. I was doubly grateful, otherwise I would have been forced to bring them home in a wheelbarrow.

Eventually the three of us had our fill of music, gossip, and in Sim’s case, the fruitless pursuit of serving girls.

Before we left, I stopped to have a discreet word with the barman where I brought up the difference between a half and a third. At the end of our negotiation, I cashed out for a full talent and six jots. The vast majority of that was from the drinks my fellow musicians had bought me tonight.

I gathered the coins into my purse: Three talents even .

My negotiations had also profited me two dark brown bottles. “What’s that?” Sim asked as I began to tuck the bottles into my lute case.

“Bredon beer.” I shifted the rags I used to pad my lute so they wouldn’t rub against it.

“Bredon,” Wil said, his voice thick with disdain, “is closer to bread than beer.”

Sim nodded in agreement, making a face. “I don’t like having to chew my liquor.”

“It’s not that bad,” I said defensively. “In the small kingdoms women drink it when they’re pregnant. Arwyl mentioned it in one of his lectures. They brew it with flower pollen and fish oil and cherry stones. It has all sorts of trace nutrients.”

“Kvothe, we don’t judge you.” Wilem lay his hand on my shoulder, his face concerned. “Sim and I don’t mind that you’re a pregnant Yllish woman.”

Simmon snorted, then laughed at the fact that he had snorted.

The three of us made our slow way back to the University, crossing the high arch of Stonebridge. And, since there was nobody around to hear, I sang “Jackass, Jackass” for Sim.

Wil and Sim stumbled gently off to their rooms in Mews. But I wasn’t ready for bed and continued wandering the University’s empty streets, breathing the cool night air.

I strolled past the dark fronts of apothecaries, glassblowers, and bookbinders. I cut through a manicured lawn, smelling the clean, dusty smell of autumn leaves and green grass beneath. Nearly all the inns and drinking houses were dark, but lights were burning in the brothels.

The grey stone of the Masters’ Hall was silvery in the moonlight. A single dim light burned inside, illuminating the stained glass window that showed Teccam in his classic pose: barefoot at the mouth of his cave, speaking to a crowd of young students.

I went past the Crucible, its countless bristling chimneys dark and largely smokeless against the moonlit sky. Even at night it smelled of ammonia and charred flowers, acid and alcohol: a thousand mingled scents that had seeped into the stone of the building over the centuries.

Last was the Archives. Five stories tall and windowless, it reminded me of an enormous waystone. Its massive doors were closed, but I could see the reddish light of sympathy lamps welling up around the edges of the door. During admissions Master Lorren kept the Archives open at night so all the members of the Arcanum could study to their hearts’ content. All members except one, of course.

I made my way back to Anker’s and found the inn dark and silent. I had a key to the back door, but rather than stumble through the dark, I headed into the nearby alley. Right foot rainbarrel, left foot window ledge, left hand iron drainpipe. I quietly made my way up to my third-story window, tripped the latch with a piece of wire, and let myself in.

It was pitch black, and I was too tired to go looking for a light from the fireplace downstairs. So I touched the wick of the lamp beside my bed, getting a little oil on my fingers. Then I murmured a binding and felt my arm go chilly as the heat bled out of it. Nothing happened at first, and I scowled, concentrating to overcome the vague haze of alcohol. The chill sunk deeper into my arm, making me shiver, but finally the wick bloomed into light.

Cold now, I closed the window and looked around the tiny room with its sloped ceiling and narrow bed. Surprisingly, I realized there was nowhere else in the four corners I’d rather be. I almost felt as if I were home.

This may not seem odd to you, but it was strange to me. Growing up among the Edema Ruh, home was never a place for me. Home was a group of wagons and songs around a campfire. When my troupe was killed, it was more than the loss of my family and childhood friends. It was like my entire world had been burned down to the waterline.

Now, after almost a year at the University, I was beginning to feel like I belonged here. It was an odd feeling, this fondness for a place. In some ways it was comforting, but the Ruh in me was restless, rebelling at the thought of putting down roots like a plant.

As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what my father would think of me.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 788