Interlude—Fences

K VOTHE SAT UPRIGHT IN his seat, craning his neck to get a better look out the window. He was just holding his hand up to Chronicler when they heard a quick, light tapping on the wooden landing outside. Too fast and soft to be the heavy boots of farmers, it was followed by a high peal of childish laughter.

Chronicler quickly blotted the page he was writing, then tucked it under a stack of blank paper as Kvothe got to his feet and walked toward the bar. Bast leaned back, tipping his chair onto two legs.

After a moment, the door opened and a young man with broad shoulders and a thin beard stepped into the inn, carefully ushering a little blonde girl through the doorway ahead of him. Behind him a young woman carried a baby boy sitting on her arm.

The innkeeper smiled, raising a hand. “Mary! Hap!”

The young couple exchanged a brief word before the tall farmer walked over to Chronicler, still gently ushering the little girl in front of him. Bast got to his feet and offered up his chair to Hap.

Mary approached the bar, casually untangling one of the little boy’s hands from her hair. She was young and pretty, with a smiling mouth and tired eyes. “Hello Kote.”

“I haven’t seen you two in a long while,” the innkeeper said. “Can I get you some cider? I pressed it fresh this morning.”

She nodded, and the innkeeper poured three mugs. Bast carried two over to Hap and his daughter. Hap took his, but the little girl hid behind her father, peering shyly around his shoulder.

“Would young master Ben like his own cup?” Kote asked.

“He would,” Mary said, smiling at the boy as he chewed on his fingers. “But I wouldn’t give it to him unless you’re eager to clean the floors.” She reached into her pocket.

Kote shook his head firmly, holding up a hand. “I won’t hear of it,” he said. “Hap didn’t take half of what the work was worth when he fixed my fences out back.”

Mary smiled a tired, anxious smile and picked up her mug. “Thank you kindly, Kote.” She walked over to where her husband sat, talking to Chronicler. She spoke to the scribe, swaying gently back and forth, bouncing the baby on one hip. Her husband nodded along, occasionally interjecting a word or two. Chronicler dipped his pen and began to write.

Bast moved back to the bar and leaned against it, eyeing the far table curiously. “I still don’t understand all of this,” he said. “I know for a fact Mary can write. She’s sent me letters.”

Kvothe looked curiously at his student, then shrugged. “I expect he’s writing wills and dispositions, not letters. You want that sort of thing done in a clear hand, spelled properly and with no confusion.” He motioned to where Chronicler was pressing a heavy seal onto a sheet of paper. “See? That shows he’s a court official. Everything he witnesses has legal weight.”

“But the priest does that,” Bast said. “Abbe Grimes is all sorts of official. He writes the marriage records and the deed when someone buys a plot of land. You said yourself, they love their records.”

Kvothe nodded. “True, but a priest likes it when you leave money to the church. If he writes up your will and you don’t give the church as much as a bent penny . . .” He shrugged. “That can make life hard in a little town like this. And if you can’t read . . . well, then the priest can write down whatever he wants, can’t he? And who’s to argue with him after you’re dead?”

Bast looked shocked. “Abbe Grimes wouldn’t do something like that!”

“He probably wouldn’t,” Kvothe conceded. “Grimes is a decent sort for a priest. But maybe you want to leave a piece of land to the young widow down the lane and some money to her second son?” Kvothe raised an eyebrow meaningfully. “That’s the sort of thing a fellow doesn’t care to have his priest writing down. Better to have that news come out after you’re dead and buried deep.”

Understanding came into Bast’s eyes and he looked at the young couple as if trying to guess what secrets they were trying to hide.

Kvothe pulled out a white cloth and began to polish the bar absentmindedly. “Most times it’s simpler than that. Some folk just want to leave Ellie the music box and not hear the other sisters wail about it for the next ten years.”

“Like when the Widow Graden died?”

“Exactly like when Widow Graden died. You saw how that family tore itself up fighting over her things. Half of them still aren’t on speaking terms.”

Across the room, the little girl stepped close to her mother and tugged insistently on her dress. A moment later Mary came over to the bar with the little girl in tow. “Little Syl has to tend to her necessary,” she said apologetically. “Could we . . .?”

Kote nodded and pointed to the door near the stairway.

Mary turned and held out the little boy to Bast. “Would you mind?”

Moving mostly on reflex, Bast reached out with both hands to take hold of the boy, then stood there awkwardly as Mary escorted her daughter away.

The little boy looked around brightly, not sure what to make of this new situation. Bast turned to face Kvothe, the baby held stiffly in front of himself. The child’s expression slowly shifted from curious to uncertain to unhappy. Finally he began to make a soft, anxious noise. He looked as if he were thinking about whether or not he wanted to cry, and was slowly starting to realize that, yes, as a matter of fact, he probably did.

“Oh for goodness sake, Bast,” Kvothe said in an exasperated voice. “Here.” He stepped forward and took hold of the boy, sitting him on top of the bar and holding him steady with both hands.

The boy seemed happier there. He rubbed a curious hand on the smooth top of the bar, leaving a smudge. He looked at Bast and smiled. “Dog,” he said.

“Charming,” Bast said, his voice dry.

Little Ben began to chew on his fingers and looked around again, more purposefully this time. “Mam,” he said. “Mamamama.” Then he began to look concerned and make the same, low anxious noise as before.

“Hold him up,” Kvothe said, moving to stand directly in front of the little boy. Once Bast was steadying him, the innkeeper grabbed hold of the boy’s feet and began a singsong chant.

Cobbler, cobbler, measure my feet.

Farmer, farmer, plant some wheat.

Baker, baker, bake me bread.

Tailor, make a hat for my head.

The little boy watched as Kvothe made a different hand motion for each line, pretending to plant wheat and knead bread. By the final line the little boy was laughing a delighted, burbling laugh as he clapped his hands to his own head along with the red-haired man.

Miller, keep your thumb off the scale.

Milkmaid, milkmaid, fill your pail

Potter, potter, spin a jug,

Baby, give your daddy a hug!

Kvothe made no gesture for the last line, instead he tilted his head, eyeing Bast expectantly.

Bast merely stood there, confused. Then realization dawned on his face. “Reshi, how could you think that?” he asked, his voice slightly offended. He pointed at the little boy. “He’s blonde!”

Looking back and forth between the two men, the boy decided that he would, actually, like to have a bit of a cry. His face clouded over, and he began to wail.

“This is your fault,” Bast said flatly.

Kvothe picked the little boy up off the bar and jiggled him in a marginally successful attempt to calm him. A moment later when Mary came back into the taproom, the baby howled even louder and leaned toward her, reaching with both hands.

“Sorry,” Kvothe said, sounding abashed.

Mary took him back and he went instantly quiet, tears still standing in his eyes. “None of yours,” she said. “He’s just mother-hungry lately.” She touched her nose to his, smiling, and the baby gave another delighted, burbling laugh.

* * *

“How much did you charge them?” Kvothe asked as he walked back to Chronicler’s table.

Chronicler shrugged. “Penny and a half.”

Kvothe paused in the act of sitting down. His eyes narrowed. “That won’t cover the cost of your paper.”

Chronicler asked. “I have ears, don’t I? The smith’s prentice mentioned the Bentleys are on hard times. Even if he hadn’t, I still have eyes. Fellow’s got seams on both knees and boots worn nearly through. Little girl’s dress is too short for her and half patches besides.”

Kvothe nodded, his expression grim. “Their south field’s been flooded out two years running. And they had both their goats die this spring. Even if these were good times it would be a bad year for them. With their new little boy . . .” He drew a long breath and let it out in a long, pensive sigh. “It’s the levy taxes. Two this year already.”

“Do you want me to wreck the fence again, Reshi?” Bast said eagerly.

“Hush about that, Bast.” A smile flickered around the edges of Kvothe’s mouth. “We’ll need something different this time.” His smile faded. “Before the next levy.”

“Maybe there won’t be another,” Chronicler said.

Kvothe shook his head. “It won’t come until after the harvest, but it’ll come. Regular taxmen are bad enough, but they know enough to occasionally look the other way. They know they’ll be back next year, and the year after. But the bleeders . . .”

Chronicler nodded. “They’re different,” he said grimly. Then recited, “‘If they could, they’d take the rain. If they can’t get gold, they’ll take the grain.’ ”

Kvothe gave a thin smile and continued.

If you’ve got no grain, they’ll take your goat.

They’ll take your firewood and your coat.

If you’ve a cat, they’ll take your mouse.

And in the end, they’ll take your house.

“Everyone hates the bleeders,” Chronicler agreed darkly. “If anything, the nobles hate them twice as much.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Kvothe said. “You should hear the talk around here. If the last one hadn’t had a full armed guard, I don’t think he would have made it out of town alive.”

Chronicler gave a bent smile. “You should have heard the things my father used to call them,” he said. “And he’d only had two levies in twenty years. He said he’d rather have locusts followed by a fire than the king’s bleeder moving through his lands.” Chronicler glanced at the door of the inn. “They’re too proud to ask for help?”

“Prouder than that,” Kvothe said. “The poorer you are, the more your pride is worth. I know the feeling. I never could have asked a friend for money. I would have starved first.”

“A loan?” Chronicler asked.

“Who has money to lend these days?” Kvothe asked grimly. “It’s already going to be a hungry winter for most folk. But after a third levy tax the Bentleys will be sharing blankets and eating their seed grain before the snow thaws. That’s if they don’t lose their house as well. . . .”

The innkeeper looked down at his hands on the table and seemed surprised that one of them was curled into a fist. He opened it slowly and spread both hands flat against the tabletop. Then he looked up at Chronicler, a rueful smile on his face. “Did you know I never paid taxes before I came here? The Edema don’t own property, as a rule.” He gestured at the inn. “I never understood how galling it was. Some smug bastard with a ledger comes into town, makes you pay for the privilege of owning something.”

Kvothe gestured for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “Now, of course, I understand the truth of things. I know what sort of dark desires lead a group of men to wait beside the road, killing tax collectors in open defiance of the king.”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 782