Barbarian Tongue

I ’D LIKE TO SAY I kept my eyes closed, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I heard the gritty sound of dirt beneath the soles of Vashet’s shoes and couldn’t help but open them.

I didn’t peek. That would only make me seem childish. I simply opened my eyes and looked at her. She stared back, making more eye contact than I would get from Tempi in a span of days. Her pale grey eyes were hard in her delicate face. Her broken nose no longer looked out of place. It was a grim warning to the world.

The wind swirled between us, raising gooseflesh on my naked arms.

Vashet drew a resigned breath and shrugged, then flipped the wooden rod to grip the handle end. She hefted it thoughtfully with both hands, getting a feel for its weight. Then she brought it up to her shoulder and swung.

Except she didn’t.

“Fine!” she said, exasperated, throwing up her hands. “You twiggy little skeeth. Fine! Shit and onions. Put your shirt back on. You’re making me cold.”

I sank down until I was sitting on the bench. “Thank God,” I said. I started to put my shirt back on, but it was difficult, as my hands were shaking. It wasn’t from the cold.

Vashet saw. “I knew it!” she said triumphantly, pointing a finger at me. “You standing there like you’re ready to be hanged. I knew you were ready to run like a rabbit!” She stamped her foot in frustration. “I knew I should have taken a swing at you!”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I said. I managed to get my shirt on, then realized it was inside out. I decided to leave it rather than drag it across my stinging back again.

“What gave me away?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” I said. “It was a masterful performance.”

“Then how’d you know I wasn’t going to crack your skull open?”

“I thought it through,” I said. “If Shehyn had really wanted me driven off, she could have just sent me packing. If she wanted me dead, she could have done that too.”

I rubbed my sweaty hands on my pants. “That meant you were really meant to be my teacher. So there were only three sensible options.” I held up a finger. “This was a ritual initiation.” A second finger. “It was test of my resolve . . .”

“Or I was really trying to run you off,” Vashet finished as she sat on the bench opposite me. “What if I’d been telling the truth and thumped you bloody?”

I shrugged. “At least I’d have known. But it seemed like long odds that Shehyn would choose someone like that. If she’d wanted me beaten she could have let Carceret do it.” I cocked my head. “Out of curiosity, which was it? Initiation or test of resolve? Does everyone go through this?”

She shook her head. “Resolve. I needed to make sure of you. I wasn’t going to waste my time teaching a coward or someone afraid of a little smack or two. I also needed to know you were dedicated.”

I nodded. “That seemed the most likely. I thought I’d save myself several days of welts and force the issue.”

Vashet gave me a long look, curiosity plain on her face. “I will admit, I’ve never had a student offer himself up for a vicious beating in order to prove he’s worth my time.”

“This was nothing,” I said nonchalantly. “Once I jumped off a roof.”

* * *

We spent an hour talking about small things, letting the tension between us slowly bleed away. She asked how exactly I’d come to be whipped, and I gave her the bones of the story, glad to have the chance to explain myself. I didn’t want her thinking of me as a criminal.

Vashet examined my scars more closely afterward. “Whoever tended to you certainly knew their physic,” she said admiringly. “This is very clean work. As good as any I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll pass along your compliments,” I said.

Her hand brushed gently along the edge of the hot welt that ran across the whole length of my back. “I’m sorry for this, by the way.”

“It hurts worse than the whipping ever did, I’ll tell you that for free.”

“It’ll be gone in a day or two,” she said. “Which isn’t to say you won’t be sleeping on your stomach tonight.” She helped me settle my shirt, then moved back to the other bench, facing me.

I hesitated before saying, “No offense, Vashet. But you seem different from the other Adem I’ve met. Not that I’ve met many, mind you.”

“You’re just hungry for familiar body language,” she said.

“There is that,” I said. “But you seem more . . . expressive than the other Adem I’ve seen.” I pointed at my face.

Vashet shrugged. “Where I’m from, we grow up speaking your language. And I spent four years as bodyguard and captain for a poet in the Small Kingdoms who also happened to be a king. I probably speak Aturan better than anyone in Haert. Including you.”

I ignored the last. “You didn’t grow up here?”

She shook her head. “I’m from Feant, a town farther north. We’re more . . . cosmopolitan. Haert only has the one school, and everyone is tied very tightly to it. The sword tree is one of the old paths, too. Rather formal. I grew up following the path of joy.”

“There are other schools?”

Vashet nodded. “This is one of the many schools that follow the Latantha, the path of the sword tree. It’s one of the oldest, behind the Aethe and Aratan. There are other paths, maybe three dozen. But some of those are very small, with only one or two schools teaching their Ketan.”

“Is that why your sword is different?” I asked. “Did you bring it from your other school?”

Vashet gave me a narrow look. “What do you know of my sword?”

“You brought it out to trim the willow switch,” I said. “Tempi’s sword was well-made, but yours is different. The handle is worn, but the blade looks new.”

She gave me a curious look. “Well you certainly have your eyes open, don’t you?”

I shrugged.

“Strictly speaking, it’s not my sword,” Vashet said. “It’s merely in my keeping. It is an old sword, and the blade is the oldest part of it. It was given to me by Shehyn herself.”

“Is that why you came to this school?”

Vashet shook her head. “No. Shehyn gave me the sword much later.” She reached back and touched the hilt fondly. “No. I came here because while the Latantha might be rather formal, they excel in the use of the sword. I had learned as much as I could from the path of joy. Three other schools refused me before Shehyn brought me in. She is a clever woman and realized there was something to be gained in teaching me.”

“I guess we’re both lucky she has an open mind,” I said.

“You more than me,” Vashet said. “There’s a certain amount of one-upsmanship among the different paths. When I joined the Latantha, it was a bit of a feather in Shehyn’s cap.”

“It must have been hard,” I said. “Coming here and being the stranger to everyone.”

Vashet shrugged, making her sword rise and fall on her shoulder. “At first,” she admitted. “But they recognize talent, and I have that to spare. Among those who study the path of joy, I was viewed as rather stiff and stodgy. But here I’m seen as somewhat wild.” She grinned. “It’s pleasant, like having a new set of clothes to wear.”

“Does the path of joy also teach the Lethani?” I asked.

Vashet laughed. “That is a matter of some considerable debate. The simple answer is yes. All Adem study the Lethani to some degree. Those in the schools especially. That said, the Lethani is open to a broad interpretation. What some schools cling to, others spurn.”

She gave me a thoughtful look. “Is it true you said the Lethani comes from the same place as laughing?”

I nodded.

“That is a good answer,” she said. “My teacher in the path of joy once said that very thing to me.” Vashet frowned. “You look pensive when I say that. Why?”

“I’d tell you,” I said. “But I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I think less of you for keeping something from your teacher,” she said seriously. “There must be trust between us.”

I sighed. “I am glad you like my answer. But honestly, I don’t know what it means.”

“I didn’t ask you what it means,” she said easily.

“It’s just a nonsense answer,” I said. “I know you all place great stock in the Lethani, but I don’t really understand it. I’ve just found a way to fake it.”

Vashet smiled indulgently. “There is no pretending to understand the Lethani,” she said confidently. “It is like swimming. It is obvious to anyone watching if you really know the way of it.”

“A person can pretend to swim too,” I pointed out. “I’ve simply been moving my arms and walking on the bottom of the river.”

She gave me a curious look. “Very well then. How have you managed to fool us?”

I explained Spinning Leaf to her. How I had learned to tip my thoughts into a light, empty, floating place where the answers to their questions came easily.

“So you have stolen the answers from yourself,” she said with mock seriousness. “You have cleverly fooled us by pulling the answers from your own mind.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, growing irritated. “I don’t have the slightest idea what the Lethani really is! It’s not a path, but it helps choose a path. It’s the simplest way, but it is not easy to see. Honestly, you people sound like drunk cartographers.”

I regretted saying it as soon as it was out of my mouth, but Vashet merely laughed. “There are many drunks who are quite conversant with the Lethani,” she said. “Several legendarily so.”

Seeing I was still agitated, she made a motion to calm me. “I don’t understand the Lethani either, not in a way that can be explained to another. The teaching of the Lethani is an art I do not possess. If Tempi has managed to instill the Lethani in you, it is a great mark in his favor.”

Vashet leaned forward seriously. “Part of the problem is with your language,” she said. “Aturan is very explicit. It is very precise and direct. Our language is rich with implication, so it is easier for us to accept the existence of things that cannot be explained. The Lethani is the greatest of these.”

“Can you give me an example of one other than the Lethani?” I asked. “And please don’t say ‘blue,’ or I might go absolutely mad right here on this bench.”

She thought for a moment. “Love is such a thing.You have knowledge of what it is, but it defies careful explication.”

“Love is a subtle concept,” I admitted. “It’s elusive, like justice, but it can be defined.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Do so then, my clever student. Tell me of love.”

I thought for a quick moment, then for a long moment.

Vashet grinned. “You see how easy it will be for me to pick holes in any definition you give.”

“Love is the willingness to do anything for someone,” I said. “Even at detriment to yourself.”

“In that case,” she said. “How is love different from duty or loyalty?”

“It is also combined with a physical attraction,” I said.

“Even a mother’s love?” Vashet asked.

“Combined with an extreme fondness then,” I amended.

“And what exactly do you mean by ‘fondness’?” she asked with a maddening calm.

“It is . . .” I trailed off, racking my brain to think how I could describe love without resorting to other, equally abstract terms.

“This is the nature of love.” Vashet said. “To attempt to describe it will drive a woman mad. That is what keeps poets scribbling endlessly away. If one could pin it to the paper all complete, the others would lay down their pens. But it cannot be done.”

She held up a finger. “But only a fool claims there is no such thing as love. When you see two young ones staring at each other with dewy eyes, there it is. So thick you can spread it on your bread and eat it. When you see a mother with her child, you see love. When you feel it roil in your belly, you know what it is. Even if you cannot give voice to it in words.”

Vashet made a triumphant gesture. “Thus also is the Lethani. But as it is greater, it is more difficult to point toward. That is the purpose of the questions. Asking them is like asking a young girl about the boy she fancies. Her answers may not use the word, but they reveal love or the lack of it within her heart.”

“How can my answers reveal a knowledge of the Lethani when I don’t truly know what it is?” I asked.

“You obviously understand the Lethani,” she said. “It is rooted deep inside you. Too deep for you to see. Sometimes it is the same with love.”

Vashet reached out and tapped me on the forehead. “As for this Spinning Leaf. I have heard of similar things practiced by other paths. There is no Aturan word for it that I know. It is like a Ketan for your mind. A motion you make with your thoughts, to train them.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “Either way, it is not cheating. It is a way of revealing that which is hidden in the deep waters of your mind. The fact that you found it on your own is quite remarkable.”

I nodded to her. “I bow to your wisdom, Vashet.”

“You bow to the fact that I am unarguably correct.”

She clapped her hands together. “Now, I have much to teach you. However, as you are still welted and flinching, let us forbear the Ketan. Show me your Ademic instead. I want to hear you wound my lovely language with your rough barbarian tongue.”

* * *

I learned a great deal about Ademic over the next several hours. It was refreshing to be able to ask detailed questions and receive clear, specific answers in return. After a month of dancing about and drawing in the dirt, learning from Vashet was so easy it felt dishonest.

On the other hand, Vashet made it clear that my hand-language was embarrassingly crude. I could get my point across, but what I was doing was, at best, baby talk. At worst, it resembled the rantings of a deranged maniac.

“Right now you speak like this.” She got to her feet, waved both hands over her head, and pointed to herself with both thumbs. “I want to make good fight.” She gave a wide, insipid grin. “With sword!” She thumped her chest with both fists, then jumped into the air like an excited child.

“Come now,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m not that bad.”

“You are close,” Vashet said seriously as she sat back down on the bench. “If you were my son, I would not let you leave the house. As my student, it is only tolerable because you are a barbarian. It’s as if Tempi brought home a dog that can whistle. The fact that you are out of tune stands quite beside the point.”

Vashet made as if she would get to her feet. “That said, if you are happy speaking like a simpleton, just say the word and we can move to other things. . . .”

I reassured her I wanted to learn.

“First, you say too much, and you speak too loudly,” she said. “The heart of Adem is stillness and silence. Our language reflects this.

“Second, you must be much more careful with your gestures,” she said. “With their placement and timing. They modify specific words and thoughts. They do not always reinforce what you say, sometimes they run purposely counter to your surface meaning.”

She made seven or eight different gestures in quick succession. All of them said amusement , but each of them was slightly different. “You must also come to understand the fine shades of meaning. The difference between slim and slender, as my poet king used to say. Right now you only have one smile, and that cannot help but make a person look a fool.”

We worked for several hours, and Vashet made clear something Tempi could only hint at. Aturan was like a wide, shallow pool; it had many words, all very specific and precise. Ademic was like a deep well. There were fewer words, but they each had many meanings. A well-spoken sentence in Aturan is a straight line pointing. A well-spoken sentence in Adem is like a spiderweb, each strand with a meaning of its own, a piece of something greater, more complex.

* * *

I arrived in the dining hall for supper in a considerably better mood than before. My welts still stung, but my fingers told me the swelling on my cheek was much reduced. I still sat alone, but I didn’t keep my head down as I had before. Instead I watched the hands of everyone around me, trying to note the subtle shades of difference between excitement and interest , between denial and refusal .

After supper, Vashet brought a small pot of salve which she smeared liberally across my back and upper arms, then more sparingly on my face. It tingled at first, then burned, then settled down to a dull, numb heat. Only after the pain along my back faded did I realize how tense my entire body had been.

“There,” Vashet said, twisting the stopper back into the bottle. “How is that?”

“I could kiss you,” I said gratefully.

“You could,” she said. “But your lip is swollen, and you would doubtless make a mess of it. Instead, show me your Ketan.”

I hadn’t stretched, but not wanting to make excuses, I fell into Open Hands and began to move slowly through the rest.

As I’ve already mentioned, Tempi usually stopped me when I made the slightest mistake in the Ketan. So when I reached the twelfth position without interruption, I felt rather smug. Then I misplaced my foot badly in Grandmother Gathers. When Vashet said nothing, I realized she was merely watching and withholding judgment until the end. I began to sweat, and didn’t stop until I reached the end of the Ketan ten minutes later.

After I’d finished, Vashet stood stroking her chin. “Well,” she said slowly. “It certainly could be worse . . .” I felt a flicker of pride until she continued. “You could, for instance, be missing a leg.”

Then she walked in a circle around me, looking me up and down. She reached out to prod at my chest and stomach. She gripped at my upper arm and the thick muscle above my leg. I felt like a suckling pig brought to market.

Lastly she took hold of my hands, turning them over to examine them. She looked pleasantly surprised. “You never fought before Tempi taught you?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“You have good hands,” she said, her fingers running up my forearms, feeling at the muscles there. “Half of you barbarians have soft, weak hands from doing nothing. The other half have strong, stiff hands from cutting wood or working behind a plow.” She turned my hands over in her own. “But you have strong, clever hands with good motion in your wrists.” She looked up at me questioningly. “What do you do for a living?”

“I am a student at the University where I work with fine tools, shaping metal and stone.” I explained. “But I’m also a musician. I play the lute.”

Vashet looked startled, then burst into laughter. She let my hands fall and shook her head in dismay. “A musician on top of everything else,” she said. “Perfect. Does anyone else know?”

“What does it matter?” I said. “I’m not ashamed of who I am.”

“No,” she said. “Of course you’re not. That’s part of the problem.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “Okay. You should know about this as soon as possible. It will save us both trouble in the long run.” She looked me in the eye. “You’re a whore.”

I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pay attention for a moment. You’re not thick. You must have realized there are huge cultural differences between here and where you grew up in . . .”

“The Commonwealth,” I said. “And you’re right. The cultural divide between Tempi and myself was huge compared to the other mercenaries from Vintas.”

She nodded. “Part of that is because Tempi has fewer wits than tits,” she said. “And he is as fresh as a baby chick when it comes to making his way in the world.” She waved a hand. “All that aside, you’re right. There are huge differences.”

“I noticed,” I said. “You don’t seem to have a nudity taboo for one thing. Either that or Tempi is a bit of an exhibitionist.”

“I’d be curious how you found that out,” she chuckled. “But you’re right. Strange as it may seem to you, we have no particular fear of a naked body.”

Vashet looked thoughtful for a moment, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “Here. It will be simpler to show you. Watch.”

I watched the familiar Adem impassivity slide over her face, leaving her face blank as new paper. Her voice lost most of its inflection at the same time, shedding its emotional content. “Tell me what I mean when I do this,” she said.

Vashet stepped close, making no eye contact. Her hand said, respect . “You fight like a tiger.” Her face was expressionless, her voice flat and calm. She grabbed hold of the top of my shoulder with one hand, and gripped my arm with the other, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s a compliment,” I said.

Vashet nodded and stepped back. Then she changed. Her face grew animated. She smiled and met my eyes. She stepped close to me. “You fight like a tiger,” she said, her voice glowing with admiration. One of her hands rested on the top of my shoulder while the other slipped around my biceps. She squeezed.

I was suddenly embarrassed at how close we were standing. “It’s a sexual advance,” I said.

Vashet stepped away and nodded. “Your folk view certain things as intimate. Naked skin. Physical contact. The nearness of a body. Loveplay. To the Adem, these are nothing remarkable.”

She looked me in the eye. “Can you think of a single time you have heard one of us shout? Raise our voice? Or even speak loudly enough we can be overheard?”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head.

“That is because for us, speaking is private. Intimate. Facial expression too. And this . . .” She pressed her fingers to her throat. “The warmth a voice can make. The emotion it reveals. That is a very private thing.”

“And nothing carries more emotion than music,” I said, understanding. It was a thought too strange for me to cope with all at once.

Vashet nodded gravely. “A family might sing together if they are close. A mother might sing to her child. A woman might sing to her man.” A slight flush rose on Vashet’s cheeks as she said this. “But only if they are very much in love, and very much alone.

“But you?” She gestured to me. “A musician? You do this to a whole room full of people. All at once. And for what? A few pennies? The price of a meal?” She gave me a grave look. “And you do it again and again. Night after night. With anyone .”

Vashet shook her head in dismay and shuddered a bit, while her left hand unconsciously clenched in rough gestures: Horror, disgust, rebuke . It was rather intimidating getting both sets of emotional signals from her at the same time.

I fought off the mental image of standing naked on the stage of the Eolian, then moving through the crowd, pressing my body to everyone there. Young and old. Fat and thin. Rich noble and penniless commoner. It was a sobering thought.

“But Play Lute is the thirty-eighth position in the Ketan,” I protested. I was grasping at straws and I knew it.

“And Sleeping Bear is twelfth.” She shrugged. “But you will find no bears here, or lions, or lutes. Some names reveal. The names in the Ketan are meant to hide the truth, that we may speak of it without spilling its secrets to the open air.”

“I understand,” I said at last. “But many of you have been out in the world. You yourself speak Aturan beautifully and with much warmth in your voice. Surely you know there is nothing inherently wrong with a person singing.”

“You have been out in the world as well,” she said calmly. “And surely you know there is nothing inherently wrong with having sex with three people in a row on the broad hearth of a busy inn.” She looked me in the eye pointedly.

“I imagine the stone would be rather rough. . . .” I said.

She chuckled. “Very well, assume they had use of a blanket too. What would you call that person?”

If she’d asked me two span ago, when I’d been fresh out of the Fae, I might not have understood her. If I’d stayed with Felurian any longer, it’s entirely possible that having sex on the hearth wouldn’t have seemed odd to me. But I’d been back in the mortal world for a while now....

A whore, I thought silently to myself. And a cheap and shameless whore to boot. I was glad I hadn’t mentioned Tempi’s desire to learn the lute to anyone. How ashamed he must have felt for such an innocent impulse. I thought of a young Tempi wanting to make music but never telling anyone because he knew it was dirty. It broke my heart.

My face must have given away quite a bit, because Vashet reached out to grip my hand gently. “I know this is hard for you folk to understand. So much harder because you have never even entertained the possibility of thinking otherwise.” Caution .

I struggled with everything this implied. “How do you get your news?” I asked. “With no troupers wandering from town to town, how do you keep in touch with the outside world?”

Vashet smirked a bit at this, and made a gesture to the windswept landscape. “Does this seem to be a place that concerns itself overmuch with the turning of the world?” She dropped her arm. “But it is not so bad as you think. Traveling peddlers are more welcome here than in most places. Tinkers doubly so. And we ourselves travel quite a bit. Those who take the red come and go, bringing news with them.”

She laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “And, occasionally, a rare singer or musician will travel through. But they do not play for a whole town at once. They will visit a single family. Even then, they perform while sitting behind a screen so they cannot be seen. You can tell an Adem musician because when they travel they carry their tall screens on their backs.” Her mouth pursed a bit. “But even these are not viewed in an entirely favorable light. It is a valuable occupation, but not a respectable one.”

I relaxed a bit. The thought of a place where no performer was welcome struck me as profoundly wrong, sick even. But a place with strange customs I could understand. Adapting to fit your audience is common as changing costumes to the Edema Ruh.

Vashet continued. “This is the way of things, and you would do well to accept it sooner rather than later. I say this as a well-traveled woman. I have spent eight years among the barbarians. I have even listened to music in a group of people.” She said this proudly, with a defiant tilt to her head. “I have done it more than once.”

“Have you ever sung in public?” I asked.

Vashet’s face went stony. “That is not a polite question to ask,” she said, stiffly. “And you will make no friends with it here.”

“All I mean,” I said quickly, “is that if you tried it, you might find it is nothing shameful. It is a great joy to everyone.”

Vashet gave me a severe look and made a hard gesture of refusal and finality . “Kvothe, I have traveled much and seen much. Many of the Adem here are worldly. We know of musicians. And, to be completely forthright, many of us have a secret, guilty fascination with them. Much the same way your folk are enamored with the skill of the Modegan courtesans.”

She gave me a hard look. “But for all that, I would not want my daughter to bring one home, if you catch my meaning. Neither would it improve anyone’s opinion of Tempi if others knew he had shared the Ketan with such as you. Keep it to yourself. You have enough to overcome without all Ademre knowing you are a musician on top of everything.”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 682