The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN Storm and Stone

I woke the next morning knowing the truth. My only way out of this situation was through the school. I needed to prove myself. That meant I needed everything Vashet could teach me as quickly as possible.

So the next morning I rose in the pale blue light of dawn. And when Vashet emerged from her small stone house I was waiting for her. I was not particularly bright-eyed or bushy-tailed, as my sleep had been filled with troubling dreams, but I was ready to learn.

I realize now that I may have given an inaccurate impression of Haert.

It was no thriving metropolis, obviously. And it couldn’t be considered a city by any stretch of the imagination. In some ways it was barely a town.

I do not say this disparagingly. I spent the majority of my young life traveling with my troupe, moving from small town to small town. Half the world is made of tiny communities that have grown up around nothing more than a crossroads market, or a good clay pit, or a bend of river strong enough to turn a mill wheel.

Sometimes these towns are prosperous. Some have rich soil and generous weather. Some thrive on the trade moving through them. The wealth of these places is obvious. The houses are large and well-mended. People are friendly and generous. The children are fat and happy. There are luxuries for sale: pepper and cinnamon and chocolate. There is coffee and good wine and music at the local inn.

Then there are the other sort of towns. Towns where the soil is thin and tired. Towns where the mill burned down, or the clay was mined out years ago. In these places the houses are small and badly patched. The people are lean and suspicious, and wealth is measured in small, practical ways. Cords of firewood. A second pig. Five jars of blackberry preserve.

At first glance, Haert seemed to be this sort of town. It was little more than tiny homes, broken stone, and the occasional penned goat.

In most parts of the Commonwealth, or anywhere in the Four Corners for that matter, a family living in a small cottage with only a few sticks of furniture would be viewed as unfortunate. One step away from paupers.

But while most of the Adem homes I had seen were relatively small, they weren’t the same sort you would find in a desperate Aturan town, made of sod and logs chinked with mud.

The Adem homes were all snug stone, fit together as cunningly as anything I had ever seen. There were no cracks letting in the endless wind. No leaking roofs. No cracking leather hinges on the doors. The windows weren’t oiled sheepskin or empty holes with wooden shutters. They were fitted glass, tight as any you’d find in a banker’s manor.

I never saw a fireplace in all my time in Haert. Don’t get me wrong, fireplaces are better than freezing to death by a long step. But most of the rough ones folk can build for themselves out of loose fieldstone or cinder-brick are drafty, dirty, and inefficient. They fill your house with soot and your lungs with smoke.

Instead of fireplaces, each Adem home had its own iron stove. The sort of stove that weighs hundreds of pounds. The sort of stove made of thick drop-iron so you can stoke it until it glows with heat. The sort of stove that lasts a century and costs more than a farmer earns from an entire year of hard harvesting. Some of these stoves were small, good for heating and cooking. But I saw more than a few that were larger and could be used for baking too. One of these treasures was tucked away in a low stone house of only three rooms.

The rugs on the Adem floors were mostly simple, but they were of thick, soft wool, deeply dyed. The floors beneath those rugs were smooth-sanded wood, not dirt. There were no guttering tallow tapers or reedlights. There were beeswax candles or lamps that burned a clean white oil. And once, through a distant window, I recognized the unwavering red light of a sympathy lamp.

It was this last that made me realize the truth. This was not a scattered handful of desperate folk, scratching out a lean existence on the bare mountainside. They were not living hand-to-mouth, eating cabbage soup and living in fear of winter. This community was comfortably, quietly prosperous.

More than that. Despite the lack of glittering banquet halls and fancy gowns, despite the absence of servants and statuary, each of these homes was like a tiny manor house. They were each of them wealthy in a quiet, practical way.

“What did you think?” Vashet said, laughing at me. “That a handful of us win our reds and run off to lives of mad luxury while our families drink their own bathwater and die of scurvy?”

“I hadn’t though of it at all, really,” I said, looking around. Vashet was beginning to show me how to use a sword. We had been at it for two hours, and she had done little more than explain the different ways of holding it. As if it were a baby and not a piece of steel.

Now that I knew what to look for, I could see dozens of the Adem houses worked cunningly into the landscape. Heavy wooden doors were dug into bluffs. Others looked like little more than tumbles of stone. Some had grass growing on their roofs and could only be recognized by the stovepipes peeping out. A fat nanny goat grazed atop one of these, her udder swinging as she stretched out her neck to crop a mouthful of grass.

“Look at the land around you,” she said, spinning in a slow circle to take in the landscape. “The ground is too thin for the plow, too jagged for horses. The summer too wet for wheat, too harsh for fruit. Some mountains hold iron, or coal, or gold. But not these mountains. In winter the snow will pile higher than your head. In spring the storms will push you from your feet.”

She looked back at me. “This is our land because no one else wants it.” She shrugged. “Or rather, it became ours for that reason.”

Vashet adjusted her sword on her shoulder, then eyed me speculatively. “Sit and listen,” she said formally. “And I will tell a story of a time long gone.”

I sat on the grass, and Vashet took her place on a nearby stone. “Long ago,” she said, “the Adem were upheaved from our rightful place. Something we cannot remember drove us out. Someone stole our land, or ruined it, or made us flee in fear. We were forced to wander endlessly. Our whole nation mendicant, like beggars. We would find a place, and settle, and rest our flocks. Then those who lived nearby would drive us off.

“The Adem were fierce back then. If we had not been fierce, there would be none of us left today. But we were few, so we were always driven forth. Finally we found this thin and windy place, unwanted by the world. We dug our roots deep into the stone and made it ours.”

Vashet’s eyes wandered the landscape. “But this land had little to give us, a place for our flocks to graze, stone, and endless wind. We could not find a way to sell the wind, so we sold our fierceness to the world. So we lived, and slowly we sharpened ourselves into the thing we are today. No longer only fierce, but dangerous and proud. Unceasing as the wind and strong as stone.”

I waited a moment to make sure she was finished. “My people are wanderers too,” I said. “It is our way. Nowhere and everywhere is where we live.”

She shrugged, smiling. “It is a story, mind you. And an old one. Take from it what you will.”

“I am fond of stories,” I said.

“A story is like a nut,” Vashet said. “A fool will swallow it whole and choke. A fool will throw it away, thinking it of little worth.” She smiled. “But a wise woman finds a way to crack the shell and eat the meat inside.”

I got to my feet and walked to where she was sitting. I kissed her hands and her forehead and her mouth. “Vashet,” I said. “I am glad Shehyn gave me to you.”

“You are a foolish boy.” She looked down, but I could see a faint blush rising on her face as she spoke. “Come. We should go. You do not want to miss the chance to see Shehyn fight.”

Vashet led me to an unmarked piece of meadow where the thick grass had been grazed close to the ground. A few other Adem already stood nearby, waiting. Some folk had brought small stools or rolled pieces of log to use as benches. Vashet simply sat on the ground. I joined her.

A crowd slowly gathered. Only thirty people or so, but it was the most Adem I’d ever seen together other than in the dining hall. They gathered in twos and threes, moving from one conversation to another. Rarely did a group of five coalesce for any length of time.

Though there were a dozen conversations all within a stone’s throw of me, I couldn’t hear more than a murmur. The speakers stood close enough to touch, and the wind in the grass made more noise than their voices.

But I could tell the tone of each conversation from where I sat. Two months ago this gathering would have seemed eerily subdued. A gathering of fidgety, emotionless, near-mutes. But now I could plainly see one pair of Adem were teacher and student by how far apart they stood, by the deference in the younger woman’s hands. The cluster of three red-shirted men were friends, easy and joking as they jostled at each other. That man and woman were fighting. She was angry. He was trying to explain.

I suddenly wondered how I ever could have thought of these people as restless or fidgety. Every motion was to a purpose. Every shifting of the feet implied a change in attitude. Every gesture spoke volumes.

Vashet and I sat close to each other and kept our voices low, continuing our discussion in Aturan. She explained how each school had standing accounts with the Cealdish moneylenders. That meant far-flung mercenaries could deposit the school’s share of their earnings anywhere people used Cealdish currency, which meant anywhere in the entire civilized world. That money was then tallied to the appropriate account so the school could make use of it.

“How much does a mercenary send back to the school?” I asked, curious.

“Eighty percent,” she said.

“Eight percent?” I asked, holding up all my fingers but two, sure I had misheard.

“Eighty,” Vashet said firmly. “That is the proper amount, though many pride themselves on giving more. The same would be true for you,” she said dismissively, “if you stood a fiddler’s chance in hell of ever wearing the red.”

Seeing my astonishment, she explained. “It is not so much, when you think of it. For years, the school feeds and clothes you. It gives you a place to sleep. It gives you your sword, your training. After this investment, the mercenary supports the school. The school supports the village. The village produces children who hope to someday take the red.” She made a circle with her finger. “Thus all Ademre thrives.”

Vashet gave me a grave look. “Knowing this, perhaps you can begin to understand what you have stolen,” she said. “Not just a secret but the major export of the Adem. You have stolen the key to this entire town’s survival.”

It was a sobering thought. Suddenly Carceret’s anger made much better sense.

I caught a glimpse of Shehyn’s white shirt and roughly knitted yellow cap through the crowd. The scattered conversations grew still, and everyone began to gather into a large, loose circle.

It wasn’t just Shehyn fighting today, apparently. The first to fight were two boys a few years younger than myself, neither of them wearing red. They circled each other warily, then fell on each other in a flurry of blows.

It was too fast for my eye to follow, and I saw a dozen half-formed pieces of the Ketan scattered and discarded. It finally ended when one boy caught the other’s wrist and shoulder in Sleeping Bear. It was only when I saw the boy twist his opponent’s arm and force him to the ground that I recognized it as the grip Tempi had used in the bar fight in Crosson.

The boys separated, and two red-shirted mercenaries came out to talk to them, presumably their teachers.

Vashet leaned her head close to mine. “What do you think?”

“They’re very quick,” I said.

She looked at me. “But . . .”

“They seem rather sloppy,” I said, being careful to speak quietly. “Not at first, but after they started.” I pointed at one. “His feet were too close together. And the other kept leaning forward so his balance was off. That’s how he got caught in Sleeping Bear.”

Vashet nodded, pleased. “They fight like puppies. They are young, and boys. They are full of anger and impatience. Women have less trouble with these things. It’s part of what makes us better fighters.”

I was more than slightly surprised to hear her say that. “Women are better fighters?” I asked carefully, not wanting to contradict her.

“Generally speaking,” she said matter-of-factly. “There are exceptions, of course, but as a whole women are better.”

“But men are stronger,” I said. “Taller. They have better reach.”

She turned to look at me, slightly amused. “Are you stronger and taller than me then?”

I smiled. “Obviously not. But as a whole, you have to admit, men are bigger and stronger.”

Vashet shrugged. “And that would matter if fighting were the same as splitting wood or hauling hay. That is like saying a sword is better the longer and heavier it is. Foolishness. Perhaps for thugs this is true. But after taking the red, the key is knowing when to fight. Men are full of anger, so they have trouble with this. Women less so.”

I opened my mouth, then thought of Dedan and closed it.

A shadow fell over us, and I looked up to see a tall man in his reds standing at a polite distance. He held his hand poised near the hilt of his sword. Invitation.

Vashet gestured back. Gentle regret and refusal.

I watched as he walked away. “Won’t they think less of you for not fighting?”

Vashet sniffed disdainfully. “He didn’t want to fight,” she said. “It would only embarrass him and waste my time. He merely wanted to show he was brave enough to fight me.” She sighed and gave me a pointed look. “It is that sort of foolishness that leads men from the Lethani.”

The next match was between two red-shirted mercenaries, and the difference was obvious. Everything was much cleaner and crisper. The two boys had been frantic as sparrows flapping in the dust, but the fights that followed were elegant as dances.

Many of the bouts were hand fighting. These lasted until one person submitted or was visibly stunned by a blow.

One fight stopped immediately when a man bloodied his opponent’s nose. Vashet rolled her eyes at this, though I couldn’t tell if she thought less of the woman for allowing herself to be struck, or the man for being reckless enough to hurt her.

There were several bouts with wooden swords, too. These tended to go more quickly, as even a light touch was considered enough for a victory.

“Who won that one?” I asked. After a quick exchange of clacking swordplay ended with both women scoring hits at the same time.

“Neither,” she said, frowning.

“Why don’t they fight again if it was a tie?” I asked.

Vashet frowned at me. “It wasn’t a tie, strictly speaking. Drenn would have died in minutes, struck through the lung. Lasrel would have died in days when the wound in her gut soured.”

“So Lasrel won?”

Vashet gave me a look of withering contempt and turned her attention back to the next fight.

The tall Adem man who had asked Vashet to fight was bouting with a thin whip of a woman. Strangely, he used a wooden sword while she was barehanded. He won by a narrow margin after catching two solid kicks to the ribs.

“Who won there?” Vashet asked me.

I could tell she wasn’t looking for the obvious answer. “It’s not much of a victory,” I said. “She didn’t even have a sword.”

“She is of the third stone and far outstrips him as a fighter. It was the only way for things to be balanced between them unless he were to bring a companion to fight by his side,” Vashet pointed out. “So I ask again. Who won?”

“He won the bout,” I said. “But he’ll have some impressive bruises tomorrow. Also, his swings seemed somewhat reckless.”

Vashet turned to look at me. “So who won?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Neither,” I decided.

She nodded. Formal approval. The gesture warmed me, as everyone facing us could see it.

At long last, Shehyn stepped into the circle. She had removed her lopsided yellow hat, and her greying hair swirled about in the wind. Seeing her among the other Adem, I realized how small she was. She carried herself with such confidence that I had come to think of her as taller, but she barely came up to the shoulder of some of the taller Adem.

She carried a straight wooden sword with her. Nothing ornate, but it was carved to have the shape of a hilt and blade. Many of the other practice swords I had seen were barely more than smoothed sticks that gave the impression of being swords. Her white shirt and pants were tied tightly to her body with thin white chords.

Alongside Shehyn came a much younger woman. She was shorter than Shehyn by an inch or so. Her frame was more delicate, too, her small face and shoulders making her look almost childlike. But the pronounced curve of her high breasts and round hips beneath her tight mercenary reds made it obvious she was no child.

Her wooden sword was also carved. It was curved slightly, unlike most of the others I had seen. Her sandy hair was braided into a long, narrow plait that hung down to the small of her back.

The two of them raised their swords and began to circle each other.

The young woman was amazing. She struck so fast I could barely see the motion of her hand, let alone the blade of her sword. But Shehyn brushed it away casually with Drifting Snow, taking half a step in retreat. Then, before Shehyn could respond with an attack of her own, the young woman spun away, her long braid swinging.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Penthe,” Vashet said admiringly. “She is a fury, is she not? Like one of our old ancestors.”

Penthe closed with Shehyn again, feinting and thrusting. She darted in, low to the ground. Impossibly low. Her back leg thrust out for balance, not even touching the ground. Her sword arm licked out in front of her, her knee bent so deeply that her entire body was below the level of my head, even though I was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Penthe unfurled all this sinuous motion as quickly you can snap your fingers. The tip of her sword came in low under Shehyn’s guard and angled up toward her knee.

“What is that?” I asked softly, not even expecting an answer. “You never showed me that.” But it was just astonished noise. Never in a hundred years could my body do that.

But Shehyn somehow avoided the attack. Not leaping away with any sudden motion. Not darting out of reach. She was quick, but that was not the heart of how she moved. Instead she was deliberate and perfect. She was already halfway gone before Penthe’s sword had begun to flick toward her leg. The tip of Penthe’s sword must have come within an inch of her knee. But it was not a close thing. Shehyn had only moved as much as was needed, no more.

This time Shehyn did manage to counterattack, stepping forward with Sparrow Strikes the Hawk. Penthe rolled sideways, touched the grass briefly, then pushed herself up off the ground. No, she threw herself away from the ground using only her left hand. Her body snapped like a steel spring, arcing away while her sword licked out twice, driving Shehyn back.

Penthe was full of passion and fury. Shehyn was calm and steady. Penthe was a storm. Shehyn a stone. Penthe was a tiger and Shehyn a bird. Penthe danced and wove madly. Shehyn turned and took one single perfect step.

Penthe slashed and spun and whirled and struck and struck and struck. . . .

And then they stopped, the tip of Penthe’s wooden sword pressed to Shehyn’s white shirt.

I gasped, though not loudly enough to draw any attention. Only then did I realize my heart was racing. My entire body was covered in sweat.

Shehyn lowered her sword, gesturing irritation, admiration, and a mingling of other things I couldn’t identify. She bared her teeth a little in a grimace and used her hand to chafe roughly at her ribs where Penthe had struck her. The same way you rub your shin when you bark it against a chair.

Horrified, I turned to Vashet. “Will she be the new leader of the school?” I asked.

Vashet looked at me, puzzled.

I gestured to the open circle in front of us where the two women stood talking. “This Penthe. She’s beaten Shehyn . . .”

Vashet looked at me for a moment, uncomprehending, then burst out in a long, delighted laugh. “Shehyn is old,” she said. “She is a grandmother. You cannot expect her to always win against a limber young thing like Penthe, all full of fire and fresh wind.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see. I thought . . .”

Vashet was kind enough not to laugh at me again. “Shehyn is not the head of the school because no one can beat her. What an odd notion. What chaos that would be, everything tipping this way and that, changing with the luck of one fight or another.”

She shook her head. “Shehyn is the head because she is a marvelous teacher, and because her understanding of the Lethani is deep. She is the head because she is wise in the ways of the world, and because she is clever at dealing with troublesome problems.” She tapped me pointedly on the chest with two fingers.

Then Vashet made a conciliatory gesture. “She is also an excellent fighter, of course. We would not have a leader who could not fight. Shehyn’s Ketan is without equal. But a leader is not a muscle. A leader is a mind.”

I looked up in time to see Shehyn approaching. One of the cords holding her sleeve in place had come loose during the fight, and the cloth was fluttering in the wind like a luffing sail. She had donned her lopsided yellow cap again and gestured formal greeting to both of us.

Then Shehyn turned to me. “At the end,” she asked. “Why was I struck?” Curiosity.

Frantically, I thought back to the final moments of the fight, looking them over in my mind’s eye.

I tried to gesture with the subtlety Vashet had been teaching me: respectful uncertainty. “You misplaced your heel slightly,” I said. “Your left heel.”

Shehyn nodded. “Good.” She gestured pleased approval widely enough so anyone who happened to be watching could see it. And, of course, everyone was.

Giddy with praise, but conscious of the fact I was being watched, I kept my face locked in the proper impassivity as Shehyn walked away with Penthe in tow.

I leaned my head close to Vashet’s. “I like Shehyn’s little hat,” I said.

Vashet shook her head and sighed. “Come.” She jostled my shoulder with her own and got to her feet. “We should leave before you spoil the good impression you have made today.”

That night at supper, I sat in my customary place at the corner of one table by the wall farthest from the food. Since no one was willing to sit within ten feet of me, there was no sense my taking up space where people might actually want to sit.

My good mood still buoyed me, so I was not surprised when I saw a flicker of red slide into the seat across from me. Carceret again. Once or twice a day she made a point to come close enough to hiss a few words at me. She was overdue.

But looking up, I was surprised. Vashet sat across from me. She nodded, her impassive face staring into my astonished one. Then I composed myself, nodded back, and we ate for a while in companionable silence. After we were finished eating, we passed some time pleasantly, speaking softly of small things.

We left the dining hall together, and when we stepped into the evening air, I switched back into Aturan so I could properly articulate something I’d been thinking for several hours.

“Vashet,” I said. “It occurs to me it would be nice to fight someone whose ability is somewhat closer to my own.”

Vashet laughed, shaking her head. “That is like throwing two virgins into a bed. Enthusiasm, passion, and ignorance are not a good combination. Someone is likely to get hurt.”

“I hardly think it’s fair to call my fighting virginal,” I said. “I’m not near your level, but you yourself said my Ketan is remarkably good.”

“I said your Ketan was remarkably good considering the amount of time you have been studying,” she corrected me. “Which is less than two months. Which is no time at all.”

“It’s frustrating,” I admitted. “If I strike a blow against you, it’s because you let me. There is no substance to it. You’ve given it to me. I haven’t earned it for myself.”

“Any strike or throw you make against me is earned,” she said. “Even if I offer it to you. But I understand. There is something to be said for honest competition.”

I started to say something else, but she put her hand over my mouth. “I’ve said I understand. Stop fighting after you have won.” Hand still over my mouth, she tapped a finger thoughtfully. “Very well. Continue your progress and I will find you someone at your own level to fight.”