Kvothe nodded.
“And it won’t do me any good to tell folk, will it?”
Kvothe drew a deep breath, then let it out slow. “Probably not.”
Aaron drank off the last swallow of his beer and pushed the empty mug away from himself on the bar. “Alright. I just needed to hear it. Needed to know I hadn’t gone all crazy.” He came to his feet and picked up the heavy iron rod with one hand resting it on his shoulder as he turned toward the door. No one spoke as he made his way across the room and let himself out, closing the door behind him. His heavy boots sounded hollowly on the wooden landing outside, then there was nothing.
“There’s more to that one than I would’ve guessed,” Kvothe said at last.
“It’s because he’s big,” Bast said matter-of-factly as he gave up the pretense of sweeping. “You people are easily confused by the look of things. I’ve had my eye on him for a while now. He’s cleverer than folk give him credit for. Always looking at things and asking questions.” He carried the broom back toward the bar. “He makes me nervous.”
Kvothe looked amused. “Nervous? You?”
“The boy reeks of iron. Spends all day handling it, baking it, breathing its smoke. Then comes in here with clever eyes.” Bast gave a profoundly disapproving look. “It’s not natural.”
“Natural?” Chronicler finally spoke up. There was a tinge of hysteria in his voice. “What do you know about natural? I just saw a demon kill a man, was that natural?” Chronicler turned to face Kvothe. “What the hell was that thing doing here anyway?” Chronicler asked.
“‘Looking,’ apparently,” Kvothe said. “That’s about all I got. How about you, Bast? Could you understand it?”
Bast shook his head. “I recognized the sound more than anything, Reshi. Its phrasing was very old, archaic. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”
“Fine. It was looking,” Chronicler said abruptly. “Looking for what?”
“Me, probably,” Kvothe said grimly.
“Reshi,” Bast admonished him, “you’re just being maudlin. This isn’t your fault.”
Kvothe gave his student a long, weary look. “You know better than that, Bast. All of this is my fault. The scrael, the war. All my fault.”
Bast looked like he wanted to protest, but couldn’t find the words. After a long moment, he looked away, beaten.
Kvothe leaned his elbows onto the bar, sighing. “What do you think it was, anyway?”
Bast shook his head. “It seemed like one of the Mahael-uret, Reshi. A skin dancer.” He frowned as he said it, sounding anything but certain.
Kvothe raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t one of your kind?”
Bast’s normally affable expression sharpened into a glare. “It was not ‘my kind,’” he said indignantly. “The Mael doesn’t even share a border with us. It’s as far away as anywhere can be in the Fae.”
Kvothe nodded a hint of an apology. “I just assumed you knew what it was. You didn’t hesitate to attack it.”
“All snakes bite, Reshi. I don’t need their names to know they’re dangerous. I recognized it as being from the Mael. That was enough.”
“So, probably a skin dancer?” Kvothe mused. “Didn’t you tell me they’d been gone for ages and ages?”
Bast nodded. “And it seemed sort of…dumb, and it didn’t try to escape into a new body.” Bast shrugged. “Plus, we’re all still alive. That seems to indicate that it was something else.”
Chronicler watched the conversation incredulously. “You mean neither of you know what it was?” He looked at Kvothe. “You told the boy it was a demon!”
“For the boy it’s a demon,” Kvothe said, “because that’s the easiest thing for him to understand, and it’s close enough to the truth.” He began to slowly polish the bar. “For everyone else in town it’s a sweet-eater because that will let them get some sleep tonight.”
“Well it’s a demon for me too then,” Chronicler said sharply. “Because my shoulder feels like ice where it touched me.”
Bast hurried over. “I forgot it got a hand on you. Let me see.”
Kvothe closed the window’s shutters while Chronicler removed his shirt; there were bandages stripping the backs of his arms from where he had been wounded by the scrael three nights ago.
Bast looked closely at his shoulder. “Can you move it?”
Chronicler nodded, rolling it around. “It hurt like twelve bastards when he touched me, like something was tearing up inside.” He shook his head in irritation at his own description. “Now it just feels strange. Numb. Like it’s asleep.”
Bast prodded his shoulder with a finger, looking it over dubiously.
Chronicler looked back at Kvothe. “The boy was right about the fire, wasn’t he? Until he mentioned it, I didn’t underaaaaggghhhh!” the scribe shouted, jerking away from Bast. “What in God’s name was that?” he demanded.
“Your brachial nerve plexus, I’m guessing,” Kvothe said dryly.
“I needed to see how deep the damage went,” Bast said, unruffled. “Reshi? Would you get me some goose grease, garlic, mustard…. Do we have any of those green things that smell like onions but aren’t?”
Kvothe nodded. “Keveral? I think there’s a few left.”
“Bring them, and a bandage too. I should get a salve on this.”
Kvothe nodded and stepped through the doorway behind the bar. As soon as he was out of sight, Bast leaned close to Chronicler’s ear. “Don’t ask him about it,” he hissed urgently. “Don’t mention it at all.”
Chronicler looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“About the bottle. About the sympathy he tried to do.”
“So he was trying to light that thing on fire? Why didn’t it work? What’s—”
Bast tightened his grip, his thumb digging into the hollow beneath Chronicler’s collarbone. The scribe gave another startled yelp. “Don’t talk about that,” Bast hissed in his ear. “Don’t ask questions.” Holding both the scribe’s shoulders, Bast shook him once, like an angry parent with a stubborn child.
“Good lord, Bast. I can hear him howling all the way in the back,” Kvothe called from the kitchen. Bast stood upright and pulled Chronicler straight in his chair as the innkeeper emerged from the doorway. “Tehlu anyway, he’s white as a sheet. Is he going to be okay?”
“It’s about as serious as a frostburn,” Bast said disparagingly. “It’s not my fault if he screams like a little girl.”
“Well, be careful with him,” Kvothe said, setting a pot of grease and a handful of garlic cloves on the table. “He’ll need that arm for at least another couple days.”
Kvothe peeled and crushed the garlic. Bast mixed the salve and smeared the foul-smelling concoction onto the scribe’s shoulder before wrapping a bandage around it. Chronicler sat very still.
“Do you feel up for a little more writing tonight?” Kvothe asked after the scribe was wearing his shirt again. “We’re still days away from any true ending, but I can tie up a few loose ends before we call it a night.”