Free The Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss Page B

and her lordling, I decided to skip the third tier entirely.
    Sim had the lively look he gets around his fifth drink. Manet was slouched low in his chair, eyes half-lidded, his mug resting comfortably on the swell of his belly. Wil looked the same as ever, his dark eyes unreadable.
    “Threpe’s nowhere to be found,” I said as I took my seat. “Sorry.”
    “That’s too bad,” Sim said. “Has he had any luck finding you a patron yet?”
    I shook my head bitterly. “Ambrose has threatened or bribed every noble within a hundred miles of here. They’ll have nothing to do with me.”
    “Why doesn’t Threpe take you on himself?” Wilem asked. “He likes you well enough.”
    I shook my head. “Threpe’s already supporting three other musicians. Four really, but two of them are a married couple.”
    “Four?” Sim said, horrified. “It’s a wonder he can still afford to eat.”
    Wil cocked his head curiously, and Sim leaned forward to explain. “Threpe’s a count. But his holdings aren’t really that extensive. Supporting four players on his income is a little . . . extravagant.”
    Wil frowned. “Drinks and strings can’t amount to much.”
    “A patron’s responsible for more than that.” Sim began to count items off on his fingers. “There’s the writ of patronage itself. Then he provides room and board for his players, a yearly wage, a suit of clothes in his family’s colors—”
    “Two suits of clothing, traditionally,” I interjected. “Every year.” Growing up in the troupe, I never appreciated the livery Lord Greyfallow had given us. But these days I couldn’t help but imagine how much my wardrobe would be improved by two new sets of clothing.
    Simmon grinned as a serving boy arrived, leaving no doubt as to who was responsible for the glasses of blackberry brand set in front of each of us. Sim raised his glass in a silent toast and drank a solid swallow. I raised my glass in return, as did Wilem, though it obviously pained him. Manet remained motionless, and I began to suspect he had dozed off.
    “It still doesn’t add square,” Wilem said, setting down his brand. “All the patron gets is lighter pockets.”
    “The patron gets a reputation,” I explained. “That’s why the players wear the livery. Plus he has entertainers at his beck and call: parties, dances, pageants. Sometimes they’ll write songs or plays at his request.”
    Wil still seemed skeptical. “Still seems like the patron is getting the short side of it.”
    “That’s because you only have half the picture,” Manet said, pulling himself upright in his chair. “You’re a city boy. You don’t know what it’s like growing up in a little town built on one man’s land.
    “Here’s Lord Poncington’s lands,” Manet said, using a bit of spilled beer to draw a circle in the center of the table. “Where you live like the good little commoner you are.” Manet picked up Simmon’s empty glass and put it inside the circle.
    “One day, a fellow strolls through town wearing Lord Poncington’s colors.” Manet picked up his full glass of brand and jigged it across the table until it stood next to Sim’s empty one inside the circle. “And this fellow plays songs for everyone at the local inn.” Manet splashed some of the brand into Sim’s glass.
    Not needing any prompting, Sim grinned and drank it.
    Manet trotted his glass around the table and entered the circle again. “Next month a couple more folk come through wearing his colors and put on a puppet show.” He poured more brand and Simmon tossed it back. “The next month there’s a play.” Again.
    Now Manet picked up his wooden mug and clomped it across the table into the circle. “Then the tax man shows up, wearing the same colors.” Manet knocked his empty mug impatiently on the table.
    Sim sat confused for a second, then he picked up his own mug and sloshed some beer into it.
    Manet eyed him and tapped the mug again, sternly.
    Sim poured the rest of his