Shrugging, Bast headed up the stairs as well, his footsteps sounding hard on the wooden stairs.
Kvothe went about his nightly ritual. He shoveled ashes out of the huge stone fireplace and brought in wood for tomorrow’s fire. He went outside to extinguish the lamps beside the Waystone’s sign, only to find that he’d forgotten to light them earlier that evening. He locked the inn, and after a moment’s consideration, left the key in the door so Chronicler could let himself out if he woke early in the morning.
Then he swept the floor, washed the tables, and rubbed down the bar, moving with a methodical efficiency. Last came the polishing of the bottles. As he went through the motions his eyes were far away, remembering. He did not hum or whistle. He did not sing.
In his room, Chronicler moved about restlessly, tired but too full of anxious energy to let sleep take him. He removed the finished pages from his satchel and stowed them safely in the heavy wooden chest of drawers. Then he cleaned all his pen’s nibs and set them out to dry. He carefully removed the bandage on his shoulder, threw the foul-smelling thing in the chamber pot, and replaced the lid before washing his shoulder clean in the hand basin.
Yawning, he went to the window and looked out at the little town, but there was nothing to see. No lights, no movement. He opened the window a crack, letting in the fresh autumn air. Drawing the curtains, Chronicler undressed for bed, lying his clothes over the back of a chair. Last of all he removed the simple iron wheel from around his neck and laid it on the nightstand.
Turning down his bed, Chronicler was surprised to see the sheets had been changed sometime during the day. The linen was crisp and smelled pleasantly of lavender.
After a moment’s hesitation, Chronicler moved to the door of his room and locked it. He laid the key on the nightstand, then frowned and picked up the stylized iron wheel and put it back around his neck before snuffing the lamp and crawling into bed.
For the better part of an hour, Chronicler lay sleepless in his sweet-smelling bed, rolling restlessly from side to side. Finally he sighed and threw off the covers. He relit the lamp with a sulfur match and climbed back out of bed. Then he walked over to the heavy chest of drawers beside the window and pushed at it. It wouldn’t budge at first, but when he put his back into it, he managed to slide it slowly across the smooth wooden floor.
After a minute the weighty piece of furniture was pressed against the door of his room. Then he climbed back into bed, rolled down the lamp, and quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
It was pitch black in the room when Chronicler woke with something soft pressing against his face. He thrashed wildly, more a reflex than an attempt to get away. His startled shout was muffled by the hand clamped firmly over his mouth.
After his initial panic, Chronicler went quiet and limp. Breathing hard through his nose, he lay there, eyes wide in the darkness.
“It’s just me,” Bast whispered without removing his hand.
Chronicler said something muffled.
“We need to talk.” Kneeling beside the bed, Bast looked down at the dark shape Chronicler made, twisted in his blankets. “I’m going to light the lamp and you’re not going to make any loud noises. Alright?”
Chronicler nodded against Bast’s hand. A moment later a match flared, filling the room with jagged red light and the acrid smell of sulfur. Then gentler lamplight welled up. Bast licked his fingers and pinched the match between them.
Trembling slightly, Chronicler sat up in the bed and put his back against the wall. Bare-chested, he gathered the blankets self-consciously around his waist and glanced toward the door. The heavy dresser was still in place.
Bast followed his gaze. “That shows a certain lack of trust,” he said dryly. “You better not have scratched up his floors. He gets mad as hell about that sort of thing.”
“How did you get in here?” Chronicler demanded.
Bast flailed his hands franticly at Chronicler’s head. “Quiet!” he hissed. “We have to be quiet. He has ears like a hawk.”
“How…” Chronicler began more softly, then stopped. “Hawks don’t have ears.”
Bast gave him a puzzled look. “What?”
“You said he has ears like a hawk. That doesn’t make any sense.”
Bast frowned and made a dismissive gesture. “You know what I mean. He can’t know that I’m here.” Bast sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed down his pants self-consciously.
Chronicler gripped the blankets bunched around his waist. “Why are you here?”
“Like I said, we need to talk.” Bast looked at Chronicler seriously. “We need to talk about why you’re here.”
“This is what I do,” Chronicler said, irritated. “I collect stories. And when I get the chance I investigate odd rumors and see if there’s any truth behind them.”
“Out of curiosity, which rumor was it?” Bast asked.
“Apparently you got soppy drunk and let something slip to a wagoneer,” Chronicler said. “Rather careless, all things considered.”
Bast gave Chronicler a profoundly pitying look. “Look at me,” Bast said, as if talking to a child. “Think. Could some wagon herder get me drunk? Me?”
Chronicler opened his mouth. Closed it. “Then…”
“He was my message in a bottle. One of many. You just happened to be the first person to find one and come looking.”
Chronicler took a long moment to digest this piece of information. “I thought you two were hiding?”
“Oh we’re hiding alright,” Bast said bitterly. “We’re tucked away so safe and sound that he’s practically fading into the woodwork.”
“I can understand you feeling a little stifled around here,” Chronicler said. “But honestly, I don’t see what your master’s bad mood has do to with the price of butter.”
Bast’s eyes flashed angrily. “It has everything to do with the price of butter!” he said through his teeth. “And it’s a damn sight more than a bad mood, you ignorant, wretched anhaut-fehn. This place is killing him.”
Chronicler went pale at Bast’s outburst. “I…I’m not…”
Bast closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself. “You just don’t understand what’s going on,” he said, speaking to himself as much as Chronicler. “That’s why I came, to explain. I’ve been waiting for months for someone to come. Anyone. Even old enemies come to settle scores would be better than him wasting away like this. But you’re better than I’d hoped for. You’re perfect.”
“Perfect for what?” Chronicler asked. “I don’t even know what the problem is.”
“It’s like…have you ever heard the story of Martin Maskmaker?” Chronicler shook his head and Bast gave a frustrated sigh. “How about plays? Have you seen The Ghost and the Goosegirl or The Ha’penny King?”