George Martin - Rogues

The comment seemed to catch Bast off his stride. “Write a book?”

“That’s what people do when they know every damn thing, isn’t it?” Kostrel said sarcastically. “They write it down so they can show off.”

Bast looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Okay. Here’s the bones of what I know. They don’t think of it as magic. They’d never use that term. They’ll talk of art or craft. They talk of seeming or shaping.”

He looked up at the sun and pursed his lips. “But if they were being frank, and they are rarely frank, mind you, they would tell you almost everything they do is either glammourie or grammarie. Glammourie is the art of making something seem. Grammarie is the craft of making something be.”

Bast rushed ahead before the boy could interrupt. “Glammourie is easier. They can make a thing seem other than it is. They could make a white shirt seem like it was blue. Or a torn shirt seem like it was whole. Most of the folk have at least a scrap of this art. Enough to hide themselves from mortal eyes. If their hair was all of silver-white, their glammourie could make it look as black as night.”

Kostrel’s face was lost in wonder yet again. But it was not the gormless, gaping wonder of before. It was a thoughtful wonder. A clever wonder, curious and hungry. It was the sort of wonder that would steer a boy toward a question that started with a how.

Bast could see the shape of these things moving in the boy’s dark eyes. His damn clever eyes. Too clever by half. Soon those vague wonderings would start to crystallize into questions like “How do they make their glammourie ? ” or even worse. “How might a young boy break it?”

And what then, with a question like that hanging in the air? Nothing good would come of it. To break a promise fairly made and lie outright was retrograde to his desire. Even worse to do it in this place. Far easier to tell the truth, then make sure something happened to the boy …

But honestly, he liked the boy. He wasn’t dull, or easy. He wasn’t mean or low. He pushed back. He was funny and grim and hungry and more alive than any three other people in the town all put together. He was bright as broken glass and sharp enough to cut himself. And Bast too, apparently.

Bast rubbed his face. This never used to happen. He had never been in conflict with his own desire before he came here. He hated it. It was so simply singular before. Want and have. See and take. Run and chase. Thirst and slake. And if he were thwarted in pursuit of his desire … what of it? That was simply the way of things. The desire itself was still his, it was still pure.

It wasn’t like that now. Now his desires grew complicated. They constantly conflicted with each other. He felt endlessly turned against himself. Nothing was simple anymore, he was pulled so many ways …

“Bast?” Kostrel said, his head cocked to the side, concern plain on his face. “Are you okay?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”

Bast smiled an honest smile. He was a curious boy. Of course. That was the way. That was the narrow road between desires. “I was just thinking. Grammarie is much harder to explain. I can’t say I understand it all that well myself.”

“Just do your best,” Kostrel said kindly. “Whatever you tell me will be more than I know.”

No, he couldn’t kill this boy. That would be too hard a thing.

“Grammarie is changing a thing,” Bast said, making an inarticulate gesture. “Making it into something different than what it is.”

“Like turning lead into gold?” Kostrel asked. “Is that how they make faerie gold?”

Bast made a point of smiling at the question. “Good guess, but that’s glammourie. It’s easy, but it doesn’t last. That’s why people who take faerie gold end up with pockets full of stones or acorns in the morning.”

“Could they turn gravel into gold?” Kostrel asked. “If they really wanted to?”

“It’s not that sort of change,” Bast said, though he still smiled and nodded at the question. “That’s too big. Grammarie is about … shifting. It’s about making something into more of what it already is.”

Kostrel’s face twisted with confusion.

Bast took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “Let me try something else. What have you got in your pockets?”

Kostrel rummaged about and held out his hands. There was a brass button, a scrap of paper, a stub of pencil, a small folding knife … and a stone with a hole in it. Of course.

Bast slowly passed his hand over the collection of oddments, eventually stopping above the knife. It wasn’t particularly fine or fancy, just a piece of smooth wood the size of a finger with a groove where a short, hinged blade was tucked away.

Bast picked it up delicately between two fingers and set it down on the ground between them. “What’s this?”

Kostrel stuffed the rest of his belongings into his pocket. “It’s my knife.”

“That’s it?” Bast asked.

The boy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What else could it be?”

Bast brought out his own knife. It was a little larger, and instead of wood, it was carved from a piece of antler, polished and beautiful. Bast opened it, and the bright blade shone in the sun.

He laid his knife next to the boy’s. “Would you trade your knife for mine?”

Kostrel eyed the knife jealously. But even so, there wasn’t a hint of hesitation before he shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine,” the boy said, his face clouding over.

“Mine’s better,” Bast said matter-of-factly.

Kostrel reached out and picked up his knife, closing his hand around it possessively. His face was sullen as a storm. “My da gave me this,” he said. “Before he took the king’s coin and went to be a soldier and save us from the rebels.” He looked up at Bast, as if daring him to say a single word contrary to that.

Bast didn’t look away from him, just nodded seriously. “So it’s more than just a knife.” he said. “It’s special to you.”

Still clutching the knife, Kostrel nodded, blinking rapidly.

“For you, it’s the best knife.”

Another nod.

“It’s more important than other knives. And that’s not just a seeming, ” Bast said. “It’s something the knife is. ”

There was a flicker of understanding in Kostrel’s eyes.

Bast nodded. “That’s grammarie. Now imagine if someone could take a knife and make it be more of what a knife is. Make it into the best knife. Not just for them, but for anyone. ” Bast picked up his own knife and closed it. “If they were really skilled, they could do it with something other than a knife. They could make a fire that was more of what a fire is. Hungrier. Hotter. Someone truly powerful could do even more. They could take a shadow …” He trailed off gently, leaving an open space in the empty air.

Kostrel drew a breath and leapt to fill it with a question. “Like Felurian!’ he said. “Is that what she did to make Kvothe’s shadow cloak?”

Bast nodded seriously, glad for the question, hating that it had to be that question. “It seems likely to me. What does a shadow do? It conceals, it protects. Kvothe’s cloak of shadows does the same, but more.”

Kostrel was nodding along in understanding, and Bast pushed on quickly, eager to leave this particular subject behind. “Think of Felurian herself …”

The boy grinned, he seemed to have no trouble doing that.

“A woman can be a thing of beauty,” Bast said slowly. “She can be a focus of desire. Felurian is that. Like the knife. The most beautiful. The focus of the most desire. For everyone …” Bast let his statement trail off gently yet again.