Smakebit på søndag: The Wise Man's Fear

Bild lånad från bokus,
finns även på svenska

Söndag och dags för nya smakebitar, som även den här veckan fått logi på AstridTereses blogg Betraktninger. Jag håller på med The Wise Man's Fear, andra delen i Patrick Rothfuss trilogi The Kingkiller Chronicle, något så ovanligt som en episk fantasy med välutvecklad humor. Huvudpersonen Kvothe berättar om sitt liv för en kringresande krönikör och man får höra om hans liv på universitetet, kärleken till Denna, hur han lär sig att använda svärd och mycket annat, hela tiden medan han är på jakt efter information om dem som mördade hans föräldrar.

Boken är på drygt tusen ljuvliga sidor, smakbiten kommer från andra kapitlet. Kvällen innan smakbiten kom en man in i baren och gick till anfall. Han var fullständigt rabiat och okontaktbar och pratade ett språk som ingen av dem kände igen. Slutsatsen blev att han var besatt av något ont väsen. Bast, Kvothes lärling, lyckades döda honom, men krönikören är fortfarande rädd:

Chronicler looked a little wild around the eyes. “But how can we be sure? It might be inside anyone in town right now. . . .”
    “It might be inside me,” Bast said nonchalantly. “Maybe I’m just waiting for you to let your guard down and then I’ll bite you on the chest, right over your heart, and drink all the blood out of you. Like sucking the juice out of a plum.”
    Chronicler’s mouth made a thin line. “That’s not funny.”
    Bast looked up and gave Chronicler a rakish, toothy grin. But there was something slightly off
about the expression. It lasted a little too long. The grin was slightly too wide. His eyes were focused slightly to one side of the scribe, rather than directly on him.
    Bast went still for a moment, his fingers no longer weaving nimbly among the green leaves. He looked down at his hands curiously, then dropped the half-finished circle of holly onto the bar. His grin slowly faded to a blank expression, and he looked around the taproom dully. “Te veyan?” he said in a strange voice, his eyes glassy and confused. “Te-tanten ventelanet?”
    Then, moving with startling speed, Bast lunged from behind the bar toward Chronicler. The scribe exploded out of his seat, bolting madly away. He upset two tables and a half-dozen chairs before his feet got tangled and he tumbled messily to the floor, arms and legs flailing as he clawed his way frantically toward the door.
    As he scrambled wildly, Chronicler darted a quick look over his shoulder, his face horrified and pale, only to see that Bast hadn’t taken more than three steps. The dark-haired young man stood next to the bar, bent nearly double and shaking with helpless laughter. One hand half-covered his face, while the other pointed at Chronicler. He was laughing so hard he could barely draw a breath. After a moment he had to reach out and steady himself against the bar.