The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 28
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
It’s strange what thoughts flash into your head in these situations. The first thing I thought of wasn’t being horribly burned. It was that the cloak Fela had given me would be ruined, and I’d be left with only two shirts.
My eyes darted to the top of Devi’s desk where the varnish was already starting to blister in a ring around the poor-boy. I could feel the heat radiating against my face.
I know when I’m beaten. I broke the bindings, my mind reeling as the pieces slid back together.
Devi rolled her shoulders. “Let go of it,” she said.
I opened my hand and the wax doll toppled drunkenly onto the desk. I sat with my hands in my lap and remained very still, not wanting to startle or threaten her in any way.
Devi stood up and leaned across the desk. She reached out and ran a hand through my hair, then made a fist, tearing some away. I yelped despite myself.
Sitting back down, Devi picked up the doll and replaced her hair with several of my own. She muttered a binding.
“Devi, you don’t understand,” I said. “I just needed to—”
When I had bound Devi, I had focused on her arms and legs. It’s the most efficient way to restrain someone. I’d had limited heat to work with and couldn’t waste energy on anything else.
But Devi had heat to spare right now, and her binding was like being shut in an iron vise. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, or jaw, or tongue. I could barely breathe, only taking tiny, shallow breaths that didn’t require any movement of my chest. It was horrifying, like having someone’s hand around my heart.
“I trusted you.” Devi’s voice was low and rough, like a fine-toothed surgeon’s saw cutting away an amputated leg. “I trusted you.” She gave me a look that was pure fury and loathing. “I actually had someone come here, looking to buy your blood. Fifty-five talents. I turned him away. I denied even knowing you because you and I had a business relationship. I stick to the bargains I make.”
Who? I wanted to shout. But I could only make an inarticulate huuu huuu sound.
Devi looked at the wax doll she held, then at the poor-boy charring a dark ring into the top of her desk. “Our business relationship is now over,” she said tightly. “I am calling your debt due. You have until the end of the term to get me my money. Nine talents. If you are one half-breath late, I will sell your blood to recover my investment and wash my hands of you.”
She eyed me coldly. “This is better than you deserve. I still have your blood. If you go to the masters at the University or the constable in Imre, it will end badly for you.”
Smoke was curling up from the desk now, and Devi moved her hand to hold the mommet over the creaking metal of the poor-boy. She murmured, and I felt a prickle of heat wash over my whole body. It felt exactly like the sudden fevers that had been plaguing me for days.
“When I release this binding, you will say, ‘I understand, Devi.’ Then you will leave. At the end of the term, you will send someone with the money you owe. You will not come yourself. I do not ever want to see you again.”
Devi looked at me with such contempt that I cringe to remember it. Then she spat on me, tiny flecks of saliva striking the poor-boy and hissing into steam. “If I glimpse you again, even out of the corner of my eye, it will end badly for you.”
She lifted the wax mommet over her head, then brought it down sharply on the desk with her hand flat on top of it. If I’d been able to flinch or cry out in panic, I would have.
The mommet shattered, arms and legs breaking away, the head skittering off to roll across the desk and onto the floor. I felt a sudden, jarring impact, as if I’d fallen several feet and landed flat on a stone floor. It was startling, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. Through the terror, some small part of me marveled at her precision and control.
The binding that held me fell away, and I drew a deep breath. “I understand, Devi,” I said. “But can—”
“Get OUT!” she shouted.
I got out. I would like to say it was a dignified exit, but that would not be the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Pressure
Wil and Sim were waiting for me in the back corner of Anker’s. I brought over two mugs of beer and a tray laden with fresh bread and butter, cheese and fruit, and bowls of hot soup, thick with beef and turnip.
Wilem rubbed one eye with the palm of his hand. He looked a little peaked under his dark Cealdish complexion, but other than that he didn’t seem much the worse for three nights of short sleep. “What’s the occasion?”
“I just want to help you two keep your energy up,” I said.
“Way ahead of you,” Sim said. “I had a refreshing nap during my sublimation lecture.” His eyes were a little dark around the edges, but he didn’t seem much the worse for wear either.
Wilem began to load up his plate. “You mentioned you had news. What sort of news?”
“It’s mixed,” I said. “Which do you want first, good or bad?”
“Bad news first,” Simmon said.
“Kilvin won’t give me the plans I need to make my own gram. It’s the sygaldry involved. Runes for blood and bone and such. He feels they’re too dangerous to be taught to Re’lar.”
Simmon looked curious. “Did he say why?”
“He didn’t,” I admitted. “But I can guess. I could use them to make all manner of unpleasant things. Like a little metal disk with a hole in it. Then, if you put a drop of someone’s blood in it, you could use it to burn them alive.”
“God, that’s awful,” Sim said, setting down his spoon. “Do you ever have any nice thoughts?”
“Anyone in the Arcanum could do the same thing with basic sympathy,” Wilem pointed out.
“There’s a big difference,” I said. “Once I made that device, anyone could use it. Again and again.”
“That’s insane,” Simmon said. “Why would anyone make anything like that?”
“Money,” Wilem said grimly. “People do stupid things for money all the time.” He gave me a significant look. “Such as borrowing from bloodthirsty gattesors.”
“Which brings me to my second piece of news,” I said uncomfortably. “I confronted Devi.”
“Alone?” Simmon said. “Are you stupid?”
“Yes,” I said. “But not for the reasons you think. Things got unpleasant, but now I know she wasn’t responsible for the attacks.”
Wilem frowned. “If not her, then who?”
“There’s only one thing that makes sense,” I said. “It’s Ambrose.”
Wil shook his head. “We’ve already gone through this. Ambrose would never risk it. He—”
I held up a hand to stop him. “He’d never risk malfeasance against me,” I agreed. “But I don’t think he knows who he’s attacking.”
Wilem closed his mouth and looked thoughtful.
I continued. “Think about it. If Ambrose suspected it was me, he’d bring me up on charges in front of the masters. He’s done it before.” I rubbed my wounded arm. “They’d discover my injuries and I’d be caught.”
Wil looked down at the tabletop. “Kraem,” he said. “It makes sense. He might suspect you of hiring a thief, but not that you’d break in yourself. He’d never do something like that.”
I nodded. “He’s probably trying to find the person who broke into his rooms. Or just get a little easy revenge. That explains why the attacks have been getting stronger. He probably thinks the thief ran off to Imre or Tarbean.”
“We’ve got to go to the masters with this,” Simmon said. “They can search his rooms tonight. He’ll be expelled for this, and whipped.” A wide, vicious grin spread over his face. “God, I’d pay ten talents if I got to hold the lash.”
I chuckled at his bloodthirsty tone. It took a lot to get on Sim’s bad side, but once you made it there was no going back. “We can’t, Sim.”
Sim gave me a look of sheer disbelief. “You can’t be serious. He can’t get away with this.”
“I’d get expelled for breaking into his rooms in the first place. Conduct Unbecoming.”
“They wouldn’t expel you for that,” Sim said, but his voice was far from certain.
“I’m not willing to take the risk,” I said. “Hemme hates me. Brandeur follows Hemme’s lead. I’m still in Lorren’s bad books.”
“And somehow he still finds the strength to pun,” Wilem muttered.
“That’s three votes against me right there.”
“I think you don’t give Lorren enough credit,” Wilem said. “But you’re right. They’d expel you. If for no other reason, they’d do it to smooth things over with Baron Jakis.”
Sim looked at Wilem. “You really think so?”
Wil nodded. “It’s possible they wouldn’t even expel Ambrose,” he said grimly. “He’s Hemme’s favorite, and the masters know the trouble his father could make for the University.” Wil snorted. “Think of the trouble Ambrose could make when he inherits.” Wilem lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I’m with Kvothe on this one, Sim.”
Simmon gave a great, weary sigh. “Wonderful,” he said. Then he looked up at me with narrow eyes. “I told you,” he said. “I told you to leave Ambrose alone from the very beginning. Getting into a fight with him is like stepping into a bear trap.”
“A bear trap?” I said thoughtfully.
He nodded firmly. “Your foot goes in easy enough, but you’re never getting it out again.”
“A bear trap,” I repeated. “That’s exactly what I need.”
Wilem chuckled darkly.
“I’m serious,” I said. “Where can I get a bear trap?”
Wil and Sim looked at me strangely, and I decided not to push my luck. “Just a joke,” I lied, not wanting to complicate things any further. I could find one on my own.
“We need to be sure it’s Ambrose,” Wilem said.
I nodded. “If he’s locked away in his rooms the next few times I’m attacked, that should be evidence enough.”
The conversation lapsed a bit, and for a couple of minutes we ate quietly, each of us tangled in our own thoughts.
“Okay,” Simmon said, seeming to have reached some conclusion. “Nothing’s really changed. You still need a gram. Right?” He looked at Wil, who nodded, then back to me. “Now hurry up with the good news before I kill myself.”
I smiled. “Fela has agreed to help me search the Archives for the schema.” I gestured toward the two of them. “If the two of you care to join us, it will mean long, grueling hours in close contact with the most beautiful woman this side of the Omethi River.”
“I might be able to spare some time,” Wilem said casually.
Simmon grinned.
Thus began our search of the Archives.
Surprisingly, it was fun at first, almost like a game. The four of us would scatter to different sections of the Archives then return and comb through the books as a group. We spent hours chatting and joking, enjoying the challenge and one another’s company.
But as hours turned into days of fruitless searching, the excitement burned away, leaving only a grim determination. Wil and Sim continued to watch over me at night, protecting me with their Alar. Night after night they lost sleep, making them sullen and irritable. I cut my sleep down to five hours a night to make things easier for them.
Under ordinary circumstances, five hours of sleep would be a great plenty for me, but I was still recovering from my injuries. What’s more, I needed to constantly maintain the Alar that kept me safe. It was mentally exhausting.
On the third day of our search I nodded off while studying my metallurgy. I only dozed for half a minute before my head lolled, startling me awake. But the icy fear followed me for the rest of the day. If Ambrose had attacked at that moment, I could have been killed.
So, even though I couldn’t afford it, I began dipping into my thinning purse to buy coffee. Many of the inns and cafes near the University catered to noble tastes, so it was readily available, but coffee is never cheap. Nahlrout would have been less expensive, but it had harsher side effects that I didn’t want to risk.
In between bouts of research, we set about confirming my suspicions that Ambrose was responsible for the attacks. In this, if nothing else, we were lucky. Wil watched Ambrose return to his room after his rhetoric lecture, and at the same time I was forced to stave off binder’s chills. Fela watched him finish a late lunch and return to his rooms, and a quarter hour later I felt a sweaty prickle of heat along my back and arms.
Later that evening I watched him head back to his rooms in the Golden Pony after his shift in the Archives. Not long after, I felt the faint pressure in both my shoulders that let me know he was trying to stab me. After the shoulders, there followed several other prods in a more personal area.
Wil and Sim agreed that it couldn’t be coincidence: it was Ambrose. Best of all, it let us know that whatever Ambrose was using against me, he kept it in his rooms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Kindling
The attacks weren’t particularly frequent, but they came with no warning.
On the fifth day after we started searching for the schema, when Ambrose must have been feeling particularly cussed or bored, there were eight of them: one as I was waking up in Wilem’s room, two during lunch, two while I was studying physiognomy in the Medica, then three in quick succession while I was coldsmithing iron in the Fishery.
The next day there were no attacks at all. In some ways that was worse. Nothing but hours of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
So I learned to maintain an iron-hard Alar as I ate and bathed, as I attended class and had conversations with my teachers and friends. I even maintained it while dueling in Adept Sympathy. On the seventh day of our search, this distraction and my general exhaustion led to my first defeat at the hands of two of my classmates, ending my perfect string of undefeated duels.
I could say that I was too weary to care, but that wouldn’t be entirely true.
On the ninth day of our search Wilem, Simmon, and I were combing through books in our reading hole when the door opened and Fela slipped inside. She was carrying a single book instead of her usual armload. She was breathing heavily.
“I’ve got it,” she said, her eyes bright. Her voice so excited it was almost fierce. “I found a copy.” She thrust the book out at us so we could read the gold leaf on the thick leather spine: Facci-Moen ve Scrivani.
We had learned about the Scrivani early in our search. It was an extensive collection of schemata by a long-dead Artificer named Surthur. Twelve thick volumes of detailed diagrams and descriptions. When we found the index, we had thought our search was nearly finished, as it listed “Diagrames Detaling the Construction of a Marvelous Five-Gramme, proven most Effectatious in the Preventing of Maleficent Sympathe.” Location: volume nine, page eighty-two.
We tracked down eight versions of the Scrivani in the Archives, but we never found the whole set. Volumes seven, nine, and eleven were always missing, no doubt tucked away in Kilvin’s private library.
We’d spent two entire days searching before finally giving up on the Scrivani. But now Fela had found it, not just a piece to the puzzle, but the whole thing.
“Is it the right one?” Simmon asked, his voice a mixture of excitement and disbelief.
Fela slowly removed her hand from the lower binding, revealing in bright gold: 9.
I scrambled up out of my chair, almost knocking it over in my rush to get to her. But she smiled and held the book high over her head. “First you have to promise me dinner,” she said.
I laughed and reached for the book. “Once this is over, I’ll take everyone to dinner.”
She sighed. “And you have to tell me I’m the best scriv ever.”
“You’re the best scriv ever,” I said. “You’re twice as good as Wil could ever be, even if he had a dozen hands and a hundred extra eyes.”
“Ick.” She handed me the book. “Here you go.”
I hurried to the table and cracked the book open.
“The pages will be missing, or something like that,” Simmon said in a low voice to Wil. “It can’t be this easy after all this time. I know something’s going to spike our wheel.”
I stopped turning pages and rubbed my eyes. I squinted at the writing.
“I knew it,” Sim said, he leaned his chair back on two legs, covering his tired eyes with his hands. “Let me guess, it’s got the grey rot. Or bookworm, or both.”
Fela stepped close and looked over my shoulder. “Oh no!” she said mournfully. “I didn’t even look. I was so excited.” She looked up at us. “Do any of you read Eld Vintic?”
“I read the chittering gibberish you people call Aturan,” Wilem said sourly. “I consider myself sufficiently multilingual.”
“Only a smattering,” I said. “A few dozen words.”
“I can,” Sim said.
“Really?” I felt hope rising in my chest again. “When did you pick that up?”
Sim scooted his chair across the floor until he could look at the book. “My first term as an E’lir I heard some Eld Vintic poetry. I studied it for three terms with the Chancellor.”
“I’ve never cared for poetry,” I said.
“Your loss,” Sim said absently as he turned a few pages. “Eld Vintic poetry is thunderous. It pounds at you.”
“What’s the meter like?” I asked, curious despite myself.
“I don’t know anything about meter,” Simmon said distractedly as he ran a finger down the page in front of him. “It’s like this:
Sought we the Scrivani word-work of Surthur
Long-lost in ledger all hope forgotten.
Yet fast-found for friendship fair the book-bringer
Hot comes the huntress Fela, flushed with finding
Breathless her breast her high blood rising
To ripen the red-cheek rouge-bloom of beauty.
“That sort of thing,” Simmon said absently, his eyes still scanning the pages in front of him.
