The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 43
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
Still, I wasn’t terribly worried. I had time to study and free access to the Archives. What’s more, for the first time since I’d come to the University, I wasn’t a pauper. I had thirteen talents in my purse. Even after I paid Devi the interest on her loan, I would easily have enough for tuition.
Best of all, the long hours spent searching for the gram had taught me a great deal about the Archives. While I might not know as much as an experienced scriv, I was familiar with many of her hidden corners and quiet secrets. So while I studied, I also allowed myself the freedom to do other reading while I prepared for admissions.
I closed the book I’d been poring over. A well-written, comprehensive history of the Aturan church. It was as useless as all the rest.
Wilem looked up as my book thumped shut. “Nothing?” he asked.
“Less than nothing,” I said.
The two of us were studying in one of the fourth-floor reading holes, much smaller than our customary place on the third floor, but given how close we were to admissions, we’d been lucky to find a private room at all.
“Why don’t you let it go?” Wil suggested. “You’ve been beating this Amyr thing like a dead horse for what, two span?”
I nodded, not wanting to admit my research into the Amyr had actually started long before our bet had taken us to Puppet.
“And what have you found so far?”
“Shelves of books,” I said. “Dozens of stories. Mentions in a hundred histories.”
He gave me a level look. “And this wealth of information irritates you.”
“No,” I said. “The lack of information troubles me. There isn’t any solid information about the Amyr in any of these books.”
“None?” Wilem said skeptically.
“Oh, every historian in the last three hundred years talks about them,” I said. “They speculate on how the Amyr influenced the decline of the empire. Philosophers talk about the ethical ramifications of their actions.” I gestured to the books. “That tells me what people think about the Amyr. It doesn’t tell me anything about the Amyr themselves.”
Wilem frowned at my stack of books. “It can’t all be historians and philosophers.”
“There are stories too,” I said. “Early on there are stories about the great wrongs they righted. Later you get stories about the terrible things they did. An Amyr in Renere kills a corrupt judge. Another in Junpui puts down a peasant uprising. A third in Melithi poisons half the town’s nobility.”
“And that isn’t solid information?” Wilem asked.
“They’re soft stories,” I said. “Second- or third-hand. Three-quarters of them are simply hearsay. I can’t find corroborating evidence for them anywhere. Why can’t I find any mention of the corrupt judge in the church records? His name should be recorded in every case he tried. What was the date of this peasant uprising, and why can’t I find it mentioned in any of the other histories?”
“It was three hundred years ago,” Wilem said reproachfully. “You can’t expect all those little details to survive.”
“I expect some of the little details to survive. You know how obsessive the Tehlins are about their records,” I said. “We have a thousand years of court documents from a hundred different cities squirreled away down in sub-two. Whole rooms full . . .”
I waved my hands dismissively. “But fine, let’s abandon the small details. There are huge questions I can’t find any answers for. When was the Order Amyr founded? How many Amyr were there? Who paid them, and how much? Where did that money come from? Where were they trained? How did they come to be a part of the Tehlin church?”
“Feltemi Reis answered that,” Wilem said. “They grew out of the tradition of the mendicant judges.”
I picked up a book at random and thumped it onto the table in front of him. “Find me one bit of proof to support that theory. Find me one record that shows a mendicant judge being promoted into the ranks of the Amyr. Show me one record of an Amyr being employed by a court. Find me one church document that shows an Amyr presiding over a case.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest belligerently. “Go on, I’ll wait.”
Wilem ignored the book. “Maybe there weren’t as many Amyr as people assume. Perhaps there were only a few of them and their reputation grew out of their control.” He gave me a pointed look. “You should understand how that works.”
“No,” I said. “This is a significant absence. Sometimes finding nothing can be finding something.”
“You’re starting to sound like Elodin,” Wilem said.
I frowned at him but decided not to rise to the bait. “No, listen for a minute. Why would there be so little factual information about the Amyr? There are only three possibilities.”
I held up fingers to mark them off. “One: nothing was written down. I think we can safely discard that. They were too important to be so entirely neglected by historians, clerks, and the obsessive documentation of the church.” I tucked that finger away.
“Two. By an odd chance, copies of the books that do have this information have simply never made their way here to the Archives. But that’s ridiculous. It’s impossible to think that over all the years nothing on the subject has ended up in the largest library in the world.” I folded down the second finger.
“Three.” I pointed with the remaining finger. “Someone has removed this information, altered it, or destroyed it.”
Wilem frowned. “Who would do that?”
“Who indeed?” I said, “Who would benefit most from the destruction of the information of the Amyr?” I hesitated, letting the tension build. “Who else but the Amyr themselves?”
I had expected him to dismiss my idea, but he didn’t. “An interesting thought,” Wilem said. “But why assume the Amyr are behind it? It is much more sensible to think the church itself is responsible. Certainly the Tehlins would like nothing better than to quietly erase the Amyr’s atrocities.”
“True,” I admitted. “But the church isn’t very strong here in the Commonwealth. And these books come from all over the world. A Cealdish historian wouldn’t have any compunctions about writing a history of the Amyr.”
“A Cealdish historian would have very little interest in writing the history of a heretic branch of a pagan church,” Wilem pointed out. “Besides, how could a discredited handful of Amyr do something the church itself could not achieve?”
I leaned forward. “I think the Amyr are far older than the Tehlin church,” I said. “During the time of the Aturan Empire, a great deal of their public strength was with the church, but they were more than just a group of wandering justices.”
“And what leads you to this belief?” Wil said. From his expression I could see I was losing Wilem’s support rather than gaining it.
A piece of ancient pottery, I thought. A story I heard from an old man in Tarbean. I know it because of something the Chandrian let slip after they killed everyone I ever knew.
I sighed and shook my head, knowing how crazy I would sound if I told the truth. That was why I scoured the Archives. I needed some tangible evidence to support my theory, something that wouldn’t make me a laughingstock.
“I found copies of the court documents from the time the Amyr were denounced,” I said. “Do you know how many Amyr they put on trial in Tarbean?”
Wil shrugged.
I held up a single finger. “One. One Amyr in all of Tarbean. And the clerk writing the transcript of the trial made it clear the man they put on trial was a simpleton who didn’t understand what was going on.”
I still saw doubt on Wilem’s face. “Just think on it,” I pleaded. “The scraps I’ve found suggest there were at least three thousand Amyr in the empire before they were disbanded. Three thousand highly trained, heavily armed, wealthy men and women absolutely devoted to the greater good.
“Then one day the church denounces them, disbands their entire order, and confiscates their property.” I snapped my fingers. “And three thousand deadly, justice-obsessed fanatics just disappear? They roll over and decide to let someone else take care of the greater good for a while? No protest? No resistance? Nothing?”
I gave him a hard look and shook my head firmly. “No. That goes against human nature. Besides, I haven’t found one record of a member of the Amyr being brought before the church’s justice. Not one. Is it so outrageous to think they might have decided to go underground, to continue their work in a more secret way?
“And if that’s reasonable,” I continued before he could interrupt. “Doesn’t it also make sense they might try to preserve their secrecy by carefully pruning histories over the last three hundred years?”
There was a long pause.
Wilem didn’t dismiss it out of hand. “An interesting theory,” he said slowly. “But it leads me to one last question.” He eyed me seriously. “Have you been drinking?”
I slumped in my chair. “No.”
He came to his feet. “Then you should start. You have been spending too much time with all these books. You need to wash the dust from your brains.”
So we went for a drink, but I still harbored my suspicions. I bounced the idea off Simmon when I next had the chance. He accepted it more easily than Wilem had. Which isn’t to say he believed me, just that he accepted the possibility. He said I should mention it to Lorren.
I didn’t. The blank-faced Master Archivist still made me nervous, and I avoided him at every opportunity for fear I might give him some excuse to ban me from the Archives. The last thing I wanted to do was suggest his precious Archives had been slowly pruned over the last three hundred years.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The Ignorant Edema
I saw Elxa Dal raise a hand in greeting from across the courtyard. “Kvothe!” He smiled warmly. “The very fellow I was hoping to see! Could I borrow a moment of your time?”
“Of course,” I said. While I liked Master Dal, we hadn’t had much contact together outside the lecture hall. “Could I buy you a drink, or a bite of lunch? I’ve been meaning to thank you more properly for speaking on my behalf at the trial, but I’ve been busy. . . .”
“As have I,” Dal said. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you for days, but time keeps getting away from me.” He looked around. “I wouldn’t turn down a bit of lunch, but I should probably forego the drink. I have admissions to oversee in less than an hour.”
We stepped into the White Hart. I’d barely even seen the inside of the place, as it was far too rich for the likes of me.
Elxa Dal was recognizable in his dark master’s robes, and the host fawned a bit as he led the two of us to a private table. Dal seemed perfectly at his ease as he took a seat, but I was increasingly nervous. I couldn’t imagine why the Master Sympathist would seek me out for a conversation.
“What can I bring you?” asked the tall, thin man as soon as we were in our chairs. “Drinks? A selection of cheeses? We have a delightful lemoned trout as well.”
“The trout and cheeses would do nicely,” Dal said.
The host turned to me. “And yourself?”
“I’ll try the trout as well,” I said.
“Wonderful,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “And to drink?”
“Cider,” I said.
“Do you have any Fallows red?” Dal asked hesitantly.
“We do,” said the host. “And it’s a lovely year, too, if I do say so myself.”
“I’ll have a cup,” Dal said, glancing at me. “One cup shouldn’t alter my judgment too badly.”
The host hurried away, leaving me alone at the table with Elxa Dal. It felt odd sitting across the table from him. I shifted nervously in my seat.
“So how are things with you?” Dal asked conversationally.
“Passing fair,” I said. “It was a good term with the exception of . . .” I made a gesture toward Imre.
Dal gave a humorless chuckle. “That was a brush with the old days, wasn’t it?” He shook his head. “Consortation with Demons. Good lord.”
The host returned with our drinks and left without a word.
Master Dal picked up his wide clay cup and held it in the air. “To not getting burned alive by superstitious folk,” he said.
I smiled despite my discomfiture and raised my wooden mug. “A fine tradition.”
We both drank, Dal sighing appreciatively at the wine.
Dal looked at me across the table. “So tell me,” he said. “Have you ever considered what you’re going to do with yourself when you’re done here? After you have your guilder, I mean.”
“I haven’t thought of it that much,” I admitted honestly. “It seems such a long way off.”
“At the rate you’re rising through the ranks it might not be so long at that. Already a Re’lar at . . . how old are you again?”
“Seventeen,” I lied smoothly. I was sensitive about my age. Many students were nearly twenty before they enrolled in the University, let alone joined the Arcanum.
“Seventeen,” Dal mused softly. “It’s so easy to forget that. You carry yourself so tall.” His eyes got a faraway look in them. “Lord and lady, I was a mess at seventeen. My studies, trying to sort out my place in the world. Women . . .” He shook his head slowly. “It gets better, you know. Give it three or four years and everything settles down a bit.”
He raised his clay cup to me briefly before taking another drink. “Not that you seem to be having much trouble. Re’lar at seventeen. Quite a mark of distinction.”
I flushed a bit, not knowing what to say.
The host returned and began laying dishes on the table. A small board with an array of different sliced cheeses. A bowl with small, toasted pieces of bread. A bowl of strawberry preserves. A bowl of blueberry jam. A small dish of shelled walnuts.
Dal picked up a small piece of bread and a slice of crumbling white cheese. “You’re quite the sympathist,” he said. “There are any number of opportunities out there for a person as skilled as yourself.”
I spread a bit of strawberry across a piece of cheese and toast, then put it into my mouth to give myself time to think. Was Dal implying he wanted me to focus more on my study of sympathy? Was he implying he wanted to sponsor me to El’the?
Elodin had sponsored my elevation to Re’lar, but I knew these things changed. Masters occasionally fought over particularly promising students. Mola, for example, had been a scriv before Arwyl stole her away into the Medica.
“I do enjoy my study of sympathy quite a bit,” I said carefully.
“That’s abundantly clear,” Dal said with a smile. “Some of your classmates wish you enjoyed it a little less, I can assure you of that.” He ate another piece of cheese, then continued, “That said, it is possible to overdo it. Didn’t Teccam say ‘Too much study harms the student?’ ”
“Ertram the Wiser, actually,” I said. It had been in one of the books Master Lorren had set aside for Re’lar to study this term.
“It’s true at any rate,” he said. “You might want to consider taking a term off to relax a bit. Travel a little, get some sun.” He took another drink. “It’s not good to see one of the Edema Ruh without a tan.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. The thought of taking a holiday from the University had never occurred to me. Where would I possibly go?
The host arrived with plates of fish, steaming and smelling of lemon and butter. For a while both of us concentrated on our food. I was glad for an excuse not to talk. Why would Dal compliment me on my studies, then encourage me to leave?
After a while Elxa Dal gave a contented sigh and pushed back his plate. “Let me tell you a little story,” he said. “A story I like to call ‘The Ignorant Edema.’ ”
I looked up at that, slowly chewing my mouthful of fish. I kept my expression carefully composed.
He arched an eyebrow, as if waiting to see if I had anything to say.
When I didn’t, he continued. “Once there was a learned arcanist. He knew all of sympathy and sygaldry and alchemy. He had ten dozen names tucked neatly into his head, spoke eight languages, and had exemplary penmanship. Really, the only thing that kept him from being a master was poor timing and a certain lack of social grace.”
Dal took a sip of wine. “So this fellow went chasing the wind for a while, hoping to find his fortune out in the wide world. And while he was on the road to Tinuë, he came to a lake he needed to cross.”
Dal smiled broadly. “Luckily, there was an Edema boatman who offered to ferry him to the other side. The arcanist, seeing the trip would take several hours, tried to start a conversation.
“ ‘What do you think,’ he asked the boatman, ‘about Teccam’s theory of energy as an elemental substance rather than a material property?’
“The boatman replied he’d never thought on it at all. What’s more, he had no plans to.
“ ‘Surely your education included Teccam’s Theophany?’ the arcanist asked.
“ ‘I never had what you might call an education, y’honor,’ the boatman said. ‘And I wouldn’t know this Teccam of yours if he showed up selling needles to m’wife.’
“Curious, the arcanist asked a few questions and the Edema admitted he didn’t know who Feltemi Reis was, or what a gearwin did. The arcanist continued for a long hour, first out of curiosity, then with dismay. The final straw came when he discovered the boatman couldn’t even read or write.
“ ‘Really sir,’ the arcanist said, appalled. ‘It is every man’s job to improve himself. A man without the benefits of education is hardly more than an animal.’ ”
Dal grinned. “Well, as you can guess, the conversation didn’t go very far after that. They rode for the next hour in a tense silence, but just as the far shore was coming into sight a storm blew up. Waves started to lash the little boat, making the timbers creak and groan.
“The Edema took a hard look at the clouds and said, ‘It’ll be true bad in five minutes, then sommat worse afore it clears. This boat of mine won’t hold together through it all. We’re gonnta have to swim the last little bit.’ And with this the ferryman takes off his shirt and begins to tie it around his waist.
