The Wise Man's Fear tkc-2, page 44
part #2 of The Kingkiller Chronicle Series
“ ‘But I don’t know how to swim,’ says the arcanist.”
Dal drank off the last of his wine, turned the cup upside down, and set it firmly on the tabletop. There was a moment of expectant silence as he watched me, a vaguely self-satisfied expression on his face.
“Not a bad story,” I admitted. “The Ruh’s accent was a little over the top.”
Dal bent at the waist in a quick, mocking bow. “I will take it under consideration,” he said, then raised one finger and gave me a conspiratorial look. “Not only is my story designed to delight and entertain, but there is a kernel of truth hidden within, where only the cleverest student might find it.” His expression turned mysterious. “All the truth in the world is held in stories, you know.”
Later that evening, I related the encounter to my friends while playing cards at Anker’s.
“He’s giving you a hint, thickwit,” Manet said irritably. The cards had been against us all night, and we were five hands behind. “You just refuse to hear it.”
“He’s hinting I should leave off studying sympathy for a term?” I asked.
“No,” Manet snapped. “He’s telling you what I’ve told you twice already. You’re a king-high idiot if you go through admissions this term.”
“What?” I asked. “Why?”
Manet set his cards down with profound calm. “Kvothe. You’re a clever boy, but you have a world of trouble listening to things you don’t want to hear.” He looked left then right at Wilem and Simmon. “Can you try telling him?”
“Take a term off,” Wilem said without looking up from his cards. Then added, “Thickwit.”
“You really have to,” Sim said earnestly. “Everyone’s still talking about the trial. It’s all anyone is talking about.”
“The trial?” I laughed. “That was more than a span ago. They’re talking about how I was found completely innocent. Exonerated in the eyes of the iron law and merciful Tehlu himself.”
Manet snorted loudly, lowering his cards. “It would have been better if you’d been guilty in a quiet way, rather than be innocent so loud.” He looked at me. “Do you know how long it’s been since an arcanist was brought up on charges of Consortation?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Neither do I,” he said. “Which means it’s been a long, long while. You’re innocent. Lovely for you. But the trial has given the University a great shining black eye. It’s reminded folk that while you might not deserve burning, some arcanists might.” He shook his head. “You can be certain the masters are uniformly wet-cat-mad about that.”
“Some students aren’t too pleased either,” Wil added darkly.
“It isn’t my fault there was a trial!” I protested, then backed up a bit. “Not entirely. Ambrose stirred this up. He was backstage during the whole thing, laughing up his sleeve.”
“Even so,” Wil said. “Ambrose is sensible enough to avoid admissions this term.”
“What?” I asked, surprised. “He’s not going through admissions?”
“He is not,” Wilem said. “He left for home two days ago.”
“But there was nothing to connect him to the trial,” I said. “Why would he leave?”
“Because the masters are not idiots,” Manet said. “The two of you have been snapping at each other like mad dogs since you first met.” He tapped his lips thoughtfully, his expression full of exaggerated innocence. “Say, that reminds me. Whatever were you doing at the Golden Pony the night Ambrose’s room caught fire?”
“Playing cards,” I said.
“Of course you were,” Manet said, his tone thick with sarcasm. “The two of you have been throwing rocks at each other for a full year, and one of them has finally hit the hornet’s nest. The only sensible thing to do is run off to a safe distance and wait ’til the buzzing stops.”
Simmon cleared his throat timidly. “I hate to join the chorus,” he said apologetically. “But rumor has gotten around you were seen having lunch with Sleat.” He grimaced. “And Fela told me she’d heard you were . . . um . . . courting Devi.”
“You know that’s not true about Devi,” I said. “I’ve just been visiting her in order to keep the peace. She was half an inch away from wanting to eat my liver for a while there. And I only had one conversation with Sleat. It was barely fifteen minutes long.”
“Devi?” Manet exclaimed with dismay. “Devi and Sleat? One expelled and the other the next best thing?” He threw down his cards. “Why would you be seen with those people? Why am I even being seen with you?”
“Oh come now.” I looked back and forth between Wil and Sim. “It’s that bad?”
Wilem set down his cards. “I predict,” he said calmly, “that if you go through admissions, you will receive a tuition of at least thirty-five talents.” He looked back and forth between Sim and Manet. “I will wager a full gold mark to this effect. Does anyone care to take my bet?”
Neither of them took him up on his offer.
I felt a desperate sinking in my stomach. “But this can’t . . .” I said. “This . . .”
Sim put his cards down as well, the grim expression out of place on his friendly face. “Kvothe,” he said formally. “I am telling you three times. Take a term away.”
Eventually I realized my friends were telling me the truth. Unfortunately, this left me entirely at loose ends. I had no exams to study for, and starting another project in the Fishery would be nothing but foolishness. Even the thought of searching the Archives for information on the Chandrian or the Amyr had little appeal. I had searched so long and found so little.
I toyed with the idea of searching elsewhere. There are other libraries, of course. Every noble house has at least a modest collection containing household accounts and histories of their lands and family. Most churches had extensive records going back hundreds of years, detailing trials, marriages, and dispositions. The same was true of any sizable city. The Amyr couldn’t have destroyed every trace of their existence.
The research itself wouldn’t be the hard part. The hard part would be gaining access to the libraries in the first place. I could hardly show up in Renere dressed in rags and road dust, asking to thumb through the palace archives.
This was another instance in which a patron would have been invaluable. A patron could write me a letter of introduction that would open all manner of doors for me. What’s more, with a patron’s backing, I could make a decent living for myself as I traveled. Many small towns wouldn’t even let you play at the local inn without a writ of patronage.
The University had been the center of my life for a solid year. Now, confronted with the necessity of leaving, I was utterly at sea, with no idea of what I could do with myself.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Chasing the Wind
I gave my admissions tile to Fela, telling her I hoped it brought her luck. And so the winter term came to an end.
Suddenly three-quarters of my life simply disappeared. I had no classes to occupy my time, no shifts in the Medica to fill. I could no longer check out materials from Stocks, use tools in the Fishery, or enter the Archives.
At first it wasn’t so bad. The midwinter pageantry was wonderfully distracting, and without the worry of work and study I was free to enjoy myself and spend time in the company of my friends.
Then spring term started. My friends were still there, but they were busy with their own studies. I found myself crossing the river more and more. Denna was still nowhere to be found, but Deoch and Stanchion were always willing to share a drink and some idle gossip.
Threpe was there too, and while he occasionally pressed me to attend a dinner at his house, I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. My trial hadn’t pleased people on this side of the river either, and they were still telling stories about it. I wouldn’t be welcome in any respectable social circle for a great long time, if ever.
I toyed with the idea of leaving the University. I knew people would forget about the trial more quickly if I wasn’t around. But where would I go? The only thought that came to mind was heading off to Yll with the vain hope of finding Denna. But I knew that was nothing but foolishness.
Since I didn’t need to save money for tuition, I went to repay Devi. But for the first time ever, I wasn’t able to find her. Over the course of several days I grew increasingly nervous. I even slid several apologetic notes under her door until I heard from Mola that she was taking a holiday and would be returning soon.
Days passed. And I sat idle as winter slowly withdrew from the University. Frost left the corners of windowpanes, drifts of snow dwindled, and trees began to show their first greening buds. Eventually Simmon caught his first glimpse of bare leg beneath a flowing dress and declared spring had officially arrived.
One afternoon as I sat drinking metheglin with Stanchion, Threpe came through the door practically bubbling with excitement. He whisked me off to a private table on the second tier, looking ready to burst with whatever news he was carrying.
Threpe folded his hands on the tabletop. “Since we haven’t had much luck finding you a local patron, I started casting my nets farther afield. It’s nice to have a local patron. But if you have the support of a properly influential lord, it hardly matters where he lives.”
I nodded. My troupe had ranged all over the four corners under the protection of Lord Greyfallow’s name.
Threpe grinned. “Have you ever been to Vintas?”
“Possibly,” I said. Then seeing his puzzled look, I explained, “I traveled quite a bit when I was young. I can’t remember if we ever made it that far east.”
He nodded. “Do you know who the Maer Alveron is?”
I did, but I could tell Threpe was bursting to tell me himself. “I seem to remember something . . .” I said vaguely.
Threpe grinned. “You know the expression ‘rich as the King of Vint?’ ”
I nodded.
“Well, that’s him. His great-great-grandfathers were the kings of Vint, back before the empire stomped in, converting everyone to the iron law and the Book of the Path. If not for a few quirks of fate a dozen generations back, Alveron would be the royal family of Vintas, not the Calanthis, and my friend the Maer would be the king.”
“Your friend?” I said appreciatively. “You know Maer Alveron?”
Threpe made a vacillating gesture. “Friend may be stretching things a little,” he admitted. “We’ve been corresponding for some years, exchanging news from our different corners of the world, doing each other a favor or two. It would be more appropriate to say we’re acquainted.”
“An impressive acquaintance. What is he like?”
“His letters are quite polite. Never a bit snobby even though he does stand quite a good rank above me,” Threpe said modestly. “He’s every bit a king except for the title and crown, you know. When Vintas formed, his family refused to surrender any of their plenary powers. That means the Maer has the authority to do most anything King Roderic himself can do: grant titles, raise an army, coin money, levy taxes—”
Threpe shook his head sharply. “Ah, I forget what I’m doing,” he said as he began to search his pockets. “I received a letter from him only yesterday.” He produced a piece of paper, unfolded it, then cleared his throat and read:
I know you are knee-deep in poets and musicians out there, and I am rather in need of a young man who is good with words. I cannot find anyone to suit me here in Severen. And, everything said, I would prefer the best.
He should be good with words above all, perhaps a musician of some sort. After that, I would desire him to be clever, well-spoken, mannerly, educated, and discreet. On reading this list you may see why I have had no luck finding such a one for myself. If you happen to know a man of this rare sort, encourage him to call on me.
I would tell you what use I intend to put him to, but the matter is of a private nature. . . .
Threpe studied the letter for a moment or two. “It goes on for a bit. Then he says, ‘As to the matter I mentioned before, I am in some haste. If there is no one suitable in Imre, please send me a letter by post. If you happen to send someone my way, encourage him to make speed.’ ” Threpe’s eyes scanned the paper for a moment more, his lips moving silently. “That’s all of it,” he said finally, and tucked it back into a pocket. “What do you think?”
“You do me a great—”
“Yes, yes.” He waved a hand impatiently. “You’re flattered. Skip all that.” He leaned forward seriously. “Will you do it? Will your studies,” he made a dismissive gesture westward, toward the University, “permit an absence of a season or so?”
I cleared my throat. “I’ve actually been considering taking my studies abroad for a time.”
The count burst into a wide grin and thumped the arm of his chair. “Good!” he laughed. “I thought I was going to have to pry you out of your precious University like a penny from a dead shim’s fist! This is a wonderful opportunity, you realize. Once in a lifetime, really.” He gave me a sly wink. “Besides, a young man like yourself would be hard-pressed to find a better patron than a man who’s richer than the king of Vint.”
“There’s some truth to that,” I admitted aloud. Silently, I thought, Could I hope for better assistance in my search for the Amyr?
“There’s much truth to that,” he chuckled. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”
I shrugged. “Tomorrow?”
Threpe raised an eyebrow. “You don’t give much time for the dust to settle, do you?”
“He said he was in haste, and I’d rather be early than late.”
“True. True.” He drew a silver gear-watch from his pocket, looked at it, then sighed as he clicked it closed. “I’ll have to miss some sleep tonight drafting a letter of introduction for you.”
I glanced at the window. “It’s not even dark yet,” I said. “How long do you expect it to take?”
“Hush,” he said crossly. “I write slowly, especially when I’m sending a letter to someone as important as the Maer. Plus I have to describe you, no easy task by itself.”
“Let me help you then,” I said. “No sense losing sleep on my account.” I smiled. “Besides, if there’s one thing I’m well-versed in it’s my own good qualities.”
The next day I made a round of hasty good-byes to everyone I knew at the University. I received heartfelt handshakes from Wilem and Simmon and a cheerful wave from Auri.
Kilvin grunted without looking up from his engraving and told me to write down any ideas I might have for the ever-burning lamp while I was away. Arwyl gave me a long, penetrating look through his spectacles and told me there would be a place for me in the Medica when I returned.
Elxa Dal was refreshing after the other masters’ reserved responses. He laughed and admitted he was a little jealous of my freedom. He advised me to take full advantage of every reckless opportunity that presented itself. If a thousand miles wasn’t enough to keep my escapades secret, he said, then nothing would.
I had no luck finding Elodin, and settled for sliding a note under the door of his office. Though since he never seemed to use the place, it might be months before he found it.
I bought a new travelsack and a few other things a sympathist should never be without: wax, string and wire, hook-needle and gut. My clothes were easy to pack, as I didn’t own many.
As I loaded my pack, I slowly realized I couldn’t take everything with me. This came as something of a shock. For so many years I’d been able to carry everything I’ve owned, usually with a hand to spare.
But since I’d moved into this small garret room, I’d begun gathering oddments and half-finished projects. I now had the luxury of two blankets. There were pages of notes, a circular piece of half-inscribed tin from the Fishery, a broken gear-clock I’d taken to pieces to see if I could put it back together again.
I finished loading my travelsack, then packed everything else into the trunk that sat at the foot of my bed. A few worn tools, a broken piece of slate I used for ciphering, a small wooden box with the handful of small treasures Auri had given me. . . .
Then I went downstairs and asked Anker if he would mind stowing my possessions in the basement until I returned. He admitted a little guiltily that before I’d started sleeping there, the tiny, slant-ceilinged room had been empty for years, and only used for storage. He was willing to leave it unrented if I promised to continue our current room-for-music arrangement after I returned. I gladly agreed, and swinging my lute case onto my shoulder I headed out the door.
I wasn’t entirely surprised to find Elodin on Stonebridge. Very little about the Master Namer surprised me these days. He sat on the waist-high stone lip of the bridge, swinging his bare feet over the hundred-foot drop to the river below.
“Hello Kvothe,” he said without turning his eyes from the churning water.
“Hello Master Elodin,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving the University for a term or two.”
“Are you really afraid?” I noticed a whisper of amusement in his quiet, resonant voice.
It took me a moment to realize what he was referring to. “It’s just a figure of speech.”
“The figures of our speaking are like pictures of names. Vague, weak names, but names nonetheless. Be mindful of them.” He looked up at me. “Sit with me for a moment.”
I started to excuse myself, then hesitated. He was my sponsor, after all. I set down my lute and travelsack on the flat stone of the bridge. A fond smile came over Elodin’s boyish face and he slapped the stone parapet next to himself with the flat of his hand, offering me a seat.
I looked over the edge with a hint of anxiety. “I’d rather not, Master Elodin.”
He gave me a reproachful look. “Caution suits an arcanist. Assurance suits a namer. Fear does not suit either. It does not suit you.” He slapped the stone again, more firmly this time.
I carefully climbed onto the parapet and swung my feet over the edge. The view was spectacular, exhilarating.
