Read The Wise Man's Fear Online
Authors: Patrick Rothfuss
Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic
The Wise Man's Fear (15 page)
“I’m going to go kill Ambrose,” I said. “For poisoning me.”
“It’s not a poison. It’s—” He stopped speaking abruptly, then continued in a calm, level voice. “Where did you get that knife?”
“I keep it strapped to my leg, under my pants,” I said. “For emergencies.”
Sim drew a deep breath, then let it out. “Could you give me a minute to explain before you go kill Ambrose?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“Would you mind sitting down while we talk?” He gestured to a chair.
I sighed and sat down. “Fine. But hurry. I’ve got admissions soon.”
Sim nodded calmly and sat on the edge of his bed, facing me. “Okay, you know when someone’s been drinking, and they get it into their head to do something stupid? And you can’t talk them out of it even though it’s obviously a bad idea?”
I laughed. “Like when you wanted to go talk to that harper girl outside the Eolian and threw up on her horse?”
He nodded. “Exactly like that. There’s something an alchemist can make that does the same thing, but it’s much more extreme.”
I shook my head. “I don’t feel drunk in the least. My head is clear as a bell.”
Sim nodded again. “It’s not like being drunk,” he said. “It’s just that one piece of it. It won’t make you dizzy or tired. It just makes it easier for a person to do something stupid.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “I don’t feel like I want to do anything stupid.”
“There’s one way to tell,” Sim said. “Can you think of anything right now that seems like a bad idea?”
I thought for a moment, tapping the flat of the knife’s blade idly against the edge of my boot.
“It would be a bad idea to . . .” I trailed off.
I thought for a longer moment. Sim looked at me expectantly.
“. . . to jump off the roof?” My voice curled up at the end, making it a sort of question.
Sim was quiet. He kept looking at me.
“I see the problem,” I said slowly. “I don’t seem to have any behavioral filters.”
Simmon gave a relieved smile and nodded encouragingly. “That’s it exactly. All your inhibitions have been sliced off so cleanly you can’t even tell they’re gone. But everything else is the same. You’re steady, articulate, and rational.”
“You’re patronizing me,” I said, pointing at him with the knife. “Don’t.”
He blinked. “Fair enough. Can you think of a solution to the problem?”
“Of course. I need some sort of behavioral touchstone. You’re going to need to be my compass because you still have your filters in place.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “So you’ll trust me?”
I nodded. “Except when it comes to women. You’re an idiot with women.” I picked up a glass of water from a nearby table and rinsed my mouth out with it, spitting it onto the floor.
Sim gave a shaky smile. “Fair enough. First, you can’t go kill Ambrose.”
I hesitated. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. In fact, pretty much anything you think to do with that knife is going to be a bad idea. You should give it to me.”
I shrugged and flipped it over in my palm, handing him the makeshift leather grip.
Sim seemed surprised by this, but he took hold of the knife. “Merciful Tehlu,” he said with a profound sigh, setting the knife down on the bed. “Thank you.”
“Was that an extreme case?” I asked, rinsing my mouth out again. “We should probably have some sort of ranking system. Like a ten point scale.”
“Spitting water onto my floor is a one,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” I put the cup back onto his desk.
“It’s okay,” he said easily.
“Is one low or high?” I asked.
“Low,” he said. “Killing Ambrose is a ten.” He hesitated. “Maybe an eight.” He shifted in his seat. “Or a seven.”
“Really?” I said. “That much? Okay then.” I leaned forward in my seat. “You need to give me some tips for admissions. I’ve got to get back into line before too long.”
Simmon shook his head firmly. “No. That’s a really bad idea. Eight.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he said. “It is a delicate social situation. A lot of things could go wrong.”
“But if—”
Sim let out a sigh, brushing his sandy hair out of his eyes. “Am I your touchstone or not? This is going to get tedious if I have to tell you everything three times before you listen.”
I thought about it for a moment. “You’re right, especially if I’m about to do something potentially dangerous.” I looked around. “How long is this going to last?”
“No more than eight hours.” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it.
“What?” I asked.
Sim sighed. “There might be some side effects. It’s lipid soluble, so it will hang around in your body a bit. You might experience occasional minor relapses brought about by stress, intense emotion, exercise. . . .” He gave me an apologetic look. “They’d be like little echoes of this.”
“I’ll worry about that later,” I said. I held out my hand. “Give me your admissions tile. You can go through now. I’ll take your slot.”
He spread his hands helplessly. “I’ve already gone,” he explained.
“Tehlu’s tits and teeth,” I cursed. “Fine. Go get Fela.”
He waved his hands violently in front of himself. “No. No no no. Ten.”
I laughed. “Not for that. She has a slot late on Cendling.”
“You think she’ll trade with you?”
“She’s already offered.”
Sim got to his feet. “I’ll go find her.”
“I’ll stay here,” I said.
Sim gave an enthusiastic nod and looked nervously around the room. “It’s probably safest if you don’t do anything while I’m gone,” he said as he opened the door. “Just sit on your hands until I get back.”
Sim was only gone for five minutes, which was probably for the best.
There was a knock on the door. “It’s me,” Sim’s voice came through the wood. “Is everything all right in there?”
“You know what’s strange?” I said to him through the door. “I tried to think of something funny I could do while you were gone, but I couldn’t.” I looked around at the room. “I think that means humor is rooted in social transgression. I can’t transgress because I can’t figure out what would be socially unacceptable. Everything seems the same to me.”
“You might have a point,” he said, then asked, “did you do something anyway?”
“No,” I said. “I decided to be good. Did you find Fela?”
“I did. She’s here. But before we come in, you have to promise not to do anything without asking me first. Fair?”
I laughed. “Fair enough. Just don’t make me do stupid things in front of her.”
“I promise,” Sim said. “Why don’t you sit down? Just to be safe.”
“I’m already sitting,” I said.
Sim opened the door. I could see Fela peering over his shoulder.
“Hello Fela,” I said. “I need to trade slots with you.”
“First,” Sim said. “You should put your shirt back on. That’s about a two.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I was hot.”
“You could have opened the window.”
“I thought it would be safer if I limited my interactions with external objects,” I said.
Sim raised an eyebrow. “That’s actually a really good idea. It just steered you a little wrong in this case.”
“Wow.” I heard Fela’s voice from the hallway. “Is he serious?”
“Absolutely serious,” Sim said. “Honestly? I don’t think it’s safe for you to come in.”
I tugged my shirt on. “Dressed,” I said. “I’ll even sit on my hands if it will make you feel better.” I did just that, tucking them under my legs.
Sim let Fela inside, then closed the door behind her.
“Fela, you are just gorgeous,” I said. “I would give you all the money in my purse if I could just look at you naked for two minutes. I’d give everything I own. Except my lute.”
It’s hard to say which of them blushed a deeper red. I think it was Sim.
“I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?” I said.
“No,” Sim said. “That’s about a five.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “Women are naked in paintings. People buy paintings, don’t they? Women pose for them.”
Sim nodded. “That’s true. But still. Just sit for a moment and don’t say or do anything? Okay?”
I nodded.
“I can’t quite believe this,” Fela said, the blush fading from her cheeks. “I can’t help but think the two of you are playing some sort of elaborate joke on me.”
“I wish we were,” Simmon said. “This stuff is terribly dangerous.”
“How can he remember naked paintings and not remember you’re supposed to keep your shirt on in public?” she asked Sim, her eyes never leaving me.
“It just didn’t seem very important,” I said. “I took my shirt off when I was whipped. That was public. It seems a strange thing to get in trouble for.”
“Do you know what would happen if you tried to knife Ambrose?” Simmon asked.
I thought for a second. It was like trying to remember what you’d eaten for breakfast a month ago. “There’d be a trial, I suppose,” I said slowly, “and people would buy me drinks.”
Fela muffled a laugh behind her hand.
“How about this?” Simmon asked me. “Which is worse, stealing a pie or killing Ambrose?”
I gave it a moment’s hard thought. “A meat pie, or a fruit pie?”
“Wow,” Fela said breathlessly. “That’s . . .” She shook her head. “It almost makes my skin crawl.”
Simmon nodded. “It’s a terrifying piece of alchemy. It’s a variation of a sedative called a plum bob. You don’t even have to ingest it. It’s absorbed straight through the skin.”
Fela looked at him. “How do you know so much about it?”
Sim gave a weak smile. “Mandrag lectures about it in every alchemy class he teaches. I’ve heard the story a dozen times by now. It’s his favorite example of how alchemy can be abused. An alchemist used it to ruin the lives of several government officials in Atur about fifty years ago. He only got caught because a countess ran amok in the middle of a wedding, killed a dozen folk and—”
Sim stopped, shaking his head. “Anyway. It was bad. Bad enough that the alchemist’s mistress turned him over to the guards.”
“I hope he got what he deserved.”
“And with some to spare,” Sim said grimly. “The point is, it hits everyone a little differently. It’s not a simple lowering of inhibition. There’s an amplification of emotion. A freeing up of hidden desire combined with a strange type of selective memory, almost like a moral amnesia.”
“I don’t feel bad,” I said. “I feel pretty good, actually. But I’m worried about admissions.”
Sim gestured. “See? He remembers admissions. It’s important to him. But other things are just . . . gone.”
“Is there a cure?” Fela asked nervously. “Shouldn’t we take him to the Medica?”
Simmon looked nervous. “I don’t think so. They might try a purgative, but it’s not as if there’s a drug working through him. Alchemy doesn’t work like that. He’s under the influence of unbound principles. You can’t flush those out the way you’d try to get rid of mercury or ophalum.”
“A purgative doesn’t sound like much fun,” I added. “If my vote counts for anything.”
“And there’s a chance they might think he’s cracked under admission stress,” Sim said to Fela. “That happens to a few students every term. They’d stick him in Haven until they were sure—”
I was on my feet, my hands clenched into fists. “I’ll be cut into pieces in hell before I let them stick me in Haven,” I said, furious. “Even for an hour. Even for a minute.”
Sim blanched and took a step back, raising his hands defensively, palms out. But his voice was firm and calm. “Kvothe, I am telling you three times. Stop.”
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