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 (39 page)
She handed me the bottle. “They disappear for an hour. Or a minute. Sometimes for days. Sometimes they don’t come back at all.” She brought another bottle out of the sack. “It’s best to have at least four going at once. That way, statistically, you should always have two moving around.”
I nodded, and I pulled a strand of burlap from the tattered sack and daubed it with the blood that covered my hand. I uncorked the bottle and dropped it inside.
“Hair too,” Auri said.
I pulled a few from my head and threaded them through the bottle’s mouth. Then I drove the cork in hard and set it floating. It rode low in the water, circling erratically.
Auri handed me another bottle and we repeated the process. When the fourth bottle was swept out into the swirling water, Auri nodded and dusted her hands briskly against each other.
“There,” she said with a tone of immense satisfaction. “That’s good. We’re safe.”
Hours later, washed, bandaged, and considerably less nekkid, I made my way to Wilem’s room in the Mews. That night, and for many to come, Wil and Sim took turns watching over me as I slept, keeping me safe with their Alar. They were the best sort of friends. The sort everyone hopes for but no one deserves, least of all me.
CHAPTER TWENTY- FIVE
Wrongful Apprehension
D
ESPITE WHAT WIL AND Sim believed, I couldn’t believe Devi was responsible for the malfeasance against me. While I was painfully aware that I knew next to nothing about women, she had always been friendly to me. Even sweet at times.
ESPITE WHAT WIL AND Sim believed, I couldn’t believe Devi was responsible for the malfeasance against me. While I was painfully aware that I knew next to nothing about women, she had always been friendly to me. Even sweet at times.
True, she had a grim reputation. But I knew better than anyone how quickly a handful of rumors could turn into full-blown faerie stories.
I thought it much more likely that my unknown assailant was simply a bitter student who resented my advancement in the Arcanum. Most students studied for years before they reached Re’lar, and I had managed it in less than three terms. It could even be someone who simply hated the Edema Ruh. It wouldn’t be the first time that had earned me a beating.
In some ways, it really didn’t matter who was responsible for the attacks. What I needed was a way to stop them. I couldn’t expect Wil and Sim to watch over me for the rest of my life.
I needed a more permanent solution. I needed a gram.
A gram is a clever piece of artificery designed for just this sort of problem. It is a sort of sympathetic armor that prevents anyone from making a binding against your body. I didn’t know how they worked, but I knew they existed. And I knew where to find out how to make one.
Kilvin looked up as I approached his office. I was relieved to see his glasswork was cold and dark.
“I trust you are well, Re’lar Kvothe?” he asked without getting up from the worktable. He was holding a large hemisphere of glass in one hand and a diamond stylus in the other.
“I am, Master Kilvin,” I lied.
“Have you been thinking about your next project?” he asked. “Have you been dreaming clever dreams?”
“I was actually looking for a schema for a gram, Master Kilvin. But I can’t find it in any of the bolt-holes or reference books.”
Kilvin looked at me curiously. “And why would you be needing a gram, Re’lar Kvothe? Such a desire does not reflect good faith in your fellow arcanists.”
Unsure as to whether he was joking or not, I decided to play it straight. “We’ve been learning about slippage in Adept Sympathy. I was thinking that if a gram works to deny outside affinities . . .”
Kilvin gave a low chuckle. “Dal has been throwing fear into you. Good. And you are correct, a gram would help protect against slippage—” His dark Cealdish eyes gave me a serious look. “To a degree. However, it seems a clever student would simply learn his lessons and avoid slippage through proper care and caution.”
“I intend to, Master Kilvin,” I said. “Still, a gram strikes me as a useful thing to have.”
“There is truth to that,” Kilvin admitted, nodding his shaggy head. “However, with repairs and the filling of our autumn orders, we are understaffed.” He waved a hand toward the window that looked out into the workshop. “I cannot spare any workers to make such a thing. And even if I could, there is an issue of cost. They require delicate work, and gold is needed for the inlay.”
“I’d prefer to make my own, Master Kilvin.”
Kilvin shook his head. “There is reason the schema is not in the reference books .You are not far enough along to be making your own. One must be careful when meddling with sygaldry and one’s own blood.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but he cut me off. “More important, the sygaldry necessary for such a device is only entrusted to those who have reached the ranks of El’the. The runes for blood and bone have too great a potential for misuse.”
His tone let me know there was nothing to be gained by arguing, so I shrugged it off as if I couldn’t care less. “It’s no matter, Master Kilvin. I have other projects to occupy my time.”
Kilvin gave me a wide smile. “I am sure you do, Re’lar Kvothe. I am waiting with great eagerness to see what you will make for me.”
A thought struck me. “To that purpose, Master Kilvin, could I have the use of one of the private workrooms? I’d rather not have everyone looking over my shoulder while I’m tinkering.”
Kilvin’s eyebrows went up at this. “Now I am doubly curious.” He set down the hemisphere of glass, got to his feet, and opened a drawer in his desk. “Will one of the first floor workrooms suit you? Or is there a chance of something exploding? I will give you one on the third floor if that is the case. They are colder, but the roof is better suited for that sort of thing.”
I looked at him for a moment, trying to decide if he was joking. “A first floor room will be fine, Master Kilvin. But I’ll need a small smelter and a little extra room to breathe.”
Kilvin muttered to himself, then brought out a key. “How much breathing will you be doing? Room twenty-seven is five hundred feet square.”
“That should be plenty,” I said. “I also might need permission to get precious metals from Stocks.”
Kilvin chuckled at this, and nodded as he handed me the key. “I will see it is done, Re’lar Kvothe. I look forward to seeing what you will make for me.”
It was galling that the schema I needed was restricted. But there are always other ways of finding information, and there are always people who know more than they are supposed to.
For example, I didn’t doubt Manet knew how to make a gram. Everyone knew he was an E’lir in title only. But there was no way he would share the information with me against Kilvin’s wishes. The University had been Manet’s home for thirty years, and he was probably the only student who feared expulsion more than me.
This meant my options were limited. Other than a lengthy search of the Archives, I couldn’t think of any way to get a schema on my own. So, after several minutes of wracking my brain for a better option, I made my way to the Bale and Barley.
The Bale was one of the more disreputable taverns this side of the river. Anker’s wasn’t seedy in the strictest sense, it simply lacked pretension. It was clean without smelling of flowers and inexpensive without being tawdry. People visited Anker’s to eat, drink, listen to music, and occasionally have a friendly fight.
The Bale was several rungs farther down the ladder. It was grubbier, music was not a priority, and the fights were usually only recreational for one of the people involved.
Mind you, the Bale wasn’t as bad as half the places in Tarbean. But it was the worst you were likely to find this close to the University. So despite being seedy, it had wooden floors and glass in the windows. And if you passed out drunk and woke up missing your purse, you could content yourself with the fact that nobody had knifed you and stolen your boots as well.
As it was still early in the day, there were a bare handful of people scattered around the common room. I was glad to see Sleat sitting in the back. I hadn’t actually met him, but I knew who he was. I’d heard stories.
Sleat was one of the rare, indispensable people who have a knack for arranging things. From what I’d heard, he’d been a student on and off for the last ten years.
He was talking with a nervous-looking man at the moment, and I knew better than to interrupt. So I bought two mugs of short beer and made a pretense of drinking one while I waited.
Sleat was handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Though he didn’t have the characteristic beard, I expected he was at least half Cealdish. His body language screamed authority. He moved as if he were in control of everything around him.
Which wouldn’t have surprised me, actually. He could own the Bale for all I knew. People like Sleat are no strangers to money.
Sleat and the anxious young man finally came to some sort of agreement. Sleat smiled warmly as they shook hands and clapped the man on the shoulder as he walked away.
I waited for a moment, then made my way over to his table. As I came closer, I noticed there was a stretch of open floor between his table and the others in the common room. It wasn’t much, just enough so eavesdropping would be difficult.
Sleat looked up as I approached.
“I was wondering if we could talk,” I said.
He made an expansive gesture to the empty chair. “This is a bit of a surprise,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t get a lot of clever folks paying me visits. I get desperate folks.” He looked at the mugs. “Are those both for you?”
“You can have either or both.” I nodded at the one on the right. “But I’ve already had my mouth on that one.”
He looked at the mugs warily for a fraction of a second, then gave a wide, white smile and took the drink on the left. “From what I’ve heard, you’re not the sort to poison a man.”
“You seem to know a lot about me,” I said.
His shrug was so casual I guessed he’d practiced it. “I know a lot about everyone,” he said. “But I know more about you.”
“Why’s that?”
Sleat slouched forward, leaning on the table and speaking in a confidential tone. “Do you have any idea how boring your average student is? Half of them are rich tourists who don’t care half a damn for their classes.” He rolled his eyes and gestured as if throwing something over his shoulder. “The other half are bookish tits who have dreamed of this place so long they can hardly breathe once they’re here. They walk on eggshells, meek as priests. Scared lest the masters cast a disapproving eye in their direction.”
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