“No. It doesn’t really
burn
technically. It simply breaks down.”
“What does it break down into?”
“Things,” Simmon said testily. “It breaks down into complicated things you can’t understand because you don’t know anything about alchemy.”
“Is it safe to breathe?” I amended.
“Yes. I wouldn’t give it to you otherwise. This is an old formula. Tried and true. Now, because it doesn’t transmit heat, your hands will go straight from feeling cool to being pressed up hard against something burning hot.” He gave me a pointed look. “I advise you stop touching hot things
before
it’s all used up.”
“How can I tell when it’s about to be used up?”
“You can’t,” he said simply. “Which is why I advise using something other than your bare hands.”
“Wonderful.”
“If it mixes with alcohol it will turn acidic. Only mildly though. You’d have plenty of time to wash it off. If it mixes with a little water, like your sweat, that’s fine. But if it mixes with a lot of water, say a hundred parts to one, it will turn flammable.”
“And if I mix it with piss it turns into delicious candy, right?” I laughed. “Did you make a bet with Wilem about how much of this I’d swallow? Nothing becomes flammable when you mix it with water.”
Sim’s eyes narrowed. He picked up an empty crucible. “Fine,” he said. “Fill this up then.”
Still smiling, I moved to the water canister in the corner of the room. It was identical to the ones in the Fishery. Pure water is important for artificing too, especially when you’re mixing clays and quenching metals you don’t want contaminated.
I splashed some water into the crucible and brought it back to Sim. He dipped the tip of his finger into it, swirled it around, and poured it into the hot iron pan.
Thick orange flame roared up, burning three feet high until it flickered and died. Sim set down the empty crucible with a slight
click
and looked at me gravely. “Say it.”
I looked down at my feet. “I know nothing about alchemy.”
Sim nodded, seeming pleased. “Right,” he said, turning back to the worktable. “Let’s go over this again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Blood and Ash
L
EAVES CRUNCHED UNDERFOOT AS I made my way through the forest to the north of the University. The pale moonlight filtering through the bare trees wasn’t enough to see clearly, but I had made this trip several times in the last span and knew the way by heart. I smelled wood smoke long before I heard voices and glimpsed firelight through the trees.
It wasn’t really a clearing, just a quiet space hidden behind a rocky outcrop. A few pieces of fieldstone and the trunk of a fallen tree provided makeshift seats. I had dug the fire pit myself a few days ago. It was over a foot deep and six across, lined with stones. It dwarfed the small campfire currently burning there.
Everyone else was already there. Mola and Fela shared the log-bench. Wilem was hunkered down on a stone. Sim sat cross-legged on the ground, poking at the fire with a stick.
Wil looked up as I came out of the trees. In the flickering firelight his eyes looked dark and sunken. He and Sim had been watching over me for almost two whole span. “You’re late,” he said.
Sim looked up to see me, cheerful as always, but there were marks of exhaustion on his face too. “Is it finished?” he asked, excited.
I nodded. Unbuttoning my cuff, I rolled up my shirtsleeve to reveal an iron disk slightly larger than a commonwealth penny. It was covered in fine sygaldry and inlaid with gold. My newly finished gram. It was strapped flat against the inside of my forearm with a pair of leather cords.
A cheer went up from the group.
“Interesting way to wear it,” Mola said. “Fashionable in a sort of barbarian raider way.”
“It works best in contact with skin,” I explained. “And I need to keep it out of sight, since I’m not supposed to know how to make one.”
“Practical
and
stylish,” Mola said.
Simmon wandered over and peered at it, reaching out to touch it with a finger. “It seems so small—aaaahh!” Sim cried out as he jumped backward, wringing his hand. “Black damn,” he swore, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. It startled me is all.”
“Kist and crayle,” I said, my own heart racing. “What’s the matter?”
“Have you ever touched one of the Arcanum guilders?” he asked. “The ones they give you when you become a full arcanist?”
I nodded. “It sort of buzzed. Made my hand go numb, like it had fallen asleep.”
Sim nodded toward my gram, shaking his hand. “It feels like that. Surprised me.”
“I didn’t know the guilders acted as grams too,” I said. “Makes sense though.”
“Have you tested it?” Wilem asked.
I shook my head. “It seemed a little strange for me to test it myself,” I admitted.
“You want one of us to do it?” Simmon laughed. “You’re right, that’s perfectly normal.”
“I also thought it would be convenient to have a physicker nearby.” I nodded in Mola’s direction. “Just in case.”
“I didn’t know I was going to be needed in my professional capacity tonight,” Mola protested. “I didn’t bring my kit.”
“It shouldn’t be necessary,” I said as I brought a block of sympathy wax out of my cloak and brandished it. “Who wants to do the honors?”
There was a moment of silence, then Fela held out her hand. “I’ll make the doll, but I’m not sticking it with a pin.”
“Vhenata,”
Wilem said.
Simmon shrugged. “Fine, I’ll do it. I guess.”
I handed the block of wax to Fela, and she began warming it with her hands. “Do you want to use hair or blood?” she asked softly.
“Both,” I said, trying not to let my growing anxiety show.“I need to be absolutely sure of it if I’m going to be able sleep at night.” I pulled out a hatpin, pricked the back of my hand, and watched a bright bead of blood well up.
“That won’t work.” Fela said, still working the wax with her hands. “Blood won’t mix with wax. It’ll just bead up and squish out.”
“And how did you come by that tidbit of information?” Simmon teased uneasily.
Fela flushed, ducking her head a little, causing her long hair to cascade off her shoulder. “Candles. When you make colored candles you can’t use a water-based dye. It needs to be powder or oil. It’s a solubility issue. Polar and nonpolar alignments.”
“I love the University,” Sim said to Wilem on the other side of the fire. “Educated women are so much more attractive.”
“I’d like to say the same,” Mola said dryly. “But I’ve never known any educated men.”
I bent down and picked up a pinch of ash from the fire pit, then dusted it over the back of my hand where it absorbed the blood.
“That should work,” Fela said.
“This flesh will burn. To ash all things return,” Wilem intoned in a somber voice, then turned to Simmon. “Isn’t that what it says in your holy book?”
“It’s not
my
holy book,” Simmon said. “But you’re close. ‘To ash all things return, so too this flesh will burn.’ ”
“You two are certainly enjoying yourselves,” Mola observed dryly.
“I am giddy thinking of a full night’s sleep,” Wilem said. “An evening’s entertainment is coffee after cake.”
Fela held out the blob of soft wax, and I pressed the wet ash into it. She kneaded it again, then began to mold it, her fingers patting it into a manshaped doll in a few deft motions. She held it out for the group to see.
“Kvothe’s head is way bigger than that,” Simmon said with his boyish grin.
“I also have genitals,” I said as I took the mommet from Fela and fixed a hair to the top of its head. “But at a certain point realism becomes unproductive.” I walked over to Sim and handed him both the simulacra and the long hatpin.
He took one in each hand, looking uneasily back and forth between them. “You sure about this?”
I nodded.
“Fair enough.” Sim drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His forehead furrowed in concentration as he stared at the doll.
I doubled over, shrieking and clutching at my leg.
Fela gasped. Wilem leaped to his feet. Simmon went wide-eyed with panic, holding the doll and pin stiff-armed away from each other. He looked around wildly at everyone. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”
I straightened up, brushing at my shirt. “Just practicing,” I said. “Was the scream too girly?”
Simmon went limp with relief. “Damn you,” he said weakly, laughing. “That’s not funny, you bastard.” He continued to laugh helplessly as he wiped away the sheen of sweat from his forehead.
Wilem muttered something in Siaru and returned to his seat.
“You three are as good as a traveling troupe,” Mola said.
Simmon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He reset his shoulders and brought the doll and the pin up in front of him. His hand shook. “Tehlu anyway,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me. I can’t do this now.”
“For the love of God.” Mola stood and walked around the fire pit to stand over Simmon. She held out her hands. “Give it to me.” She took the mommet and pin and turned to look me in the eye. “Are you ready?”
“Just a second.” After two span of constant vigilance, letting go of the Alar that protected me felt like prying open a fist gone stiff from clutching something too long.
After a moment, I shook my head. I felt strange without the Alar. Almost naked. “Don’t hold back, but hit me in the leg, just in case.”
Mola paused, murmured a binding, and drove the pin through the leg of the doll.
Silence. Everyone watched me, motionless.
I didn’t feel a thing. “I’m fine,” I said. Everyone started to breathe again as I gave Mola a curious look. “Was that really everything you had?”
“No,” Mola said frankly as she pulled the pin out of the doll’s leg and knelt to hold it over the fire. “That was a gentle test run. I didn’t want to listen to your girly scream again.” She pulled the pin back out of the fire and stood up. “I’m going to come charging in for real this time.” She poised the pin over the doll and looked at me. “You ready?”
I nodded. She closed her eyes for a moment, then murmured a binding and stabbed the hot pin through the mommet’s leg. The metal of the gram went cool against the inside of my arm, and I felt a brief pressure against my calf muscle, as if someone had prodded me with a finger. I looked down to make sure Simmon wasn’t getting some revenge by poking at me with a stick.
Because I wasn’t watching, I missed what Mola did next, but I felt three more dull prods, one in each arm and the other in the thick muscle just above my knee. The gram grew colder.
I heard Fela gasp and looked up in time to see Mola, grim-faced and resolute, toss the mommet into the heart of the campfire, murmuring another binding.
As the wax doll arced through the air, Simmon let out a startled yelp. Wilem came to his feet again, almost lunging at Mola, but too late to stop her.
The mommet landed among the red coals with an explosion of sparks. My gram went almost painfully cold against my arm and I laughed crazily. Everyone turned to look at me, their expressions in various stages of horror and disbelief.
“I’m fine,” I said. “This feels really weird though. It’s flickery. Like standing in a warm, thick wind.”
The gram grew icy against my arm, then the odd sensation faded as the doll melted, destroying the sympathetic link. The fire leaped up as the wax began to burn.
“Did it hurt?” Simmon asked anxiously.
“Not a bit,” I said.
“And that was everything I had,” Mola said. “To do any more I would have had to have a forge fire at my disposal.”
“And she’s El’the,” Simmon said smugly. “I bet she’s three times the sympathist Ambrose is.”
“At least three times,” I said, “But if anyone was going to go out of their way to find a forge fire, it would be Ambrose. You can overwhelm a gram if you throw enough at it.”
“So we’re going ahead with things tomorrow?” Mola asked.
I nodded. “I’d rather be safe than sore.”
Simmon poked a stick at the spot in the fire where the doll had landed. “If Mola can do her worst and it just rolls off you, it might be enough to keep Devi off your back too. Give you some breathing room.”
There was a brief moment of silence. I held my breath, hoping Fela and Mola wouldn’t take any particular note of his comment.
Mola raised an eyebrow at me. “Devi?”
I glared at Simmon, and he gave me a piteous look, like a dog that knows it’s going to be kicked. “I borrowed some money from a gaelet named Devi,” I said, hoping she’d be satisfied with that.
Mola continued to look at me. “And?”