Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic

The Wise Man's Fear (50 page)

Next I yanked out the top right-hand drawer. As soon as I pulled it free, smoke and flame poured out in an almost solid mass.With these two drawers gone, all the empty space inside the bureau formed a crude chimney, giving the fire all the air it wanted. As I heaved the second drawer out the window, I could actually hear the hollow rush of fire spreading through the varnished wood and the clothes inside.

Down in the street, people drawn by the commotion were doing their best to put out the flaming debris. In the middle of the small crowd, Simmon stomped about in his new hobnail boots, smashing things to flinders like a boy splashing in puddles after the first spring rain. Even if the mommet had survived the fall, it wouldn’t survive that.

This was more than mere pettiness. Devi had signaled me twenty minutes ago, letting me know she’d already tried the wax mommet. Since there had been no result, it meant Ambrose had undoubtedly used my blood to make a clay mommet of me. A simple fire wasn’t going to destroy it.

One by one, I grabbed the other drawers and threw them into the street as well, pausing to pull down the thick velvet curtains around Ambrose’s bed to shield my hands from the heat of the fire. This also might seem petty, but it wasn’t. I was terrified of burning my hands. Every talent I had revolved around them.

Petty was when I kicked the chamber pot on my way back to the bureau. It was the expensive kind, fine glazed pottery. It tipped over and rolled crazily across the floor until it struck the hearth and shattered. Suffice to say that what spilled across Ambrose’s rugs was not delicious candy.

Flame flickered openly in the spaces where the drawers had been, lighting the room while the broken window let in some clear air. Eventually someone else was brave enough to make their way into the room. He used one of the blankets off Ambrose’s bed to protect his hands and helped me throw the last several burning drawers out the window. It was hot, sooty work, and even with the help, I was coughing by the time the last of the drawers went tumbling onto the street.

It was over in less than three minutes. A few quick-thinking bar patrons brought in pitchers of water and doused the still-burning frame of the empty bureau. I tossed the smoldering velvet drapes out the window, shouting, “Look out down there!” so Simmon would know to retrieve my siege stone from the pile of tangled cloth.

Lamps were lit and the smoke thinned as cool night air blew in through the broken window. People filtered into the room to help, or gawk, or gossip. A cluster of amazed onlookers gathered around Ambrose’s staved-in door, and I idly wondered what sort of rumors might spring out of tonight’s performance.

Once the room was properly lit, I marveled at the damage the fire had done. The chest of drawers was little more than a collection of charred sticks, and the plaster wall behind it was cracked and blistered from the heat. The white ceiling was painted with a wide fan of black soot.

I caught my reflection in the dressing-room mirror and was pleased to see my eyebrows were more or less intact. I was mightily disheveled, my hair in disarray and my face smudged with sweat and dark ash. The whites of my eyes looked very bright against the black of my face.

Wilem joined me and helped bandage up my left hand. It wasn’t really burned, but I knew it would look odd if I walked away entirely unscathed. Aside from a little lost hair, my worst injury was actually the holes charred in my long sleeves. Another shirt ruined. If this kept up I’d be naked by the end of the term.

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched as people brought more water to splash on the bureau. I pointed out a charred ceiling beam, and they doused it too, sending up a sharp hiss and a cloud of steam and smoke. People continued to wander in and out, looking at the wreckage and muttering to each other while shaking their heads.

Just as Wil was finishing my bandage, the sound of galloping hooves on cobblestones came through the broken window, temporarily overwhelming the noise of fiercely stomping hobnailed boots.

Less than a minute later, I heard Ambrose in the hallway. “What in the name of God is going on here? Get out!
Out!
”

Cursing and shoving people aside, Ambrose made his entrance. When he saw me sitting on his bed he pulled up short. “What are you doing in my rooms?” he demanded.

“What?” I asked, then looked around. “These are
your
rooms?” Keeping the proper amount of dismay in my tone wasn’t easy, as my voice was rough with smoke. “I just burned myself saving
your
things?”

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, then went to the charred wreckage of his bureau. His eyes flicked back to me, then went wide with sudden realization. I fought the urge to grin.

“Get out of here you filthy, thieving Ruh,” he spat venomously. “I swear if anything’s missing, I’ll bring the constable down on you. I’ll have you on the iron law and see you hanged.”

I drew a breath to respond, then started to cough uncontrollably and had to settle for glaring at him.

“Good job, Ambrose,” Wilem said sarcastically. “You caught him. He stole your fire.”

One of the onlookers chimed in, “Yeah, make him put it back!”

“Get out!” Ambrose shouted, red-faced and furious. “And take that filthy shim with you or I’ll give you both the thrashing you deserve.” I watched the bystanders stare at Ambrose, appalled by his behavior.

I gave him a long, proud look, playing the scene for all it was worth. “You’re welcome,” I said with injured dignity, and shouldered past him, jostling him roughly out of the way.

As I was leaving, a fat, florid man in a waistcoat staggered through the ruined door to Ambrose’s rooms. I recognized him as the owner of the Golden Pony.

“What the devil’s been going on here?” he demanded.

“Candles are dangerous things,” I said. I looked over my shoulder and met Ambrose’s eye. “Honestly boy,” I said to him. “I don’t know what you were thinking. You’d think a member of the Arcanum would have more sense.”

Wil, Mola, Devi, and I were sitting around what was left of the bonfire when we heard the crackle of footsteps coming through the trees. Fela was still dressed elegantly, but her hair was unpinned. Sim was making his way carefully alongside her, absentmindedly holding branches out of her way as they moved through the undergrowth.

“And just where have you two been?” Devi asked.

“I had to walk back from Imre,” Fela explained. “Sim came to meet me halfway. Don’t worry mother, he was a perfect gentleman.”

“I hope it wasn’t too bad for you,” I said.

“Dinner was about what you would expect,” Fela admitted. “But the second part made it all worthwhile.”

“Second part?” Mola asked.

“On our way back, Sim took me to see the wreckage at the Pony. I stopped to have a word with Ambrose. I’ve never had so much fun.” Fela’s smile was wicked. “I was perfectly huffy.”

“She was,” Simmon said. “It was brilliant.”

Fela faced Sim and set her hands on her hips. “Run off on me, will you?”

Sim screwed his face up into an exaggerated scowl and gestured wildly. “Listen to me, you daft bint!” he said in a fair imitation of Ambrose’s Vintish accent. “My rooms were on fire!”

Fela turned away, throwing up her hands. “Don’t lie to me! You ran off to be with some whore. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life!
I never want to see you again!
”

We applauded. Fela and Sim linked arms and took a bow.

“In the interest of pure accuracy,” Fela said in an offhand way, “Ambrose didn’t use the words ‘daft bint.’” She didn’t let go of Sim’s arm.

Simmon looked a little embarrassed. “Yes, well. There are some things you don’t call a lady, even in fun.” He reluctantly let go of Fela and sat on the trunk of the fallen tree. Fela sat next to him.

Fela leaned close to him and whispered something. Sim laughed, shaking his head. “Please?” Fela asked, laying her hand on his arm. “Kvothe doesn’t have his lute. Someone has to entertain us.”

“Okay, Okay.” Simmon said, obviously a little flustered. He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke in a sonorous voice:

Fast came our Fela fiery eyes flashing,
Crossing the cobbles strength in her stride.
Came she to Ambrose all ashes around him
Grim was his gazing fearsome his frown.
Still Fela feared not brave was her bo—

Simmon came to an abrupt stop before saying the word “bosom” and blushed red as a beet. Devi gave an earthy chuckle from where she sat on the other side of the fire.

Ever the good friend, Wilem stepped in with a distracting question. “What is that pause you keep doing?” he asked. “It’s like you can’t catch your breath.”

“I asked that too,” Fela said, smiling.

“It’s something they use in Eld Vintic verse,” Sim explained. “It’s a break in the line called a caesura.”

“You are dangerously well informed about poetry, Sim,” I said. “I’m close to losing respect for you.”

“Hush,” Fela said. “I think it’s lovely. You’re just jealous he can do it off the cuff.”

“Poetry is a song without music,” I said loftily. “A song without music is like a body without a soul.”

Wilem raised his hand before Simmon could respond. “Before we become mired in philosophical talk, I have a confession to make,” Wilem said somberly. “I dropped a poem in the hallway outside Ambrose’s rooms. It was an acrostic that spoke of his powerful affection for Master Hemme.”

We all laughed, but Simmon seemed to find it particularly funny. It took him a long while to catch his breath. “It couldn’t be more perfect if we planned it,” he said. “I bought a few pieces of women’s clothing and scattered them in with what was out on the street. Red satin. Lacy bits. A whalebone corset.”

There was more laughter. Then they turned their eyes to me.

“And what did you do?” Devi prompted.

“Only what I set out to,” I said somberly. “Only what was necessary to destroy the mommet so I could sleep safe at night.”

“You kicked over his chamber pot,” Wilem said.

“True,” I admitted. “And I found this.” I held up a piece of paper.

“If that’s one of his poems,” Devi said, “I’d suggest you burn it quickly and wash your hands.”

I unfolded the slip of paper and read it aloud. “Ledger mark 4535: Ring. White gold. Blue smokestone. Remount setting and polish.” I folded it carefully and put it in a pocket. “To me,” I said, “This is better than a poem.”

Sim sat upright. “Is that a pawnslip for your lady’s ring?”

“It’s a claim slip for a jeweler, if I don’t miss my guess. But yes, it’s for her ring,” I said. “And she’s not my lady, by the by.”

“I’m lost,” Devi said.

“That’s how all this started,” Wilem said. “Kvothe was trying to reclaim a bit of property for a girl he fancies.”

“Someone should fill me in,” Devi said. “I seem to have come in halfway through the story.”

I leaned back against a piece of fieldstone, content to let my friends tell the story.

The slip of paper hadn’t been in Ambrose’s chest of drawers. It hadn’t been on the hearth or his bedside table. It hadn’t been on his jewelry tray or his writing desk.

It had, in fact, been in Ambrose’s purse. I’d lifted it off him in a fit of pique half a minute after he called me a filthy, thieving Ruh. It had almost been a reflex action as I’d brushed roughly past him on my way out of his rooms at the Pony.

By strange coincidence, the purse also contained money. Almost six talents. Not a great deal of coin as far as Ambrose was concerned. Enough for an extravagant night out with a lady. But for me it was a great deal of money, so much I almost felt guilty for taking it. Almost.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Baubles

T
HERE WAS NO NOTE for me from Denna when I returned to Anker’s that night. Nor was there one waiting in the morning. I wondered if the boy had ever found her with my message, or if he had simply given up, or dropped it in the river, or eaten it.

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