Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (62 page)

He chuckled. “My lung is quite valuable,” he said. “But let us think in other terms. Materials come to . . .” He glanced at the schema. “Roughly nine jots, am I correct?”

Uncannily correct. I nodded.

“How many hours did it take you to make?”

“About a hundred,” I said. “Maybe a hundred and twenty. But a lot of that was experimentation and testing. I could probably make another in fifty or sixty hours. Less if moldings are made.”

Kilvin nodded. “I suggest twenty-five talents. Does that seem reasonable to you?”

The sum took my breath away. Even after I repaid Stocks for materials and the workshop took its forty percent commission, it was six times more than I’d earn working on deck lamps. An almost ridiculous amount of money.

I began to agree enthusiastically, then a thought occurred to me. Though it pained me, I slowly shook my head. “Honestly, Master Kilvin. I’d prefer to sell them more cheaply than that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “They will pay it,” he reassured me. “I have seen people pay more for less useful things.”

I shrugged. “Twenty-five talents is a lot of money,” I said. “Safety and peace of mind shouldn’t only be available to those with heavy purses. I think eight would be a great plenty.”

Kilvin looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “As you say. Eight talents.” He ran his hand over the top of the arrowcatch, almost petting it. “However, as this is the first and only one in existence, I will pay you twenty-five for it. It will go in my personal collection.” He cocked his head at me.
“Lhinsatva?”

“Lhin
,
”
I said gratefully, feeling a great weight of anxiety lifting off my shoulders.

Kilvin smiled and nodded toward the table. “I would also like to examine the schema at my leisure. Would you like to make me a copy?”

“For twenty-five talents,” I said, smiling as I slid the paper across the table, “you can have the original.”

Kilvin wrote me a receipt and left, clutching the arrowcatch like a child with a new favorite toy.

I hurried to Stocks with my slip of paper. I had to settle my debt for materials, including the gold wire and silver ingots. But even after the workshop took its commission I was left with almost eleven talents.

I went through the remainder of the day grinning and whistling like an idiot. It is as they say: a heavy purse makes for a light heart.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Consortation

I
SAT ON THE HEARTH at Anker’s with my lute in my lap. The room was warm and quiet, full of people who had come to hear me play.

Felling was my regular night at Anker’s, and it was always busy. Even in the worst weather there weren’t enough chairs, and those who came late were forced to cluster around the bar and lean against walls. Lately, Anker had needed to bring in an extra girl on Felling night just to hurry drinks around the room.

Outside the inn, winter was still clutching at the University, but inside the air was warm and sweet with the smell of beer and bread and broth. Over the months I had slowly trained my audience to be properly attentive while I played, so the room was hushed as I fingered my way through the second verse of “Violet Bide.”

I was in fine form that night. My audience had bought me half a dozen drinks, and in a fit of generosity, a tipsy scriv had tossed a hard penny into my lute case where it lay shining among the dull iron and copper. I’d made Simmon cry twice, and Anker’s new serving girl was smiling and blushing at me with such frequency that even I couldn’t miss the signal. She had beautiful eyes.

For the first time I could remember, I actually felt like I had some control over my life. There was money in my purse. My studies were going well. I had access to the Archives, and despite the fact that I was forced to work in Stocks, everyone knew Kilvin was terribly pleased with me.

The only thing missing was Denna.

I looked down at my hands as I entered into the final chorus of “Violet Bide.” I’d had a few more drinks than I was used to, and I didn’t want to fumble. As I watched my fingers, I heard the door of the taproom open and felt a chill wind curl around the room. The fire swayed and danced beside me as I heard boots moving across the wooden floor.

The room was quiet as I sang:

She sits by her window.
She sips at her tea.
She waits for her love,
To return from the sea.
Her suitors come calling.
She watches the tides,
And all the while Violet bides.

I hit the final chord but instead of the thunderous applause I expected, there was only an echoing quiet. I looked up and saw four tall men standing in front of the hearth. The shoulders of their heavy cloaks were wet with melted snow. Their faces were grim.

Three of them wore the dark round caps that marked them as constables. And if that weren’t clue enough as to their business, each of them carried a long oak cudgel bound in iron. They watched me like hard-eyed hawks.

The fourth man stood aside from the others. He didn’t wear a constable’s cap and wasn’t nearly so tall or broad across the shoulders. Despite that, he carried himself with undeniable authority. His face was lean and grim as he drew out a piece of heavy parchment decorated with several black, official-looking seals.

“Kvothe, Arliden’s son,” he read aloud to the room, his voice clear and strong. “In the sight of these witnesses I bind you to stand to your own account before the iron law. You are charged with Consortation with Demonic Powers, Malicious Use of Unnatural Arts, Unprovoked Assault, and Malfeasance.”

Needless to say, I was caught completely flat-footed. “What?” I said stupidly. As I said, I’d had more than a few drinks.

The grim man ignored me and turned to one of the constables. “Bind him.”

One of the constables drew out a length of clattering iron chain. Up until now I’d been too startled to be properly afraid, but the sight of this grim-faced man pulling a pair of dark iron manacles out of a sack filled me with a fear that turned my bones to water.

Simmon appeared next to the hearth, pushing his way past the constables to stand in front of the fourth man.

“What exactly is going on here?” Sim demanded, his voice hard and angry. It was the only time I’d ever heard him sound like the son of a duke. “Explain yourself.”

The man holding the parchment eyed Simmon calmly, then reached inside his cloak and brought out a stout iron rod with a band of gold around each end. Sim paled a bit as the grim man held it up for everyone in the room to see. Not only was it every bit as threatening as the constable’s cudgels, the rod was an unmistakable symbol of his authority. The man was a sumner for the Commonwealth courts. Not just a regular sumner either, the gold bands meant he could order anyone to stand before the iron law: priests, government officials, even members of the nobility up to the rank of baron.

At this point Anker made his way through the crowd as well. He and Sim looked over the sumner’s document and found it to be very legitimate and official. It was signed and sealed by all manner of important people in Imre. There was nothing to be done. I was going to be brought up against the iron law.

Everyone at Anker’s watched as I was bound hand and foot in chains. Some of them looked shocked, some confused, but most of them simply looked frightened. When the constables dragged me through the crowd toward the door, barely a handful of my audience were willing to meet my eye.

They marched me the long way back to Imre. Over Stonebridge and down the flat expanse of the great stone road. All the way the winter wind chilled the iron around my hands and feet until it burned and bit and froze my skin.

The next morning Sim arrived with Elxa Dal and matters slowly became clear. It had been months since I had called the name of the wind in Imre after Ambrose broke my lute. The masters had brought me up on charges of malfeasance and had me publicly whipped at the University. It had been so long ago that the lash marks on my back were nothing more than pale silver scars. I had thought the matter resolved.

Apparently not. Since the incident had occurred in Imre, it fell under the jurisdiction of the Commonwealth courts.

We live in a civilized age, and few places are more civilized than the University and its immediate environs. But parts of the iron law are left over from darker times. It had been a hundred years since anyone had been burned for Consortation or Unnatural Arts, but the laws were still there. The ink was faded, but the words were clear.

Ambrose wasn’t directly involved, of course. He was much too clever for that. This sort of trial was bad for the University’s reputation. If Ambrose had brought this case against me it would have infuriated the masters. They worked hard to protect the good name of the University in general and of the Arcanum in particular.

So Ambrose was in no way connected with the charges. Instead, the case was brought before Imre’s courts by a handful of Imre’s influential nobles. Oh, certainly they
knew
Ambrose, but that wasn’t incriminating. Ambrose knew everyone with power, blood, or money on either side of the river, after all.

Thus was I brought up against the iron law. For the space of six days it was a source of extraordinary irritation and anxiety to me. It disrupted my studies, brought my work in the Fishery to a standstill, and drove the final nail into the coffin I used to bury my hopes of ever finding a local patron.

What started as a terrifying experience quickly became a tedious process filled with pomp and ritual. More than forty letters of testimony were read aloud, confirmed, and copied into the official records. There were days filled with nothing but long speeches. Quotations from the iron law. Points of procedure. Formal modes of address. Old men reading out of old books.

I defended myself to the best of my ability, first in the Commonwealth court, then in church courts as well. Arwyl and Elxa Dal spoke on my behalf. Or rather, they wrote letters, then read them aloud to the court.

In the end, I was cleared of any wrongdoing. I thought I was vindicated. I thought I had won. . . .

But I was still terribly naive in many ways.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Interlude—A Bit of Fiddle

K
VOTHE CAME SLOWLY TO his feet and gave a quick stretch. “Let’s pause there for now,” he said. “I expect we’ll see more than the usual number of people for lunch today. I need to check on the soup and get a few things ready.” He nodded to Chronicler. “You might want to do the same.”

Chronicler remained seated. “Wait a minute,” he said. “This was your trial in Imre?” He looked down at the page, dismayed. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Kvothe said. “Not much to it, really.”

“But that’s the first story I ever heard about you when I came to the University,” Chronicler protested. “How you learned Tema in a day. How you spoke your entire defense in verse and they applauded afterward. How you . . .”

“A lot of nonsense, I expect,” Kvothe said dismissively as he walked back to the bar. “You’ve got the bones of it.”

Other books

Danger in the Extreme by Franklin W. Dixon

The Quantity Theory of Insanity by Will Self

Her Irresistible Troublemaker (A Town Named Eden Book 3) by Parin, Sonia

Martha in Paris by Margery Sharp

War Bringer by Elaine Levine

The Suspicious Proposal by Kay, Cherry

Save Me If You Can by Jones, Christina C

Stab in the Dark by Louis Trimble

Snakehead by Ann Halam

Love Lessons by Harmon, Kari Lee