The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  I tried to get a look at my the injury, and quickly realized that you couldn’t get a look at the back of your own elbow, no matter how much you wanted to. Eventually I held it up for Simmon’s inspection.

  “It’s not much,” he said, holding his fingers a little more than two inches apart. “There’s only one cut and it’s hardly bleeding. The rest of it’s just scraped up. It looks like you scuffed it hard against something.”

  “Clay tile from the roof fell on me,” I said.

  “Lucky,” Wilem grunted. “Who else could fall off a roof and end up with nothing more than a few scrapes?”

  “I’ve got bruises on my knees the size of apples,” I said. “I’ll be lucky if I can walk tomorrow.” But deep down I knew he was right. The clay tile that had landed on my elbow could easily have broken my arm. The broken edges of the clay tiles were sometimes sharp as knives, so if it had hit me differently, it could have cut me down to the bone. I hate clay roofing tiles.

  “Well, it could have been worse,” Simmon said briskly as he came to his feet. “Let’s go to the Medica and get you patched up.”

  “Kraem no,” Wilem said. “He can’t go to the Medica. They will be asking to see if anyone is hurt.”

  Simmon sat down again. “Of course,” he said, sounding vaguely disgusted with himself. “I knew that.” He looked me over. “At least you’re not hurt anywhere that people can see.”

  I looked at Wilem. “You have a problem with blood, don’t you?”

  His expression grew slightly offended. “I wouldn’t say . . .” His eyes darted to my elbow and his face grew a little pale despite his dark Cealdish complexion. His mouth made a thin line. “Yes.”

  “Fair enough.” I started to cut my ruined shirt into strips of cloth. “Congratulations Sim. You’ve been promoted to field medic.” I opened a drawer and brought out hook needle and gut, iodine, and a small pot of goose grease.

  Sim looked at the needle, then back at me, eyes wide.

  I gave him my best smile. “It’s easy. I’ll talk you through it.”

  I sat on the floor with my arm over my head while Simmon washed, stitched, and bandaged my elbow. He surprised me by being nowhere near as squeamish as I’d expected. His hands were more careful and confident than those of many students in the Medica who did this sort of thing all the time.

  “So the three of us were here, playing breath all night?” Wil asked, pointedly avoiding looking in my direction.

  “Sounds good,” Sim said. “Can we say I won?”

  “No,” I said. “People must have seen Wil at the Pony. Lie and they’ll catch me for sure.”

  “Oh,” Sim said. “What do we say then?”

  “The truth.” I pointed at Wil. “You were at the Pony during the excitement, then came here to tell me about it.” I nodded to the small table, where a mass of gears, springs, and screws were spread in disarray. “I showed you the harmony clock I found, and you both gave me advice on how to fix it.”

  Sim seemed disappointed. “Not very exciting.”

  “Simple lies are best,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thanks again, both of you. This could have gone terribly wrong without the two of you looking out for me.”

  Simmon got to his feet and opened the door. Wil stood as well, but didn’t turn to leave. “I heard a strange rumor the other night,” he said.

  “Anything interesting?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Very. I remember hearing that you were done antagonizing a certain powerful member of the nobility. I was surprised that you had finally decided to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Come on, Wil,” Simmon said. “Ambrose isn’t sleeping. He’s a dog with the froth that deserves to be put down.”

  “He more resembles an angry bear,” Wilem said. “One you seem determined to prod with a burning stick.”

  “How can you say that?” Sim said hotly. “In two years as a scriv has he ever called you anything other than a filthy shim? And what about that time he almost blinded me by mixing my salts? Kvothe will be working the plum bob out of his system for—”

  Wil held up his hand and nodded to acknowledge Simmon’s point. “I know this to be true, which is why I let myself be drawn into such foolishness. I merely wish to make a point.” He looked at me. “You realize you have gone well over the hill concerning this Denna girl, don’t you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Piecework

  THE PAIN IN MY knees kept me from any sort of decent sleep that night. So when the sky outside my window started to show the first pale light of coming dawn I gave up, got dressed, and made my slow, painful way to the outskirts of town, looking for willow bark to chew. Along the way I discovered several new, exciting bruises I hadn’t been aware of the night before.

  The walk was pure agony, but I was glad I was making it in the early morning dark, when the streets were empty. There was bound to be a lot of talk about last night’s excitement at the Golden Pony. If anyone saw me limping, it would be too easy for them to jump to the right conclusions.

  Luckily, the trip loosened the stiffness in my legs and the willow bark took the edge off the pain. By the time the sun was fully up I felt well enough to appear in public. So I headed to the Fishery hoping to get in a few hours of piecework before Adept Sympathy. I needed to start earning money for next term’s tuition and Devi’s loan, not to mention bandages and a new shirt.

  Jaxim wasn’t in the Stocks when I arrived, but I recognized the student there. We had entered the University at the same time and bunked close to each other for a little while in the Mews. I liked him. He wasn’t one of the nobility who drifted blithely through the school, carried by his family’s name and money. His parents were wool merchants, and he worked to pay his tuition.

  “Basil,” I said. “I thought you made E’lir last term. What are you doing in the Stocks?”

  He flushed a little, looking embarrassed. “Kilvin caught me adding water to acid.”

  I shook my head, giving a stern scowl. “This is contrary to proper procedure, E’lir Basil,” I said dropping my voice an octave. “An artificer must move with perfect care in all things.”

  Basil grinned. “You’ve got his accent.” He opened the ledger book. “What can I get you?”

  “I’m not feeling up for anything more complicated than piecework right now,” I said. “How about—”

  “Hold on,” Basil interrupted, frowning down at the ledger book.

  “What?”

  He spun the ledger around to face me and pointed. “There’s a note next to your name.”

  I looked. Penciled in Kilvin’s strangely childlike scrawl was: “No materials or tools to Re’lar Kvothe. Send him to me. Klvn.”

  Basil gave me a sympathetic look. “It’s acid to water,” he joked gently. “Did you forget, too?”

  “I wish I had,” I said. “Then I’d know what was going on.”

  Basil looked around nervously, then leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Listen, I saw that girl again.”

  I blinked at him stupidly. “What?”

  “The girl that came in here looking for you,” he prompted. “The young one that was looking for the redheaded wizard who sold her a charm?”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed at my face. “She came back? This is the last thing I need right now.”

  Basil shook his head. “She didn’t come in,” he said. “At least not that I know of. But I’ve seen her a couple times outside. She hangs around the courtyard.” He jerked his head toward the southern exit of the Fishery.

  “Did you tell anyone?” I asked.

  Basil looked profoundly offended. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said. “But she might have talked to someone else. You should really get rid of her. Kilvin will spit nails if he thinks you’ve been selling charms.”

  “I haven’t been,” I said. “I’ve got no idea who she is. What does she look like?”

  “Young,” Basil said with a shrug. “Not Cealdish. I think she had light hair. She we
ars a blue cloak with the hood up. I tried to walk over and talk to her, but she just ran away.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Wonderful.”

  Basil shrugged sympathetically. “Just thought I’d warn you. If she actually comes in here and asks for you, I’ll have to tell Kilvin.” He grimaced apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thanks for the warning.”

  When I walked into the workshop, I was immediately struck by a strange quality of the light in the room. The first thing I did was look up, checking to see if Kilvin had added a new lamp to the array of glass spheres hanging up among the rafters. I hoped the change in light was due to a new lamp. Kilvin’s mood was always foul when one of his lamps went unexpectedly dark.

  Scanning the rafters, I didn’t see any dark lamps. It took me a long moment to realize the strange quality of the light was due to actual sunlight slanting in through the low windows on the eastern wall. Normally I didn’t come to work until later in the day.

  The workshop was almost eerily quiet this early in the morning. The huge room seemed hollow and lifeless with only a handful of students working on projects. That combined with the odd light and the unexpected summons from Kilvin, made me rather uneasy as I crossed the room heading toward Kilvin’s office.

  Despite the early hour, a small forge in the corner of Kilvin’s office was already well-stoked. Heat billowed past me as I stood in the open doorway. It felt good after the early winter chill outside. Kilvin stood with his back to me, working the bellows with a relentless rhythm.

  I knocked loudly on the frame of the door to get his attention. “Master Kilvin? I just tried to check some materials out of Stocks. Is anything the matter?”

  Kilvin glanced over in my direction. “Re’lar Kvothe. I will be a moment. Come in.”

  I stepped into his office and swung the heavy door closed behind me. If I was in trouble, I’d rather not have anyone listening in.

  Kilvin continued to work the bellows for a long moment. It was only when he drew out a long tube that I realized it wasn’t a forge he was firing, it was a small glasswork. Moving deftly, he drew out a blob of molten glass on the end of his tube, then proceeded to blow an increasingly large bubble of glass.

  After a minute the glass lost its orange glow. “Bellows,” Kilvin said without looking at me, putting the tube back into the mouth of the glasswork.

  I scrambled to obey, working the bellows in a steady rhythm until the glass was glowing orange again. Kilvin motioned me to stop, pulled it out, and puffed at the tube for another long moment, spinning the glass until the bubble was large as a sweetmelon.

  He set it back in the glasswork again, and I pumped the bellows without being asked. By the third time we repeated this, I was wringing with sweat. I wished I hadn’t closed Kilvin’s door, but I didn’t want to leave the bellows for the time it would take for me to open it again.

  Kilvin didn’t seem to notice the heat. The glass bubble grew large as my head, then big as a pumpkin. But the fifth time he drew it from the heat and began to blow, it sagged on the end of the tube, deflating and falling to the floor.

  “Kist, crayle, en kote,” he swore furiously. He threw down the metal tube where it rang sharply against the stone floor. “Kraemet brevetan Aerin!”

  I fought down the sudden urge to laugh. My Siaru wasn’t perfect, but I was fairly certain Kilvin had said, Shit in God’s beard.

  The bearlike master stood for a long moment, looking down at the ruined glass on the floor. Then he let out a long, irritated breath through his nose, pulled off his goggles, and turned to look at me.

  “Three sets of synchronized bells, brass,” he said without preamble. “One tap and catch, iron. Four heat funnels, iron. Six siphons, tin.Twenty-two panes of twice-tough glass and other assorted piecework.”

  It was a list of all the work I had done this term in the Fishery. Simple things I could finish and sell back to Stocks for a quick profit.

  Kilvin looked at me with his dark eyes. “Does this work please you, Re’lar Kvothe?”

  “The projects are easy enough, Master Kilvin,” I said.

  “You are now a Re’lar,” he said, his voice heavy with reproach. “Are you content to coast idly, making toys for the lazy rich?” he asked. “Is that what you desire from your time in the Fishery? Easy work?”

  I could feel the sweat beading up in my hair and running down my back. “I am somewhat leery of venturing off on my own,” I said. “You didn’t particularly approve of the modifications I made to my hand lamp.”

  “Those are coward’s words,” Kilvin said. “Will you never leave the house because you were scolded once?” He looked at me. “I ask you again. Bells. Castings. Does this work please you, Re’lar Kvothe?”

  “The thought of paying next term’s tuition pleases me, Master Kilvin.” Sweat was running down my face. I tried to wipe it away with my sleeve, but my shirt was already soaked through. I glanced at Kilvin’s office door.

  “And the work itself?” Kilvin prompted. There was sweat beading on the dark skin of his forehead, but he didn’t seem otherwise bothered by the heat.

  “Truthfully, Master Kilvin?” I asked, feeling a little light-headed.

  He looked a bit offended. “I value truth in all things, Re’lar Kvothe.”

  “The truth is I’ve made eight deck lamps this last year, Master Kilvin. If I have to make another, I expect I might shit myself from pure boredom.”

  Kilvin huffed something that could have been a laugh, then smiled widely at me. “Good. That is how a Re’lar should feel.” He pointed one thick finger at me. “You are clever, and you have good hands. I expect great things from you. Not drudgery. Make something clever and it will earn you more than a lamp. Certainly more than piecework. Leave that to the E’lir.” He gestured dismissively at the window that looked out over the workshop.

  “I’ll do my best, Master Kilvin,” I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears, distant and tinny. “Do you mind if I open the door and get some fresh air in here?”

  Kilvin grunted an agreement, and I took a step toward the door. But my legs felt loose and my head spun. I staggered and almost fell headlong onto the floor, but I managed to catch the edge of the worktable and merely went to my knees instead.

  When my bruised knees hit the stone floor it was excruciating. But I didn’t shout or cry out. In fact, the pain seemed to be coming from a long way off.

  I awoke confused, with a mouth as dry as sawdust. My eyes were gummy and my thoughts so sluggish it took me a long moment to recognize the distinctive antiseptic tang in the air. That, combined with the fact that I was lying naked under a sheet, let me know I was in the Medica.

  I turned my head and saw short blond hair and the dark physicker’s uniform. I relaxed back onto the pillow. “Hello Mola,” I croaked.

  She turned and gave me a serious look. “Kvothe,” she said formally. “How do you feel?”

  Still bleary, I had to think about it. “Thick,” I said. Then, “Thirsty.”

  Mola brought me a glass and helped me drink. It was sweet and gritty. It took me a long moment to finish it, but by the time I was done, I felt halfway human again.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You fainted in the Artificery,” she said. “Kilvin carried you over here himself. It was rather touching, actually. I had to shoo him away.”

  I felt my entire body flush with shame at the thought of being carried through the streets of the University by the huge master. I must have looked like a rag doll in his arms. “I fainted?”

  “Kilvin explained you were in a hot room,” Mola said. “And you’d sweat through your clothes. You were dripping wet.” She gestured to where my shirt and pants lay wadded on the table.

  “Heat exhaustion?” I said.

  Mola held up a hand to quiet me. “That was my first diagnosis,” she said. “On further examination, I’ve decided you’re actually suffering from a
n acute case of jumping out of a window last night.” She gave me a pointed look.

  I suddenly became self-conscious. Not of my near-nakedness, but of the obvious injuries I’d received when I’d fallen off the roof of the Golden Pony. I glanced at the door and was relieved to see it was closed. Mola stood watching me, her expression carefully blank.

  “Has anyone else seen?” I asked.

  Mola shook her head. “We’ve been busy today.”

  I relaxed a bit. “That’s something then.”

  Her expression was grim. “This morning, Arwyl gave orders to report any suspicious injuries. It’s no secret why. Ambrose himself has offered a sizable reward to whoever helps him catch a thief who broke into his rooms and stole several valuables, including a ring his mother gave him on her deathbed.”

  “That bastard,” I said hotly. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  Mola raised an eyebrow. “As easy as that? No denial? No . . . anything?”

  I exhaled through my nose, trying to get my temper under control. “I’m not going to insult your intelligence. It’s pretty obvious I didn’t fall down some stairs.” I took a deep breath. “Look, Mola. If you tell anyone, they’ll expel me. I didn’t steal anything. I could have, but I didn’t.”

  “Then why . . .” She hesitated, obviously uncomfortable. “What were you doing?”

  I sighed. “Would you believe I was doing a favor for a friend?”

  Mola gave me a shrewd look, her green eyes searching mine. “Well, you do seem to be in the favor business lately.”

  “I . . . what?” I asked, my thoughts moving too sluggishly to follow what she was saying.

  “The last time you were here, I treated you for burns and smoke inhalation after pulling Fela out of a fire.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s not really a favor. Anyone would have done that.”

  Mola gave me a searching look. “You really believe that, don’t you?” She shook her head a little, then picked up a hardback and made a few notes on it, no doubt filling out her treatment report. “Well, I consider it a favor. Fela and I bunked together back when we were both new here. Despite what you think, it’s not something a lot of people would have done.”