“Basil is from Vintas,” Wil said. “And he is odd about certain things. Sleeps with a penny underneath his pillow, that sort of thing.”
“On my way to the University I traveled with a pair of Adem mercenaries,” Simmon said. “They didn’t talk to anyone except each other. And they were restless and fidgety.”
Wilem spoke hesitantly. “I will admit to knowing many Cealdim who take great care to line their boots with silver.”
“Purses,” Simmon corrected him. “Boots are for putting your feet in.” He wiggled a foot to illustrate.
“I know what a boot is,” Wilem said crossly. “I speak this vulgar language better than you do. Boot is what we say, Patu. Money in your purse is for spending. Money you plan to keep is in your boot.”
“Oh,” Simmon said thoughtfully. “I see. Like saving it for a rainy day, I guess.”
“What do you do with money when it rains?” Wilem asked, genuinely puzzled.
“And there’s more to the story than you think,” I interjected quickly before things digressed any further. “The story holds a kernel of truth. If you promise to keep it to yourselves, I will tell you a secret.”
I felt their attention sharpen onto me. “If you ever accept the hospitality of a traveling troupe, and they offer you wine before anything else, they are Edema Ruh. That part of the story is true.” I held up a finger to caution them. “But don’t take the wine.”
“But I like wine,” Simmon said piteously.
“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “Your host offers you wine, but you insist on water. It might even turn into a competition of sorts, the host offering more and more grandly, the guest refusing more and more politely. When you do this, they will know you are a friend of the Edema, that you know our ways. They will treat you like family for the night, as opposed to being a mere guest.”
The conversation lulled as they absorbed this piece of information. I looked up at the stars, tracing the familiar constellations in my head. Ewan the hunter, the crucible, the young-again mother, the fire-tongued fox, the broken tower. . . .
“Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” Simmon’s question came out of the blue.
“Across the river,” I said. “Bed.”
“No no,” he protested, “I mean if you could go anywhere in the world.”
“Same answer,” I said. “I’ve been a lot of places. This is where I’ve always wanted to go.”
“But not forever,” Wilem said. “You don’t want to be here forever, do you?”
“That’s what I meant,” Simmon added. “We all want to be here. But none of us want to be here forever.”
“Except Manet,” Wil said.
“Where would you go?” Simmon pursued his point doggedly. “For adventure?”
I thought for a moment, quietly. “I guess I’d to go to the Tahlenwald,” I said.
“Among the Tahl?” Wilem asked. “They’re a primitive nomadic people, from what I’ve heard.”
“Technically speaking, the Edema Ruh are a nomadic people,” I said dryly. “I heard a story once that said the leaders of their tribes aren’t great warriors, they’re singers. Their songs can heal the sick and make the trees dance.” I shrugged. “I’d go there and find out if it was true.”
“I would go to the Faen Court,” Wilem said.
Simmon laughed. “You can’t pick that.”
“Why not?” Wilem said with a quick anger. “If Kvothe can go to a singing tree, I can go into Faen and dance with Embrula . . . with Faen women.”
“The Tahl is real,” Simmon protested. “Faerie stories are for drunks, halfwits, and children.”
“Where would you go?” I asked Simmon to keep him from antagonizing Wilem.
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice oddly empty of any inflection. “I haven’t been anywhere, really. I only came to the University because after my brothers inherit and my sister gets her dowry there isn’t going to be much for me except the family name.”
“You didn’t want to come here?” I asked, disbelief coloring my voice.
Sim made a noncommittal shrug, and I was about to ask him something else when I was interrupted by the sound of Wilem getting noisily to his feet. “Are we feeling up to the bridge now?”
My head felt remarkably clear. I got to my feet with only a slight wobble. “Fine by me.”
“Just a second.” Simmon started to undo his pants as he moved toward the trees.
As soon as he was out of sight, Wilem leaned close to me. “Don’t ask about his family,” he said quietly. “It is not easy for him to speak about. Worse when he is drunk.”
“What—”
He made a sharp motion with his hand, shaking his head. “Later.”
Simmon bumbled back into the clearing, and the three of us made our silent way back to the road, then over Stonebridge and into the University.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Contradictions
LATE NEXT MORNING, WIL and I made our way to the Archives to meet up with Sim and settle our bets of the night before.
“The problem is his father,” Wilem explained in low tones as we made our way between the grey buildings. “Sim’s father holds a duchy in Atur. Good land, but—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Our little Sim’s father is a duke?”
“Little Sim,” Wilem said dryly, “is three years older than you and two inches taller.”
“Which duchy?” I asked. “And he’s not that much taller.”
“Dalonir,” Wilem said. “But you know how it is. Noble blood from Atur. Small wonder he does not speak of it.”
“Oh come on,” I chided, gesturing to the students filling the street around us. “The University has the most open-minded atmosphere since the church burned Caluptena to the ground.”
“I notice you do not make any loud announcement that you’re Edema Ruh.”
I bristled. “Are you implying I’m embarrassed?”
“I am saying you make no loud announcement,” Wil said calmly, giving me a steady look. “Neither does Simmon. I imagine you both have your reasons.”
Pushing down my irritation, I nodded.
Wilem continued. “Dalonir is in the north of Aturna, so they are reasonably well off. But he has three older brothers and two sisters. The first son inherits. The father bought the second a military commission. The third was placed in the church. Simmon . . .” Wilem trailed off suggestively.
“I have a hard time imagining Sim as a priest,” I admitted. “Or a soldier, come to think of it.”
“And so Sim ends up at the University,” Wilem finished. “His father was hoping he would become a diplomat. Then Sim discovered he liked alchemy and poetry and entered the Arcanum. His father was not entirely pleased.” Wilem gave me a significant look and I gathered he was drastically understating the case.
“Being an arcanist is a remarkable thing!” I protested. “Much more impressive than being a perfumed toady in some court.”
Wilem shrugged. “His tuition is paid. His allowance continues.” He paused to wave at someone on the other side of the courtyard. “But Simmon does not go home. Not for even a brief visit. Sim’s father likes to hunt, fight, drink, and wench. I suspect our gentle, bookish Sim was probably not given the love a clever son deserves.”
Wil and I met up with Sim in our usual reading hole and clarified the details of our drunken wagers. Then we went our separate ways.
An hour later I returned with a modest armload of books. My search had been made considerably easier by the fact that I’d been researching the Amyr since Nina had arrived and given me her scroll.
I knocked softly on the door of the reading hole, then let myself in. Wil and Sim were already sitting at the table.
“Me first,” Simmon said happily. He consulted a list, then pulled a book from his stack. “Page one hundred and fifty two.” He leafed through until he found the page and then began to scan it. “Ah-ha! ‘The girl then gave an account of
everything. . . . Blah blah blah . . . And led them to the place where she stumbled onto the pagan frolic.’” He looked up, pointing at the page. “See? It says pagan right there.”
I sat down. “Let’s see the rest.”
Sim’s second book was more of the same. But the third held something of a surprise.
“ ‘A large preponderance of marker stones in the vicinity, suggesting this area might have been crossed with trade routes in some forgotten past. . . .’” He trailed off, then shrugged and handed the book to me. “This one seems to be on your side.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Didn’t you read these before you brought them here?”
“In an hour?” He gave a laugh of his own. “Not likely, I just used a scriv.”
Wilem gave him a dark look. “No you didn’t. You asked Puppet, didn’t you?”
Simmon assumed an innocent expression, which on his naturally innocent face only served to make him look profoundly guilty. “I might have stopped in to see him,” he hedged. “And he might have happened to suggest a couple books that had information about greystones.” Seeing Wilem’s expression he raised a hand. “Don’t get sniffy on me. It’s backfired anyway.”
“Puppet again,” I grumbled. “Are you ever going to introduce me? The two of you are so tight-lipped about him.”
Wilem shrugged. “You will understand when you meet him.”
Sim’s books divided into three categories. One supported his side, telling of pagan rites and animal sacrifices. The other speculated about an ancient civilization that used them as marker stones for roads, despite the fact that some were located on sheer mountainsides or river bottoms where no road could be.
His final book was interesting for other reasons:
“. . . a pair of matched stone monoliths with a third across the top,” Simmon read. “The locals refer to it as the door-post. While spring and summer pageants involve decorating and dancing around the stone, parents forbid their children from spending time near it when the moon is full. One well-respected and otherwise reasonable old man claimed . . .”
Sim broke off reading. “Whatever,” he said disgustedly and moved to close the book.
“Claimed what?” Wilem asked, his curiosity piqued.
Simmon rolled his eyes and continued reading, “Claimed at certain times men could pass through the stone door into the fair land where Felurian herself abides, loving and destroying men with her embrace.”
“Interesting,” Wilem murmured.
“No it isn’t. It’s childish, superstitious bunk,” Simmon said testily. “And none of this is getting us any closer to deciding who is right.”
“How do you count them, Wilem?” I asked. “You’re our impartial judge.”
Wilem moved to the table and looked through the books. His dark eyebrows moved up and down as he considered. “Seven for Simmon. Six for Kvothe. Three contrary.”
We looked briefly at the four books I had brought. Wilem ruled one of them out, which brought the tally to seven for Simmon and ten for me. “Hardly conclusive,” Wilem mused.
“We could declare it a draw,” I suggested magnanimously.
Simmon scowled. Good-natured or not, he hated losing a bet. “Fair enough,” he said.
I turned to Wilem and gave a significant look at the pair of books still untouched on the table “It looks like our bet will be settled a little more quickly, nia?”
Wilem gave a predatory grin. “Very quickly.” He lifted a book. “Here I have a copy of the proclamation which disbanded the Amyr.” He opened to a marked page and began to read. “‘Their actions will henceforth be held in account by the laws of the empire. No member of the Order shall presume to take upon themselves the right to hear a case, nor to pass judgment in court.’ ”
He looked up smugly. “See? If they had their adjudicating powers revoked, then they must have had some to begin with. So it stands to reason they were a part of the Aturan bureaucracy.”
“Actually,” I said apologetically, “The church has always had judiciary powers in Atur.” I held up one of my two books. “It’s funny you should bring the Alpura Prolycia Amyr. I brought it too. The decree itself was issued by the church.”
Wilem’s expression darkened. “No it wasn’t. It was listed in here as Emperor Nalto’s sixty-third decree.”
Puzzled, we compared our two books and found them directly contradictory.
“Well I guess those cancel each other out,” Sim said. “What else have you guys got?”
“This is Feltemi Reis. The Lights of History,” Wilem grumbled. “It is definitive. I didn’t think I would need any further proof.”
“Doesn’t this bother either of you?” I thumped the two contradictory books with a knuckle. “These shouldn’t be saying different things.”
“We just read twenty books saying different things,” Simmon pointed out. “Why would I have a problem with two more?”
“The purpose of the greystones is speculative. There’s bound to be a variety of opinions. But the Alpura Prolycia Amyr was an open decree. It turned thousands of the most powerful men and women in the Aturan Empire into outlaws. It was one of the primary reasons for the collapse of the empire. There’s no reason for conflicting information.”
“The order has been disbanded for over three hundred years,” Simmon said. “Plenty of time for some contradictions to arise.”
I shook my head, flipping through both of the books. “Contrary opinions are one thing. Contrary facts are another.” I held up my book. “This is The Fall of Empire by Greggor the Lesser. He’s a windbag and a bigot, but he’s the best historian of his age.” I held up Wilem’s book. “Feltemi Reis isn’t nearly the historian, but he’s twice the scholar Greggor was, and scrupulous about his facts.” I looked back and forth between the books, frowning. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“So what now?” Sim said. “Another draw? That’s disappointing.”
“We need someone to judge,” Wilem said. “A higher authority.”
“Higher than Feltemi Reis?” I asked. “I doubt Lorren can be bothered to settle our bet.”
Wil shook his head, then stood and brushed the wrinkles from the front of his shirt. “It means you finally get to meet Puppet.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Puppet
“THE MOST IMPORTANT THING is to be polite,” Simmon said in a hushed tone as we made our way through a narrow hallway lined with books. Our sympathy lamps shot bands of light through the shelves and made the shadows dance nervously. “But don’t patronize him. He’s a bit—odd, but he’s not an idiot. Just treat him like you would treat anyone else.”
“Except polite,” I said sarcastically, tiring of this litany of advice.
“Exactly,” Simmon said seriously.
“Where are we going, anyway?” I asked, mostly to stop Simmon’s henpecking.
“Sub-three,” Wilem said as he turned to descend a long flight of stone steps. Centuries of use had worn down the stone, making the stairs look as bowed as heavy-laden shelves. As we started down, the shadows made the steps look smooth and dark and edgeless, like an abandoned riverbed worn from the rock.
“Are you sure he’s going to be there?”
Wil nodded. “I don’t think he leaves his chambers very much.”
“Chambers?” I asked. “He lives here?”
Neither of them said anything as Wilem led the way down another flight of stairs, then through a long stretch of wide hallway with a low ceiling. Finally we came to an unremarkable door tucked into a corner. If I hadn’t known better I would have assumed it was one of the countless reading holes scattered throughout the Stacks.
“Just don’t do anything to upset him,” Simmon said nervously.
I assumed my most polite expression as Wilem rapped on the door. The handle began to turn almost immediately. The door opened a crack, then was thrown wide. Puppet stood framed in the doorway, taller than any of us. The sleeves of his black robe billowed strikingly in the breez
e of the opening door.
He stared at us haughtily for a moment, then looked puzzled and brought a hand to touch the side of his head. “Wait, I’ve forgotten my hood,” he said, and kicked the door closed.
Odd as his brief appearance had been, I’d noticed something more disturbing. “Burned body of God,” I whispered. “He’s got candles in there. Does Lorren know?”
Simmon opened his mouth to answer when the door was thrown wide again. Puppet filled the doorway, his dark robe striking against the warm candlelight behind him. He was hooded now, with his arms upraised. The long sleeves of his robes caught the inrush of air and billowed impressively. The same rush of air caught his hood and blew it partway off his head.
“Damn,” he said in a distracted voice. The hood settled half on, half off his head, partially covering one eye. He kicked the door shut again.
Wilem and Simmon remained straight-faced. I refrained from any comment.
There was a moment of quiet. Finally a muffled voice came from the other side of the door. “Would you mind knocking again? It doesn’t seem quite right otherwise.”
Obediently, Wilem stepped back up to the door and knocked. Once, twice, then the door swung open and we were confronted with a looming figure in a dark robe. His cowled hood shadowed his face, and the long sleeves of his robe stirred in the wind.
“Who calls on Taborlin the Great?” Puppet intoned, his voice resonant, but slightly muted by the deep hood. A hand pointed dramatically. “You! Simmon!” There was a pause, and his voice lost its dramatic resonance. “I’ve seen you already today, haven’t I?”
Simmon nodded. I could sense the laughter tumbling around in him, trying to find a way out.
“How long ago?”
“About an hour.”
“Hmm.” The hood nodded. “Was I better this time?” He reached up to push the hood back and I noticed the robe was too big for him, the sleeves hanging down to his fingertips. When his face emerged from the hood he was grinning like a child playing dress-up in his parents’ clothes.
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