Dinner in the Mess was brown bread with butter, stew, and beans. Manet was there, his wild hair making him look like a great white wolf. Simmon and Sovoy groused idly about the food, making grim speculations as to what manner of meat was in the stew. To me, less than a span away from the streets of Tarbean, it was a marvelous meal indeed.
Nevertheless, I was rapidly losing my appetite in the face of what I was hearing from my friends.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sovoy said. “You’ve got a great weighty pair on you. I’ll never call that into question. But still …” he gestured with his spoon. “They’re going to string you up for this.”
“If he’s lucky,” Simmon said. “I mean, we are talking about malfeasance here, aren’t we?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said with more assurance than I felt. “I gave him a little bit of a hotfoot, that’s all.”
“Any harmful sympathy falls under malfeasance.” Manet pointed at me with his piece of bread, his wild, grizzled eyebrows arching seriously over his nose. “You’ve got to pick your battles, boy. Keep your head down around the masters. They can make your life a real hell once you get into their bad books.”
“He started it,” I said sullenly though a mouthful of beans.
A young boy jogged up to the table, breathless. “You’re Kvothe?” He asked, looking me over.
I nodded, my stomach suddenly turning over.
“They want you in the Masters’ Hall.”
“Where is it?” I asked. “I’ve only been here a couple of days.”
“Can one of you show him?” the boy asked, looking around at the table. “I’ve got to go tell Jamison I found him.”
“I’ll do it,” Simmon said pushing away his bowl. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
Jamison’s runner boy took off, and Simmon started to get to his feet.
“Hold on,” I said, pointing to my tray with my spoon. “I’m not finished here.”
Simmon’s expression was anxious. “I can’t believe you’re eating,” he said. “I can’t eat. How can you eat?”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s waiting in the Masters’ Hall, but I’m guessing I’d rather have a full stomach for it.”
“You’re going on the horns,” Manet said. “It’s the only reason they’d call you there at this time of night.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I didn’t want to advertise my ignorance to everyone in the room. “They can wait until I’m done.” I took another bite of stew.
Simmon returned to his seat and poked idly at his food. Truth be told, I wasn’t really hungry anymore, but it galled me to be pulled away from a meal after all the times I’d been hungry in Tarbean.
When Simmon and I finally got to our feet, the normal clamor in the Mess quieted as folk watched us leave. They knew where I was headed.
Outside, Simmon put his hands in his pockets and headed roughly in the direction of Hollows. “All kidding aside, you’re in a good bit of trouble, you know.”
“I was hoping Hemme would be embarrassed and keep quiet about it,” I admitted. “Do they expel many students?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.
“There hasn’t been anyone this term,” Sim said with his shy, blue-eyed smile. “But it’s only the second day of classes. You might set some sort of record.”
“This isn’t funny,” I said, but found myself wearing a grin regardless. Simmon could always make me smile, no matter what was going on.
Sim led the way, and we reached Hollows far too soon for my liking. Simmon raised a hand in a hesitant farewell as I opened the door and made my way inside.
I was met by Jamison. He oversaw everything that wasn’t under direct control of the masters: the kitchens, the laundry, the stables, the stockrooms. He was nervous and birdlike. A man with the body of a sparrow and the eyes of a hawk.
Jamison escorted me into a large windowless room with a familiar crescent-shaped table. The Chancellor sat at the center, as he had during admissions. The only real difference was that this table was not elevated, and the seated masters were close to eye level with me.
The eyes I met were not friendly. Jamison escorted me to the front of the crescent table. Seeing it from this angle made me understand the references to being “on the horns.” Jamison retreated to a smaller table of his own, dipping a pen.
The Chancellor steepled his fingers and spoke without preamble. “On the fourth of Caitelyn, Hemme called the masters together.” Jamison’s pen scratched across a piece of paper, occasionally dipping back into the inkwell at the top of the desk. The Chancellor continued formally, “Are all the masters present?”
“Master Physicker,” said Arwyl.
“Master Archivist,” said Lorren, his face impassive as ever.
“Master Arithmetician,” Brandeur said, cracking his knuckles absently.
“Master Artificer,” grumbled Kilvin without looking up from the tabletop.
“Master Alchemist,” said Mandrag.
“Master Rhetorician,” Hemme’s face was fierce and red.
“Master Sympathist,” said Elxa Dal.
“Master Namer.” Elodin actually smiled at me. Not just a perfunctory curling of the lips, but a warm, toothy grin. I drew a bit of a shaky breath, relieved that at least one person present didn’t seem eager to hang me up by my thumbs.
“And Master Linguist,” said the Chancellor. “All eight …” He frowned. “Sorry. Strike that. Аll nine masters are present. Present your grievance, Master Hemme.”
Hemme did not hesitate. “Today, first-term student Kvothe, not of the Arcanum, did perform sympathetic bindings on me with malicious intent.”
“Two grievances are recorded against Kvothe by Master Hemme,” the Chancellor said sternly, not taking his eyes away from me. “First grievance, unauthorized use of sympathy. What is the proper discipline for this, Master Archivist?”
“For unauthorized use of sympathy leading to injury, the offending student will be bound and whipped a number of times, not less than two nor more than ten, singly, across the back.” Lorren said it as if reading off directions for a recipe.
“Number of lashes sought?” The Chancellor looked at Hemme.
Hemme paused to consider. “Five.”
I felt the blood drain from my face and I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath through my nose to calm myself.
“Does any master object to this?” The Chancellor looked around the table, but all mouths were silent, all eyes were stern. “The second grievance: malfeasance. Master Archivist?”
“Four to fifteen single lashes and expulsion from the University,” Lorren said in a level voice.
“Lashes sought?
Hemme stared directly at me. “Eight.”
Thirteen lashes and expulsion. A cold sweat swept over me and I felt nausea in the pit of my stomach. I had known fear before. In Tarbean it was never far away. Fear kept you alive. But I had never before felt such a desperate helplessness. A fear not just for my body being hurt, but for my entire life being ruined. I began to get lightheaded.
“Do you understand these grievances set against you?” The Chancellor asked sternly.
I took a deep breath. “Not exactly, sir.” I hated the way my voiced sounded, tremulous and weak.
The Chancellor held up a hand and Jamison lifted his pen from the paper. “It is against the laws of the University for a student who is not a member of the Arcanum to use sympathy without permission from a master.”
His expression darkened. “And it is always, always, expressly forbidden to cause harm with sympathy, especially to a master. A few hundred years ago arcanists were hunted down and burned for things of that sort. We do not tolerate that sort of behavior here.”
I heard a hard edge creep into the Chancellor’s voice, only then did I sense how truly angry he was. He took a deep breath. “Now, do you understand?”
I nodded shakily.
He made another motion to Jamison, who set his pen back
to the paper. “Do you, Kvothe, understand these grievances set against you?”
“Yes, sir.” I said, as steadily as I could. Everything seemed too bright, and my legs were trembling slightly. I tried to force them to be still, but it only seemed to make them shake all the more.
“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” the Chancellor asked curtly.
I just wanted to leave. I felt the stares of the masters bearing down on me. My hands were wet and cold. I probably would have shaken my head and slunk from the room had the Chancellor not spoken again.
“Well?” The Chancellor repeated testily. “No defense?”
The words struck a chord in me. They were the same words that Ben had used a hundred times as he drilled me endlessly in argument. His words came back, admonishing me: What? No defense? Any student of mine must be able to defend his ideas against an attack. No matter how you spend your life, your wit will defend you more often than a sword. Keep it sharp!
I took another deep breath, closed my eyes and concentrated. After a long moment, I felt the cool impassivity of the Heart of Stone surround me. My trembling stopped.
I opened my eyes and heard my own voice say, “I had permission for my use of sympathy, sir.”
The Chancellor gave me a long, hard look before saying, “What?”
I held the Heart of Stone around me like a calming mantle. “I had permission from Master Hemme, both express and implied.”
The masters stirred in their seats, puzzled.
The Chancellor looked far from pleased. “Explain yourself.”
“I approached Master Hemme after his first lecture and told him I was already familiar with the concepts he had discussed. He told me we would discuss it the next day.
“When he arrived for class the next day, he announced that I would be giving the lecture in order to demonstrate the principles of sympathy. After observing what materials were available, I gave the class the first demonstration my master gave me.” Not true, of course. As I’ve already mentioned, my first lesson involved a handful of iron drabs. It was a lie, but a plausible lie.
Judging by the masters’ expressions, this was news to them. Somewhere deep in the Heart of Stone, I relaxed, glad that the master’s irritation was based on Hemme’s angrily abridged version of the truth.
“You gave a demonstration before the class?” the Chancellor asked before I could continue. He glanced at Hemme, then back to me.
I played innocent. “Just a simple one. Is that unusual?”
“It is a little odd,” he said, looking at Hemme. I could sense his anger again, but this time it didn’t seem to be directed at me.
“I thought it might be the way you proved your knowledge of the material and moved to a more advanced class,” I said innocently. Another lie, but again, plausible.
Elxa Dal spoke up, “What did the demonstration involve?”
“A wax doll, a hair from Hemme’s head, and a candle. I would have picked a different example, but my materials were limited. I thought that might be another part of the test, making do with what you were given.” I shrugged again. “I couldn’t think of any other way to demonstrate all three laws with the materials on hand.”
The Chancellor looked at Hemme. “Is what the boy says true?”
Hemme opened his mouth as if he would deny it, then apparently remembered that an entire classroom full of students had witnessed the exchange. He said nothing.
“Damn it, Hemme,” Elxa Dal burst out. “You let the boy make a simulacra of you, then bring him here on malfeasance?” He spluttered. “You deserve worse than you got.”
“E’lir Kvothe could not have hurt him with just a candle,” Kilvin muttered. He gave his fingers a puzzled look, as if he were working something out in his head. “Not with hair and wax. Maybe blood and clay …”
“Order.” The Chancellor’s voice was too quiet to be called a shout, but it carried the same authority. He shot looks at Elxa Dal and Kilvin. “Kvothe, answer Master Kilvin’s question.”
“I made a second binding between the candle and a brazier to illustrate the Law of Conservation.”
Kilvin didn’t look up from his hands. “Wax and hair?” He grumbled as if not entirely satisfied with my explanation.
I gave a half-puzzled, half-embarrassed look and said, “I don’t understand it myself, sir. I should have gotten ten percent transference at best. It shouldn’t have been enough to blister Master Hemme, let alone burn him.”
I turned to Hemme. “I really didn’t mean any harm, sir,” I said in my best distraught voice. “It was just supposed to be a bit of a hotfoot to make you jump. The fire hadn’t been going more than five minutes, and I didn’t imagine that a fresh fire at ten percent could hurt you.” I even wrung my hands a little, every bit the distraught student. It was a good performance. My father would have been proud.
“Well, it did,” Hemme said bitterly. “And where is the damn mommet anyway? I demand you return it at once!”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. I destroyed it. It was too dangerous to leave lying around.”
Hemme gave me a shrewd look. “It’s of no real concern,” he muttered.
The Chancellor took up the reins again. “This changes things considerably. Hemme, do you still set grievance against Kvothe?”
Hemme glared and said nothing.
“I move to strike both grievances,” Arwyl said. The physicker’s old voice coming as a bit of a surprise. “If Hemme set him in front of the class, he gave permission. And it isn’t malfeasance if you give him your hair and watch him stick it on the mommet’s head.”
“I expected him to have more control over what he was doing,” Hemme said, shooting a venomous look at me.
“It’s not malfeasance,” Arwyl said doggedly, glaring at Hemme from behind his spectacles, the grandfatherly lines on his face forming a fierce scowl.
“It would fall under reckless use of sympathy,” Lorren interjected coolly.
“Is that a motion to strike the previous two grievances and replace them with reckless use of sympathy?” asked the Chancellor, trying to regain a semblance of formality.
“Aye,” said Arwyl, still glaring fearsomely at Hemme through his spectacles.
“All for the motion?” The Chancellor said,
There was a chorus of ayes from everyone but Hemme.
“Against?”
Hemme remained silent.
“Master Archivist, what is the discipline for reckless use of sympathy?”
“If one is injured by reckless use of sympathy, the offending student will be whipped, singly no more than seven times across the back.” I wondered what book Master Lorren was reciting from.
“Number of lashes sought?”
Hemme looked at the other masters’ faces, realizing the tide had turned against him. “My foot is blistered halfway to my knee,” he gritted. “Three lashes.”
The Chancellor cleared his throat. “Does any master oppose this action?”
“Aye,” Elxa Dal and Kilvin said together.
“Who wishes to suspend the discipline? Vote by show of hands.”
Elxa Dal, Kilvin, and Arwyl raised their hands at once, followed by the Chancellor. Mandrag kept his hand down, as did Lorren, Brandeur, and Hemme. Elodin grinned at me cheerily, but did not raise his hand. I kicked myself for my recent trip to the Archives and the bad impression it made on Lorren. If not for that he might have tipped things in my favor.
“Four and a half in favor of suspending punishment,” the Chancellor said after a pause. “The discipline stands: three lashes to be served tomorrow, the third of Equis, at noon.”
As I was deep into the Heart of Stone, all I felt was a slight analytical curiosity about what it would be like to be publicly whipped. All the masters showed signs of preparing to stand and leave, but before things could be called to a close I spoke up, “Chancellor?”
He took a deep breath and let it out in a gush. “Yes?”
“During my admission, you
said that my admittance to the Arcanum was granted, contingent upon proof that I had mastered the basic principles of sympathy.” I quoted him nearly word for word. “Does this constitute proof?”
Both Hemme and the Chancellor opened their mouths to say something. Hemme was louder. “Look here, you little cocker!”
“Hemme!” the Chancellor snapped. Then he turned to me, “I’m afraid proof of mastery requires more than a simple sympathetic binding.”
“A double binding,” Kilvin corrected gruffly.
Elodin spoke, seeming to startle everyone at the table. “I can think of students currently enrolled in the Arcanum who would be hard pressed to complete a double binding, let alone draw enough heat to ‘blister a man’s foot to the knee.’ ” I had forgotten how Elodin’s light voice moved through the deep places in your chest when he spoke. He smiled happily at me again.
There was a moment of quiet reflection.
“True enough,” admitted Elxa Dal, giving me a close look.
The Chancellor looked down at the empty table for a minute. Then he shrugged, looked up, and gave a surprisingly jaunty smile. “All in favor of admitting first-term student Kvothe’s reckless use of sympathy as proof of mastery of the basic principles of sympathy vote by show of hands.”
Kilvin and Elxa Dal raised their hands together. Arwyl added his a moment later. Elodin waved. After a pause, the Chancellor raised his hand as well, saying “Five and a half in favor of Kvothe’s admission to the Arcanum. Motion passed. Meeting dismissed. Tehlu shelter us, fools and children all.” He said the last very softly as he rested his forehead against the heel of his hand.
Hemme stormed out of the room with Brandeur in tow. Once they were through the door I heard Brandeur ask, “Weren’t you wearing a gram?”
“No, I wasn’t.” Hemme snapped. “And don’t take that tone with me, as if this were my fault. You might as well blame someone stabbed in an alley for not wearing armor.”
“We should all take precautions.” Brandeur said, placatingly. “You know as well as—” Their voices were cut off with the sound of a door closing.
Kilvin stood and shrugged his shoulders, stretching. Looking over to where I stood, he scratched his bushy beard with both hands, a thoughtful look on his face, then strode over to where I stood. “Do you have your sygaldry yet, E’lir Kvothe?”
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