Kilvin made a sound somewhere between a snort and a huff and turned his eyes back to his work. “Elxa Dal’s pridefulness is rubbing off on you.” He drew a careful line on the glass. “Am I correct in assuming that you will no longer be spending evenings in my employ?”
Shocked, it took me a moment to catch my breath. “I—I wouldn’t—I came here to speak with you about—” about coming back to work in the shop. The thought of not working for Kilvin hadn’t crossed my mind.
“Apparently your music has more profit than working here.” Kilvin gave the coins on the table a significant look.
“But I want to work here!” I said wretchedly.
Kilvin’s face broke into a great white smile. “Good. I would not have wanted to lose you to the other side of the river. Music is a fine thing, but metal lasts.” He struck the table with two huge fingers to emphasize his point. Then he made a shooing motion with the hand that held his unfinished lamp. “Go. Do not be late for work or I will keep you polishing bottles and grinding ore for another term.”
As I left, I thought about what Kilvin had said. It was the first thing he had said to me that I did not agree with wholeheartedly. Metal rusts, I thought, music lasts forever.
Time will eventually prove one of us right.
After I left the Fishery I headed straight to the Horse and Four, arguably the best inn this side of the river. The innkeeper was a bald, portly fellow named Caverin. I showed him my talent pipes and bargained for a pleasant fifteen minutes.
The end result was that in exchange for playing three evenings a span I received free room and board. The Four’s kitchens were remarkable, and my room was actually a small suite: bedroom, dressing room, and sitting room. A huge step up from my narrow bunk in the Mews.
But best of all, I would earn two silver talents every month. An almost ridiculous sum of money to someone who had been poor for as long as I had. And that was in addition to whatever gifts or tips the wealthy customers might give me.
Playing here, working in the Fishery, and with a wealthy patron on the horizon, I’d no longer be forced to live like a pauper. I’d be able to buy things I desperately needed: another suit of clothes, some decent pens and paper, new shoes… .
If you have never been desperately poor, I doubt you can understand the relief I felt. For months I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing that any small catastrophe could ruin me. But now I no longer had to live every day worrying about my next term’s tuition or the interest on Devi’s loan. I was no longer in danger of being forced out of the University.
I had a lovely dinner of venison steak with a leaf salad and a bowl of delicately spiced tomato soup. There were fresh peaches and plums and white bread with sweet cream butter. Though I didn’t even ask for it, I was served several glasses of an excellent dark Vintish wine.
Then I retired to my rooms where I slept like a dead man, lost in the vastness of my new feather bed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Jackass Jackass
With admissions behind me I had no responsibilities until fall term began. I spent the intervening days catching up on my sleep, working in Kilvin’s shop, and enjoying my new, luxurious accommodations at the Horse and Four.
I also spent a considerable amount of time on the road to Imre, usually under the excuse of visiting Threpe or enjoying the camaraderie of the other musicians at the Eolian. But the truth behind the stories was that I was hoping to find Denna.
But my diligence gained me nothing. She seemed to have vanished from the town completely. I asked a few people who I could trust not to make gossip of it, but none of them knew more than Deoch. I briefly entertained the thought of asking Sovoy about her, but discarded it as a bad idea.
After my sixth fruitless trip to Imre I decided to abandon my search. After my ninth I convinced myself it was a waste of valuable time. After my fourteenth trip, I came to the deep realization that I wouldn’t find her. She was well and truly gone. Again.
It was during one of my Denna-less trips to the Eolian that I received some troubling news from Count Threpe. Apparently, Ambrose, firstborn son of the wealthy and influential Baron Jakis, had been busy as a bee in the social circles of Imre. He had spread rumors, made threats, and generally turned the nobility against me. While he couldn’t keep me from gaining the respect of my fellow musicians, apparently he could keep me from gaining a wealthy patron. It was my first glimpse of the trouble Ambrose could make for a person like me.
Threpe was apologetic and morose, while I seethed with irritation. Together we proceeded to drink an unwise amount of wine and grouse about Ambrose Jakis. Eventually Threpe was called up onto the stage where he sang a scathing little ditty of his own design, satirizing one of Tarbean’s councilmen. It was met with great laughter and applause.
From there it was a short step for us to begin composing a song about Ambrose. Threpe was an inveterate gossipmonger with a knack for tasteless innuendo, and I have always had a gift for a catchy tune. It took us under an hour to compose our masterwork, which we lovingly titled “Jackass, Jackass.”
On the surface, it was a ribald little tune about a donkey who wanted to be an arcanist. Our extraordinarily clever pun on Ambrose’s surname was as close as we came to mentioning him. But anyone with half a wit could tell who the shoe was meant to fit.
It was late when Threpe and I took the stage, and we weren’t the only ones worse for drink. There was thunderous laughter and applause from the majority of the audience, who called for an encore. We gave it to them again, and everyone came in singing on the chorus.
The key to the song’s success was its simplicity. You could whistle or hum it. Anyone with three fingers could play it, and if you had one ear and a bucket you could carry the tune. It was catchy, and vulgar, and mean-spirited. It spread through the University like a fire in a field.
I tugged open the outer doors of the Archives and stepped into the entry hall, my eyes adjusting to the red tint of the sympathy lamps. The air was dry and cool, rich with the smell of dust, leather, and old ink. I took a breath the way a starving man might outside a bakery.
Wilem was tending the desk. I knew he’d be working. Ambrose wasn’t anywhere in the building. “I’m just here to talk with Master Lorren,” I said quickly.
Wil relaxed. “He’s with someone right now. It might be a while—”
A tall, lean Cealdish man opened the door behind the entry desk. Unlike most Cealdish men he was cleanshaven and wore his hair long, pulled back into a tail. He wore well-mended hunter’s leathers, a faded traveling cloak, and high boots, all dusty from the road. As he shut the door behind him, his hand went unconsciously to the hilt of his sword to keep it from striking the wall or the desk.
“Tetalia tu Kiaure edan A’siath,” he said in Siaru, clapping Wilem on the shoulder as he walked out from behind the desk. “Vorelan tua tetam.”
Wil gave a rare smile, shrugging. “Lhinsatva. Tua kverein.”
The man laughed, and as he stepped around the desk I saw he wore a long knife in addition to his sword. I’d never seen anyone armed at the University. Here in the Archives, he looked as out of place as a sheep in the king’s court. But his manner was relaxed, confident, as if he couldn’t feel more at home.
He stopped walking when he saw me standing there. He cocked his head to the side a little. “Cyae tsien?”
I didn’t recognize the language. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, sorry,” he said, speaking perfect Aturan. “You looked Yllish. The red hair fooled me.” He looked at me closer. “But you’re not, are you? You’re one of the Ruh.” He stepped forward and held out his hand to me. “One family.”
I shook it without thinking. His hand was solid as a rock, and his dark Cealdish complexion was tanned even darker than usual, highlighting a few pale scars that ran over his knuckles and up his arms. “One family,” I echoed, too surprised to say anything else.
“Folk from the family are a rare thing here,” he said ea
sily, walking past me toward the outer door. “I’d stop and share news, but I’ve got to make it to Evesdown before sunset or I’ll miss my ship.” He opened the outer door and sunlight flooded the room. “I’ll catch you up when I’m back in these parts,” he said, and with a wave, he was gone.
I turned to Wilem. “Who was that?”
“One of Lorren’s gillers,” Wil said. “Viari.”
“He’s a scriv?” I said incredulously, thinking of the pale, quiet students who worked in the Archives, sorting, scribing, and fetching books.
Wil shook his head. “He works in acquisitions. They bring back books from all over the world. They’re a different breed entirely.”
“I gathered that,” I said, glancing at the door.
“He’s the one Lorren was talking to, so you can go in now,” Wil said, getting to his feet and opening the door behind the massive wooden desk. “Down at the end of the hall. There’s a brass plate on his door. I’d walk you back, but we’re short-staffed. I can’t leave the desk.”
I nodded and began to walk down the hallway. I smiled to hear Wil softly humming the melody from “Jackass, Jackass” under his breath. Then the door gave a muffled thump behind me, and the hall was quiet save for the sound of my own breathing. By the time I reached the appropriate door, my hands were clammy with sweat. I knocked.
“Enter,” Lorren called from inside. His voice was like a sheet of smooth grey slate, without the barest hint of inflection or emotion.
I opened the door. Lorren sat behind a huge semicircular desk. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The room was so full of books there wasn’t more than a palm’s breadth of wall visible in the entire room.
Lorren looked at me coolly. Even sitting down he was still nearly as tall as me. “Good morning.”
“I know I’m banned from the Archives, Master,” I said quickly. “I hope that I am not violating that by coming to see you.”
“Not if you are here to good purpose.”
“I’ve come into some money,” I said pulling out my purse. “And I was hoping to buy back my copy of Rhetoric and Logic.”
Lorren nodded and came to his feet. Tall, cleanshaven, and wearing his dark master’s robes, he reminded me of the enigmatic Silent Doctor character present in many Modegan plays. I fought off a shiver, trying not to dwell on the fact that the appearance of the Doctor always signaled catastrophe in the next act.
Lorren went to one of the shelves and pulled out a small book. Even at a glimpse I recognized it as mine. A dark stain patterned the cover from the time it had gotten wet during a storm in Tarbean.
I fumbled with the strings of my purse, surprised to see my hands trembling slightly. “It was two silver pennies, I believe.”
Lorren nodded.
“Can I offer you anything in addition to that? If you hadn’t bought it for me, I would have lost it forever. Not to mention the fact that your purchase helped me gain admittance in the first place.”
“Two silver pennies will be sufficient.”
I lay the coins on his desk, they clattered slightly as I set them down, testament to my shaking hands. Lorren held out the book and I wiped my sweaty hands on my shirt before taking it. I opened it to Ben’s inscription and smiled. “Thank you for taking care of it, Master Lorren. It is precious to me.”
“The care of one more book is little trouble,” Lorren said as he returned to his seat. I waited to see if he might continue. He didn’t.
“I …” my voice snagged in my throat. I swallowed to clear it. “I also wanted to say that I was sorry for …” I stalled at the thought of actually mentioning open flame in the Archives. “… for what I did before.” I finished lamely.
“I accept your apology, Kvothe.” Lorren looked back down at the book he had been reading when I had come in. “Good morning.”
I swallowed again against the dryness in my mouth. “I was also wondering when I might hope to regain admittance to the Archives.”
Lorren looked up at me. “You were caught with live fire among my books,” he said, emotion touching the edges of his voice like a hint of red sunset against the slate-grey clouds.
All of my carefully planned persuasion flew out of my head. “Master Lorren,” I pleaded. “I’d been whipped that day and wasn’t at my wit’s best. Ambrose—”
Lorren raised his long-fingered hand from the desk, his palm facing out, toward me. The careful gesture cut me off more quickly than a slap across the face. His face was expressionless as a blank page. “Who am I to believe? A Re’lar of three years, or an E’lir of two months? A scriv in my employ, or an unfamiliar student found guilty of Reckless Use of Sympathy?”
I manage to regain a little of my composure. “I understand your decision, Master Lorren. But is there anything I might do to earn readmittance?” I asked, unable to keep my voice entirely free of desperation. “Honestly, I would rather be whipped again than spend another term banned. I would give you all the money in my pocket, though it isn’t much. I’d work long hours as a scriv, without pay, for the privilege of proving myself to you. I know you’re short-staffed during exams… .”
Lorren looked at me, his placid eyes almost curious. I couldn’t help but feel that my plea had affected him. “All that?”
“All that,” I said earnestly, hope billowing wildly through my chest. “All that and any other penance you desire.”
“I require but one thing to rescind my ban,” Lorren said.
I fought to keep a manic grin off my face. “Anything.”
“Demonstrate the patience and prudence which you have heretofore been lacking,” Lorren said flatly, then looked down at the book that lay open on his desk. “Good morning.”
The next day one of Jamison’s errand boys woke me out of a sound sleep in my vast bed at the Horse and Four. He informed me that I was due on the horns at a quarter hour before noon. I was being charged with Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum. Ambrose had finally caught wind of my song.
I spent the next several hours feeling vaguely sick to my stomach. This was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid: an opportunity for both Ambrose and Hemme to settle scores with me. Worse still, this was bound to lower Lorren’s opinion of me even further, no matter what the outcome.
I arrived in the Masters’ Hall early and was relieved to find the atmosphere much more relaxed than when I’d gone on the horns for malfeasance against Hemme. Arwyl and Elxa Dal smiled at me. Kilvin nodded. I was relieved that I had friends among the masters to balance out the enemies I’d made.
“Alright,” the Chancellor said briskly. “We’ve got ten minutes before we start admissions. I don’t feel like getting behind schedule, so I’m going to move this right along.” He looked around at the rest of the masters and saw only nods. “Re’lar Ambrose, make your case. Keep it under a minute.”
“You have a copy of the song right there,” Ambrose said hotly. “It’s slanderous. It defames my good name. It’s a shameful way for a member of the Arcanum to behave.” He swallowed, his jaw clenching. “That’s all.”
The Chancellor turned to me. “Anything to say in your defense?”
“It was in poor taste, Chancellor, but I didn’t expect it to get around. I only sang it on one occasion, in fact.”
“Fair enough.” The Chancellor looked down at the paper in front of him. He cleared his throat. “Re’lar Ambrose, are you a donkey?”
Ambrose went stiff. “No, sir,” he said.
“Are you possessed of,” he cleared his throat and read directly off the page. “A pizzle bound to fizzle?” A few of the masters struggled to control smiles. Elodin grinned openly.
Ambrose flushed. “No, sir.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t see the problem,” the Chancellor said curtly, letting the paper settle to the table. “I move the charge of Conduct Unbecoming be replaced with Undignified Mischief.”
“Seconded,” Kilvin said.
“All in favor?” All hands went up except for Hemme’s and Br
andeur’s. “Motion passed. Discipline will be set at a formal letter of apology tendered to—”
“For God’s sake, Arthur,” Hemme broke in. “At least make it a public letter.”
The Chancellor glared at Hemme, then shrugged. “… formal letter of apology posted publicly before the fall term. All in favor?” All hands were raised. “Motion passed.”
The Chancellor leaned forward onto his elbows and looked down at Ambrose. “Re’lar Ambrose, in the future you will refrain from wasting our time with spurious charges.”
I could feel the anger radiating off Ambrose. It was like standing near a fire. “Yes, sir.”
Before I could feel smug, the Chancellor turned to me. “And you, E’lir Kvothe, will comport yourself with more decorum in the future.” His stern words were somewhat spoiled by the fact that Elodin had begun cheerfully humming the melody to “Jackass, Jackass” next to him.
I lowered my eyes and did my best to fight down a smile. “Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Ambrose turned on his heel and stormed off, but before he made it through the door, Elodin burst out singing:
“He’s a well-bred ass, you can see it in his stride!
And for a copper penny he will let you take a ride!”
The thought of writing a public apology was galling to me. But, as they say, the best revenge is living well. So I decided to ignore Ambrose and enjoy my new luxurious lifestyle at the Horse and Four.
But I only managed two days of revenge. On the third day the Horse and Four had a new owner. Short, jolly Caverin was replaced with a tall, thin man who informed me that my services were no longer required. I was told to vacate my rooms before nightfall.
It was irritating, but I knew of at least four or five inns of a similar quality on this side of the river that would jump at the chance to employ a musician with his talent pipes.
But the innkeeper at Hollybush refused to speak with me. The White Hart and Queen’s Crown were content with their current musicians. At the Golden Pony I waited for over an hour before I realized I was being politely ignored. By the time I was turned away by the Royal Oak I was fuming.
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