The Wise Man's Fear (34 page)

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Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear
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“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 an 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.”
There was a knock and Sim’s voice came from the hallway. “Can we come in?” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door and led an uncomfortable looking Wilem into the room.
“We heard . . .” Sim paused and turned to look at Mola. “He’s going to be okay, right?”
“He’ll be fine,” Mola said. “Provided his temperature levels out.” She picked up a key-gauge and stuck it in my mouth. “I know this will be hard for you, but try to keep your mouth shut for a minute.”
“In that case,” Simmon said with a grin, “We heard Kilvin took you somewhere private and showed you something that made you faint like a little sissy girl.”
I scowled at him, but kept my mouth shut.
Mola turned back to Wil and Sim. “His legs are going to hurt for a while, but there’s no permanent damage. His elbow should be fine too, though the stitching’s a mess. What the hell were you guys doing in Ambrose’s rooms, anyway?”
Wilem simply looked at her, characteristically dark-eyed and stoic.
No such luck with Sim. “Kvothe needed to get a ring for his ladylove,” he chirped cheerfully.
Mola turned to look at me, her expression furious. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve to lie right to my face,” she said, her eyes flat and angry as a cat’s. “Thank goodness you didn’t want to insult my intelligence or anything.”
I took a deep breath and reached up to take the key-gauge out of my mouth. “Goddammit Sim,” I said crossly. “Some day I’m going to teach you to lie.”
Sim looked back and forth between the two of us, flushed with panic and embarrassment. “Kvothe has a thing for a girl over the river,” he said defensively. “Ambrose took a ring of hers and won’t give it back. We just—”
Mola cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Why didn’t you just tell me that?” she demanded of me, irritated. “Everyone knows what Ambrose is like with women!”
“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” I said. “It sounded like a very convenient lie. There’s also the fact that it is not one whit of your goddamn business.”
Her expression hardened. “You come off pretty high and mighty for—”
“Stop. Just stop,” Wilem said, startling both of us out of our argument. He turned to Mola, “When Kvothe came here unconscious, what did you do first?”
“I checked his pupils for signs of head trauma,” Mola said automatically. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Wilem gestured in my direction. “Look at his eyes now.”
Mola looked at me. “They’re dark,” she said, sounding surprised. “Dark green. Like a pine bough.”
Wil continued. “Don’t argue with him when his eyes go dark like that. No good comes of it.”
“It’s like the noise a rattlesnake makes,” Sim said.
“More like hackles on a dog, ”Wilem corrected. “It shows when he’s ready to bite.”
“All of you can go straight to hell,” I said. “Or you can give me a mirror so I can see what you’re talking about. I don’t care which.”
Wil ignored me. “Our little Kvothe has a flash-pan temper, but once he’s had a minute to cool down, he will realize the truth.” Wilem gave me a pointed look. “He’s not upset because you didn’t trust him, or that you tricked Sim. He’s upset because you found out what asinine lengths he is willing to go to in order to impress a woman.” He looked at me. “Is
asinine
the right word?”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “Pretty much,” I admitted.
“I chose it because it sounded like
ass
,” Wil said.
“I knew you two had to be involved,” Mola said with a hint of apology in her voice. “Honestly, the three of you are thick as thieves, and I
do
mean that in all its various clever implications.” She walked around the side of the bed and looked critically at my wounded elbow. “Which one of you stitched him up?”
“Me.” Sim grimaced. “I know I made a mess of it.”
“
Mess
would be generous.” Mola said, looking it over critically. “It looks like you were trying to stitch your name onto him and kept misspelling it.”
“I think he did quite well,” Wil said, meeting her eye. “Considering his lack of training, and the fact that he was helping a friend under less than ideal circumstances.”
Mola flushed. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “Working here, it’s easy to forget that not everyone . . .” She turned to Sim. “I’m sorry.”
Sim ran his hand through his sandy hair. “I suppose you could make it up to me sometime,” he said, grinning boyishly. “Like maybe tomorrow afternoon? When you let me buy you lunch?” He looked at her hopefully.
Mola rolled her eyes and sighed, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Fine.”
“My work here is done,”Wil said gravely. “I’m leaving. I hate this place.”
“Thanks Wil,” I said.
He gave a perfunctory wave over one shoulder and closed the door behind him.
 
Mola agreed to leave mention of my suspicious injuries off her report and stuck to her original diagnosis of heat exhaustion. She also cut away Sim’s stitches, then recleaned, resewed, and rebandaged my arm. Not a pleasant experience, but I knew it would heal more quickly under her experienced care.
In closing, she advised me to drink more water, get some sleep, and suggested that in the future I refrain from strenuous physical activity in a hot room the day after falling off a roof.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
 
Slipping
 
U
P UNTIL THIS POINT in the term, Elxa Dal had been teaching us theory in Adept Sympathy. How much light could be produced from ten thaums of continuous heat using iron? Using basalt? Using human flesh? We memorized tables of figures and learned how to calculate escalating squares, angular momentum, and compounded degradations.
Simply said, it was mind-numbing.
Don’t get me wrong. I knew it was essential information. Bindings of the sort we’d shown Denna were simple. But when things grew complicated, a skilled sympathist needed to do some fairly tricky calculations.
In terms of energy, there isn’t much difference between lighting a candle and melting it into a puddle of tallow. The only difference is one of focus and control. When the candle is sitting in front of you, these things are easy. You simply stare at the wick and stop pouring in heat when you see the first flicker of flame. But if the candle is a quarter mile away, or in a different room, focus and control are exponentially more difficult to maintain.
And there are worse things than melted candles waiting for a careless sympathist. The question Denna had asked in the Eolian was all-important: “Where does the extra energy go?”
As Wil had explained, some went into the air, some went into the linked items, and the rest went into the sympathist’s body. The technical term for it was “thaumic overfill,” but even Elxa Dal tended to refer to it as slippage.

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