The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Principles

“I did tell Mola,” I said as I shuffled the cards. “She said it was all in my head and pushed me out the door.”

“Well, I can only guess what that feels like,” Sim said bitterly.

I looked up, surprised by the uncharacteristic sharpness in his voice, but before I could ask what was the matter, Wilem caught my eye and shook his head, warning me away. Knowing Sim’s history, I guessed it was another quick, painful end to another quick, painful relationship.

I kept my mouth shut and dealt another hand of breath. The three of us were killing time, waiting for the room to fill up before I started playing for my typical Felling night crowd at Anker’s.

“What do you think is the matter?” Wilem asked.

I hesitated, worried that if I spoke my fears aloud it might somehow make them true. “I might have exposed myself to something dangerous in the Fishery.”

Wil looked at me. “Such as?”

“Some of the compounds we use,” I said. “They’ll go straight through your skin and kill you in eighteen slow ways.” I thought back to the day my tenten glass had cracked in the Fishery. Of the single drop of transporting agent that had landed on my shirt. It was only a tiny drop, barely larger than the head of a nail. I was so certain it hadn’t touched my skin. “I hope that’s not it. But I don’t know what else it might be.”

“It could be a lingering effect from the plum bob,” Sim said grimly. “Ambrose isn’t much of an alchemist. And from what I understand, one of the main ingredients is lead. If he factored it himself, some latent principles could be affecting your system. Did you eat or drink anything different today?”

I thought about it. “I had a fair bit of metheglin at the Eolian,” I admitted.

“That stuff will make anyone ill,” Wil said darkly.

“I like it,” Sim said. “But it’s practically a nostrum all by itself. There’s a lot of different tincturing going on in there. Nothing alchemical, but you’ve got nutmeg, thyme, clove—all manner of spices. Could be that one of them triggered some of the free principles lurking in your system.”

“Wonderful,” I grumbled. “And how do I go about fixing that, exactly?”

Sim spread his hands helplessly.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Still, it sounds better than metal poisoning.”

Simmon proceeded to take four tricks in a row with a clever card force, and by the end of the hand he was smiling again. Sim was never really given to extended brooding.

Wil squared his cards away, and I pushed my chair back from the table.

“Play the one about the drunk cow and the butter churn,” Sim said.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Maybe later,” I said as I picked up my increasingly shabby lute case and made my way to the hearth amid the sound of scattered, familiar applause. It took me a long moment to open the case, untwisting the copper wire I was still using in place of a buckle.

For the next two hours I played. I sang: “Copper Bottom Pot,” “Lilac Bough,” and “Aunt Emme’s Tub.” The audience laughed and clapped and cheered. As I fingered my way through the songs, I felt my worries slough away. My music has always been the best remedy for my dark moods. As I sang, even my bruises seemed to pain me less.

Then I felt a chill, as if a strong winter wind was blowing down the chimney behind me. I fought off a shiver and finished the last verse of “Applejack,” which I’d finally played to keep Sim happy. When I struck the last chord, the crowd applauded and conversation slowly welled up to fill the room again.

I looked behind me at the fireplace, but the fire was burning cheerfully with no sign of a draft. I stepped down off the hearth, hoping a little walk would chase my chill away. But as soon as I took a few steps, I realized that wasn’t the case. The cold settled straight into my bones. I turned back to the fireplace, spreading my hands to warm them.

Wil and Sim appeared at my side. “What’s going on?” Sim asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Something like that,” I said, clenching my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Go tell Anker I’m feeling ill and have to cut it short tonight. Then light a candle off this fire and bring it up to my room.” I looked up at their serious faces. “Wil, can you help me get out of here? I don’t want to make a scene.”

Wilem nodded and gave me his arm. I leaned on him and concentrated on keeping my body from shaking as we made our way to the stairs. No one paid us much attention. I probably looked more drunk than anything. My hands were numb and heavy. My lips felt icy cold.

After the first flight of stairs, I couldn’t keep my shaking under control any longer. I could still walk, but the thick muscles in my legs twitched with every step.

Wil stopped. “We should go the Medica.” While he didn’t sound different, his Cealdish accent was thicker, and he was starting to drop words. A sign he was genuinely worried.

I shook my head firmly and leaned forward, knowing he’d have to help me up the stairs or let me fall. Wilem put an arm around me and half-steadied, half-carried me the rest of the way.

Once in my tiny room, I staggered onto the bed. Wil wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

There were footsteps in the hallway and Sim peered nervously around the door. He held a stub of candle, sheltering the flame with his other hand as he walked. “I’ve got it. What do you want it for, anyway?”

“There.” I pointed to the table beside the bed. “You lit it off the fire?”

Sim’s eyes were frightened. “Your lips,” he said. “They’re not a good color.”

I pried a splinter from the rough wood of the bedside table and jabbed it hard into the back of my hand. Blood welled up and I rolled the long splinter around in it, getting it wet. “Close the door,” I said.

“You are not doing what I think you’re doing,” Sim said firmly.

I jabbed the long splinter down into the soft wax of the candle alongside the burning wick. It sputtered a little bit, then the flame wrapped around it. I muttered two bindings, one right after the other, speaking slowly so my numb lips didn’t slur the words.

“What are you doing?” Sim demanded. “Are you trying to cook yourself?” When I didn’t answer him, he stepped forward as if he would knock the candle over.

Wil caught his arm. “His hands are like ice,” he said quietly. “He’s cold. Really cold.”

Sim’s eyes darted nervously between the two of us. He took a step back. “Just . . . just be careful.”

But I was already ignoring him. I closed my eyes and bound the candle flame to the fire downstairs. Then I carefully made the second connection between the blood on the splinter and the blood in my body. It was very much like what I’d done with the drop of wine at the Eolian. With the obvious exception that I didn’t want my blood to boil.

At first there was just a brief tickle of heat, not nearly enough. I concentrated harder and felt my entire body relax as warmth flooded through me. I kept my eyes closed, keeping my attention on the bindings until I could take several long, deep breaths without any shuddering or shaking.

I opened my eyes and saw my two friends looking on expectantly. I smiled at them. “I’m okay.”

But before I got the words out, I began to sweat. I was suddenly too warm, nauseatingly warm. I broke both bindings as quickly as you jerk your hand away from a hot iron stove.

I took a few deep breaths, then got to my feet and walked over to the window. I opened it and leaned heavily on the sill, enjoying the chill autumn air that smelled of dead leaves and coming rain.

There was a long moment of silence.

“That looked like binder’s chills,” Simmon said. “Really bad binder’s chills.”

“It felt like the chills,” I said.

“Maybe your body has lost the ability to regulate its own temperate?” Wilem suggested.

“Temperature,” Sim corrected him absently.

“That wouldn’t account for the burn across my chest,” I said.

Sim cocked his head. “Burn?”

I was wet with sweat now, so I was glad for an excuse to unbutton my shirt and pull it off over my head. A large portion of my chest and upper arm was a bright red, a sharp contrast to my ordinarily pale skin. “Mola said it was a rash, and I was being fussy as an old woman. But it wasn’t there before I jumped into the river.”

Simmon leaned close to look. “I still think it’s unbound principles,” he said. “They can do bizarre things to a person. We had an E’lir last term that wasn’t careful with his factoring. He ending up not being able to sleep or focus his eyes for almost two span.”

Wilem slouched into a chair. “What makes a man cold, then hot, then cold again?”

Sim gave a halfhearted smile. “Sounds like a riddle.”

“I hate riddles,” I said, reaching for my shirt. Then I yelped, clutching at the bare bicep of my left arm. Blood welled out between my fingers.

Sim bolted to his feet, looking around frantically, obviously at a loss for what to do.

It felt like I’d been stabbed by an invisible knife. “God. Blackened. Damn.” I gritted out between my clenched teeth. I pulled my hand away and saw the small, round wound in my arm that had come from nowhere.

Simmon’s expression was horrified, his eyes wide, his hands covering his mouth. He said something, but I was too busy concentrating to listen. I already knew what he was saying, anyway: malfeasance. Of course. This was all malfeasance. Someone was attacking me.

I lowered myself into the Heart of Stone and brought all my Alar to bear.

But my unknown attacker wasn’t wasting any time. There was a sharp pain in my chest near the shoulder. It didn’t break the skin this time, but I watched a blotch of dark blue blossom under my skin.

I hardened my Alar and the next stab was little more than a pinch. Then I quickly broke my mind into three pieces and gave two of them the job of maintaining the Alar that protected me.

Only then did I let out a deep sigh. “I’m fine.”

Simmon gave a laugh that choked off into a sob. His hands still covered his mouth. “How can you say that?” he demanded, plainly horrified.

I looked down at myself. Blood was still welling up through my fingers, running down the back of my hand and my arm.

“It’s true,” I said to him. “Honestly, Sim.”

“But malfeasance,” he said. “It just isn’t done.”

I sat down on the edge of my bed, keeping pressure on my wound. “I think we have some pretty clear proof otherwise.”

Wilem sat back down. “I am with Simmon. I would never have believed this.” He made an angry gesture. “Arcanists do not do this anymore. It is insane.” He looked at me. “Why are you smiling?”

“I’m relieved,” I said honestly. “I was worried I’d given myself cadmium poisoning, or I had some mysterious disease. This is just someone trying to kill me.”

“How could someone do it?” Simmon asked. “I don’t mean morally. How did someone get hold of your blood or hair?”

Wilem looked at Simmon. “What did you do with the bandages after you stitched him up?”

“I burned them,” Sim said defensively. “I’m not an idiot.”

Wil made a calming gesture. “I’m just narrowing our options. It probably isn’t the Medica either. They’re careful about that sort of thing.”

Simmon stood up. “We have to tell someone.” He looked at Wilem. “Would Jamison still be in his office at this time of night?”

“Sim,” I said. “How about we just wait for a while?”

“What?” Simmon said. “Why?”

“The only evidence I have are my injuries,” I said. “That means they’ll want someone at the Medica to examine me. And when that happens . . .” With one hand still clamped over my bloody arm, I waved my bandaged elbow. “I look remarkably like someone who fell off a roof just a couple days ago.”

Sim’s sat back down in his chair. “It’s only been three days, hasn’t it?”

I nodded. “I’d be expelled. And Mola would be in trouble for not mentioning my injuries. Master Arwyl isn’t forgiving about that sort of thing. The two of you would probably be implicated too. I don’t want that.”

We were quiet for a moment. The only sound was the distant clamor of the busy taproom below. I sat down on the bed.

“Do we even need to discuss who’s doing this?” Sim asked.

“Ambrose,” I said. “It’s always Ambrose. He must have found some of my blood on a piece of roofing tile. I should have thought of that days ago.”

“How would he know it was yours?” Simmon asked.

“Because I hate him,” I said bitterly. “Of course he knows it was me.”

Wil was slowly shaking his head. “No. It’s not like him.”

“Not like him?” Simmon demanded. “He had that woman dose Kvothe with the plum bob. That’s as bad as poison. He hired those men to jump Kvothe in the alley last term.”

“My point exactly,” Wilem said. “Ambrose doesn’t do things to Kvothe. He arranges for other people to do them. He got some woman to dose him. He paid thugs to knife you. I expect he didn’t even do that, really. I’ll bet someone else set it up for him.”

“It’s all the same,” I said. “We know he’s behind it.”

Wilem frowned at me. “You’re not thinking straight. It’s not that Ambrose isn’t a bastard. He is. But he’s a clever bastard. He’s careful to distance himself from anything he does.”

Sim looked uncertain. “Wil has a point. When you were hired on as house musician at the Horse and Four, he didn’t buy the place and fire you. He had Baron Petre’s son-in-law do it. No connection to him at all.”

“No connection here either,” I said. “That’s the whole point of sympathy. It’s indirect.”

Wil shook his head again. “If you got knifed in an alley people would be shocked. But such things happen all the time all over the world. But if you fell down in public and started gushing blood from malfeasance? People would be horrified. The masters would suspend classes. Rich merchants and nobles would hear of it and pull their children from their studies. They’d bring the constables over from Imre.”

Simmon rubbed his forehead and looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. Then he nodded to himself, first slowly, then with more certainty. “It makes sense,” he said. “If Ambrose had found some blood, he could have turned it over to Jamison and had him dowse out the thief. There wouldn’t have been any need to get folks in the Medica to look for suspicious injuries and such.”

“Ambrose likes his revenge,” I pointed out grimly. “He could have hidden the blood from Jamison. Kept it for himself.”

Wilem was shaking his head.

Sim sighed. “Wil’s right. There aren’t that many sympathists, and everyone knows Ambrose is carrying a grudge against you. He’s too careful to do something like this. It would point right to him.”

“Besides,” Wilem said. “How long has this been going on? Days and days. Do you honestly think Ambrose could go this long without rubbing your nose in it? Not even a little?”

“You have a point,” I admitted reluctantly. “That’s not like him.”

I knew it had to be Ambrose. I could feel it deep in my gut. In a strange way I almost wanted it to be him. It would make things so much simpler.

But wanting something doesn’t make it so. I took a deep breath and forced myself to think about it rationally.

“It would be reckless of him,” I admitted at last. “And he isn’t the sort to get his hands dirty.” I sighed. “Fine. Wonderful. As if one person trying to ruin my life wasn’t enough.”

“Who could it be?” Simmon asked. “Your average person can’t do this sort of thing with hair, am I right?”

“Dal could,” I said. “Or Kilvin.”

“It is probably safe to assume,” Wilem said dryly, “that none of the masters are trying to kill you.”

“Then it has to be someone with his blood,” Sim said.

I tried to ignore the sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “There is someone with my blood,” I said. “But I don’t think she could be responsible.”

Wil and Sim turned to look at me, and I immediately regretted saying anything. “Why would someone have your blood?” Sim asked.

I hesitated, then realized there was no way to avoid telling them at this point. “I borrowed money from Devi at the beginning of the term.”

Neither one of them reacted the way I expected. Which is to say, neither one reacted at all.

“Who’s Devi?” Sim asked.

I started to relax. Maybe they hadn’t heard of her. That would certainly make things easier. “She’s a gaelet who lives across the river,” I said.

“Okay,” Simmon said easily. “What’s a gaelet?”

“Remember when we went to see The Ghost and the Goosegirl?” I asked him. “Ketler was a gaelet.”

“Oh, a copper hawk,” Sim said, his face brightening with realization, then darkening again as he realized the implications. “I didn’t know there were any of those sort of people around here.”

“Those sort of people are everywhere,” I said. “The world wouldn’t work without them.”

“Wait,” Wilem said suddenly, holding up his hand. “Did you say, your . . .” He paused, struggling to remember the appropriate word in Aturan. “Your loaner, your gatessor was named Devi?” His Cealdish accent was thick around her name, so it sounded like “David.”

I nodded. This was the reaction I’d expected.

“Oh God,” Simmon said, aghast. “You mean Demon Devi, don’t you?”

I sighed. “So you’ve heard of her.”

“Heard of her?” Sim said, his voice going shrill. “She was expelled during my first term! It left a real impression.”

Wilem simply closed his eyes and shook his head, as if he couldn’t bear to look at someone as stupid as me.

Sim threw his hands into the air. “She was expelled for malfeasance! What were you thinking?”

“No,” Wilem said to Simmon. “She was expelled for Conduct Unbecoming. There was no proof of malfeasance.”

“I really don’t think it was her,” I said. “She’s quite nice, actually. Friendly. Besides, it’s only a six talent loan, and I’m not late paying her back. She doesn’t have any reason to do something like this.”

Wilem gave me a long, steady look. “Just to explore all possibilities,” he said slowly. “Would you do something for me?”

I nodded.

“Think back on your last few conversings with her,” Wilem said. “Take a moment and sift them piece by piece and see if you remember doing or saying something that might have offended or upset her.”

I thought back on our last conversation, playing it through in my head. “She was interested in a certain piece of information that I didn’t give her.”

“How interested?” Wilem’s voice was slow and patient, as if he were talking to a rather dimwitted child.

“Rather interested,” I said.

“Rather does not indicate a degree of intensity.”

I sighed. “Fine. Extremely interested. Interested enough to—” I stopped.

Wilem arched a knowing eyebrow at me. “Yes? What have you just remembered?”

I hesitated. “She might have also offered to sleep with me,” I said.

Wilem nodded calmly, as if he had expected something of the sort. “And you responded to this young woman’s generous offer in what way?”

I felt my cheeks get hot. “I . . . I sort of just ignored it.”

Wilem closed his eyes, his expression conveying a vast, weary dismay.

“This is so much worse than Ambrose,” Sim said, putting his head in his hands. “Devi doesn’t have to worry about the masters or anything. They say she could do an eight-part binding! Eight!”

“I was in a tight space,” I said a little testily. “I didn’t have anything to use as collateral. I’ll admit it wasn’t a great idea. After all this is done, we can have a symposium on how stupid I am. But for now can we just move on?” I gave them a pleading look.

Wilem rubbed at his eyes with one hand and gave a weary nod.

Simmon made an effort to get rid of his horrified expression with only marginal success. He swallowed. “Fair enough. What are we going to do?”

“Right now it doesn’t really matter who is responsible,” I said, cautiously checking to see if my arm had stopped bleeding. It had, and I peeled my bloody hand away. “I’m going to take some precautionary measures.” I made a shooing motion. “You two go get some sleep.”

Sim rubbed his forehead, chuckling to himself. “Body of God, you’re irritating sometimes. What if you’re attacked again?”

“It’s already happened twice while we’ve been sitting here,” I said easily. “It tingles a bit.” I grinned at his expression. “I’m fine, Sim. Honestly. There’s a reason I’m the top-ranked duelist in Dal’s class. I’m perfectly safe.”

“As long as you’re awake,” Wilem interjected, his dark eyes serious.

My grin grew stiff. “As long as I’m awake,” I repeated. “Of course.”

Wilem stood up and made a show of brushing himself off. “So. Clean yourself and take your precautionary measures.” He gave me a pointed look. “Shall young master Simmon and I expect Dal’s top-ranked duelist in my room tonight?”

I felt myself flush with embarrassment. “Why, yes. That would be greatly appreciated.”

Wil gave me an exaggerated bow, then opened the door and made his way out into the hall.

Sim was wearing a wide grin by now. “It’s a date then. But put on a shirt before you come. I’ll watch over you tonight like the colicky infant you are, but I refuse to do it if you insist on sleeping naked.”

After Wil and Sim left, I headed out the window and onto the rooftops. I left my shirt in my room, as I was a bloody mess and I didn’t want to ruin it. I trusted the dark night and the lateness of the hour, hoping no one would spot me running along the University rooftops half naked and bloody.

It is relatively easy to protect yourself from sympathy if you know what you’re doing. Someone trying to burn or stab me, or draw off my body heat until I lapsed into hypothermia, all those things deal with the simple, direct application of force, so they are easy to oppose. I was safe now that I knew what was happening and kept my defenses up.

My new concern was that whoever was attacking me might get discouraged and try something different. Something like dowsing out my location, then resorting to a more mundane type of attack, one I couldn’t stave off with an effort of will.

Malfeasance is terrifying, but a thug with a sharp knife will kill you ten times quicker if he catches you in a dark alley. And catching someone off their guard is remarkably easy if you can track their every movement using their blood.

So I headed across the rooftops. My plan was to take a handful of autumn leaves, mark them with my blood, and send them tumbling endlessly around the House of the Wind. It was a trick I’d used before.

But as I jumped across a narrow alley, I saw lightning flicker in the clouds and smelled rain in the air. A storm was coming. Not only would the rain mat down the leaves, keeping them from moving around, but it would wash my blood away as well.

Standing there on the rooftop, feeling like I’d had twelve colors of hell beaten out of me, brought back unsettling echoes of my years in Tarbean. I watched the distant lightning for a moment and tried not to let the feeling overwhelm me. I forced myself to remember I wasn’t the same helpless starving child I’d been back then.

I heard the faint, drumlike sound as a piece of tin roofing bent behind me. I stiffened, then relaxed as I heard Auri’s voice, “Kvothe?”

I looked to my right and saw her small shape standing a dozen feet away. The clouds were hiding the moon, but I could hear a smile in her voice as she said, “I saw you running across the tops of things.”

I turned the rest of the way around to face her, glad there wasn’t much light. I didn’t like to think how Auri might react to the sight of me half naked and covered in blood.

“Hello Auri,” I said. “There’s a storm coming. You shouldn’t be up on the tops of things tonight.”

She tilted her head. “You are,” she said simply.

I sighed. “I am. But only—”

A great spider of lightning crawled across the sky, illuminating everything for the space of a long second. Then it was gone, leaving me flash-blind.

“Auri?” I called, worried the sight of me had scared her off.

There was another flicker of lightning, and I saw her standing closer. She pointed at me, grinning delightedly. “You look like an Amyr,” she said. “Kvothe is one of the Ciridae.”

I looked down at myself and with the next lightning flicker I saw what she meant. I had dried blood running down the back of my hands from when I’d been trying to stanch my wounds. It looked like the old tattoos the Amyr had used to mark their highest ranking members.

I was so surprised by her reference that I forgot the first thing I’d learned about Auri. I forgot to be careful and asked her a question, “Auri, how do you know about the Ciridae?”

There was no response. The next flicker of lightning showed me nothing but an empty rooftop and an unforgiving sky.