Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

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

The Wise Man's Fear (32 page)

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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I set about methodically searching Ambrose’s rooms. The ring wasn’t on his chest of drawers or the bedside table. It wasn’t in any of his desk drawers, or on his jewelry tray in his dressing room. He didn’t even have a locked jewelry box, mind you, just a tray with all manner of pins, rings, and chains scattered carelessly across it.

I left everything where it was, which isn’t to say I didn’t think about robbing the bastard blind. Just a few pieces of his jewelry could pay my tuition for a year. But it went against my plan: get in, find the ring, and get out. So long as I left no evidence of my visit, I guessed Ambrose would simply assume he’d lost the ring if he noticed it was gone at all. It was the perfect sort of crime: no suspicion, no pursuit, no consequences.

Besides, it’s notoriously difficult to fence jewelry in a town as small as Imre. It would be far too easy for someone to trace it back to me.

That said, I’ve never claimed to be a priest, and there were plenty of opportunities for mischief in Ambrose’s rooms. So I indulged myself. While checking Ambrose’s pockets, I weakened a few seams so there was a fair chance of him splitting his pants up the back the next time he sat down or mounted his horse. I loosened the handle on his chimney’s flue so it would eventually fall off, and his room would fill with smoke while he scrambled to reattach it.

I was trying to think of something to do to his damned irritating plumed hat when the oak twig in my pocket twitched violently, making me jump. Then it twitched again and broke sharply in half. I cursed bitterly under my breath. Ambrose couldn’t have been gone for more than twenty minutes. What had brought him back so soon?

I clicked off my sympathy lamp and stuffed it into my cloak. Then I scurried into the next room to make my escape through the window. It was irritating to go through all the trouble of getting in just to leave again, but as long as Ambrose didn’t know anyone had broken into his rooms, I could simply come back another night.

But the window didn’t open. I pushed harder, wondering if it had jammed itself shut when the wind had slammed it.

Then I glimpsed a thin strip of brass running along the inside of the windowsill. I couldn’t read the sygaldry in the dim light, but I know wards when I see them. That explained why Ambrose was back so soon. He knew someone had broken in. What’s more, the best sort of wards wouldn’t just warn of an intruder, they could hold a door or window shut to seal a thief in.

I bolted for the door, hands scrabbling in the pockets of my cloak, looking for something long and slender I could use to foul the lock. Not finding anything suitable, I snatched a pen from his writing desk, jammed it into the keyhole, then jerked it hard sideways, breaking the metal head off inside the lock. A moment later I heard a grating metallic noise as Ambrose attempted to unlock the door from his side, fumbling and cursing when he couldn’t get his key to fit.

By that point I was already back at the window, shining my lamp back and forth along the strip of brass and murmuring runes under my breath. It was simple enough. I could render it useless by scratching out a handful of connecting runes, then open the window and escape.

I hurried back to the sitting room and snatched the letter opener off his desk, knocking over the capped inkwell in my hurry. I was just about to begin eliding runes when I realized how stupid that would be. Any petty thief could break into Ambrose’s rooms, but the number of people who knew enough sygaldry to foul a ward was much lower. I might as well sign my name on his window frame.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts, then returned the letter opener to the desk and replaced the inkwell. I returned and examined the long brass strip more closely. Breaking something is simple, understanding it is harder.

This is doubly true when you are confronted with the sounds of muttered cursing from behind a door, accompanied by the clack and rattle of someone trying to unjam a lock.

Then the hallway went quiet, which was even more unnerving. I finally managed to puzzle out the sequence of wards as I heard several sets of footsteps in the hall. I broke my mind into three pieces and focused my Alar as I pushed against the window. My hands and feet grew cold as I pulled heat from my body to counteract the ward, trying not to panic as I heard a loud thump as something heavy struck the door.

The window swung open, and I scrambled backward over the sash and onto the roof as something struck the door again and I heard the sharp crack of splintering wood. I still could have made it away safely, but when I set my right foot down on the roof, I felt a clay tile crack under my weight. As my foot slid, I grabbed the windowsill with both hands to steady myself.

Then the wind gusted, catching the open window and flinging it toward my head. I brought up my arm to protect my face, and it struck my elbow instead, smashing one of the small panes of glass. The impact pushed me sideways onto my right foot, which slid the rest of the way out from underneath me.

Then, since all my other options seemed to be exhausted, I decided it would be best if I fell off the roof.

Acting on pure instinct, my hands scrabbled madly. I dislodged a few more clay tiles, then caught hold of the lip of the roof. My grip wasn’t good, but it slowed and spun me so that I didn’t land on my head or my back. Instead I landed facedown, like a cat.

Except a cat’s legs are all the same length. I landed on my hands and knees. My hands merely stung, but my knees striking the cobblestones hurt as badly as anything I’d ever felt in my entire young life. The pain was blinding, and I heard myself yelp like a dog that’s been kicked.

A second later a hail of heavy red roofing tiles fell around me. Most shattered on the cobblestones, but one clipped the back of my head, while another caught me square on the elbow, making my entire forearm go numb.

I didn’t spare it a moment’s thought. A broken arm would heal, but expulsion from the University would last a lifetime. I pulled my hood up and forced myself to my feet. Using one hand to make sure the hood of my cloak stayed in place, I staggered a few steps until I was under the eaves of the Golden Pony, out of sight of the upstairs window.

Then I was running, running, running. . . .

Eventually I made my careful, limping way onto the rooftops and let myself into my room by the window. It was slow going, but I had little choice. I couldn’t walk past everyone in the taproom disheveled, limping, and generally looking as if I’d just fallen off a roof.

Once I caught my breath and spent some time abusing myself for several types of blinding idiocy, I took stock of my wounds. The good news was that I hadn’t broken either of my legs, but I had splendid bruises blooming just below each knee. The tile that had grazed my head had left a lump, but hadn’t cut me. And while my elbow throbbed with a dull ache, my hand was no longer numb.

There was a knock at the door. I froze for a moment, then drew the birch twig from my pocket, muttered a quick binding, and jerked it back and forth.

I heard a startled noise from out in the hall, followed by Wilem’s low laugh. “That’s not funny,” I heard Sim say. “Let us in.”

I let them in. Simmon sat on the edge of the bed, and Wilem took the chair by the desk. I closed the door and sat on the other half of the bed. Even with all of us seated, the tiny room was crowded.

We eyed each other soberly for a moment, then Simmon spoke up. “Apparently Ambrose startled a thief in his rooms tonight. Fellow jumped out a window rather than get caught.”

I gave a brief, humorless laugh. “Hardly. I was almost out when the window blew shut on me.” I gestured awkwardly. “Knocked me off the roof.”

Wilem let out a relieved sigh. “I thought I botched the binding.”

I shook my head. “I had plenty of warning. I just wasn’t as careful as I should have been.”

“Why was he back so early?” Simmon asked, looking at Wilem. “Did you hear anything when he came in?”

“It probably occurred to him that my handwriting is not especially feminine,” Wilem said.

“He had wards on his windows,” I said. “Probably linked to a ring or something he carries with him. They must have tipped him off as soon as I opened the window.”

“Did you get it?”Wilem asked.

I shook my head.

Simmon craned his neck to get a better look at my arm. “Are you okay?”

I followed his eyes, but didn’t see anything. Then I tugged at my shirt and noticed that it was stuck to the back of my arm. With all my other pains, I hadn’t noticed it.

Moving gingerly, I pulled my shirt up over my head. The elbow of the shirt was torn and speckled with blood. I cursed bitterly. I only owned four shirts, and now this one was ruined.

I tried to get a look at my the injury, and quickly realized that you couldn’t get a look at the back of your own elbow, no matter how much you wanted to. Eventually I held it up for Simmon’s inspection.

“It’s not much,” he said, holding his fingers a little more than two inches apart. “There’s only one cut and it’s hardly bleeding. The rest of it’s just scraped up. It looks like you scuffed it hard against something.”

“Clay tile from the roof fell on me,” I said.

“Lucky,” Wilem grunted. “Who else could fall off a roof and end up with nothing more than a few scrapes?”

“I’ve got bruises on my knees the size of apples,” I said. “I’ll be lucky if I can walk tomorrow.” But deep down I knew he was right. The clay tile that had landed on my elbow could easily have broken my arm. The broken edges of the clay tiles were sometimes sharp as knives, so if it had hit me differently, it could have cut me down to the bone. I hate clay roofing tiles.

“Well, it could have been worse,” Simmon said briskly as he came to his feet. “Let’s go to the Medica and get you patched up.”

“
Kraem
no,” Wilem said. “He can’t go to the Medica. They will be asking to see if anyone is hurt.”

Simmon sat down again. “Of course,” he said, sounding vaguely disgusted with himself. “I knew that.” He looked me over. “At least you’re not hurt anywhere that people can see.”

I looked at Wilem. “You have a problem with blood, don’t you?”

His expression grew slightly offended. “I wouldn’t say . . .” His eyes darted to my elbow and his face grew a little pale despite his dark Cealdish complexion. His mouth made a thin line. “Yes.”

“Fair enough.” I started to cut my ruined shirt into strips of cloth. “Congratulations Sim. You’ve been promoted to field medic.” I opened a drawer and brought out hook needle and gut, iodine, and a small pot of goose grease.

Sim looked at the needle, then back at me, eyes wide.

I gave him my best smile. “It’s easy. I’ll talk you through it.”

I sat on the floor with my arm over my head while Simmon washed, stitched, and bandaged my elbow. He surprised me by being nowhere near as squeamish as I’d expected. His hands were more careful and confident than those of many students in the Medica who did this sort of thing all the time.

“So the three of us were here, playing breath all night?” Wil asked, pointedly avoiding looking in my direction.

“Sounds good,” Sim said. “Can we say I won?”

“No,” I said. “People must have seen Wil at the Pony. Lie and they’ll catch me for sure.”

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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