The Wise Man's Fear (42 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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And why wouldn’t she? Ambrose was a high-ranking scriv. He could sneak her into the Archives. Hell, with the resources at his disposal, he might not even have to do that. Everyone knew Lorren occasionally granted nonarcanum scholars access to the Archives, especially if their patrons were willing to pave the way with a generous donation. Ambrose had once bought an entire inn just to spite me. How much more would he be willing to pay to get hold of my blood?
No.Wil and Sim had been right about that. Ambrose wasn’t the sort to get his hands dirty if he could avoid it. Much simpler for him to hire Devi to do his dirty work for him. She’d already been expelled. She had nothing to lose and all the secrets of the Archives to gain.
“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t do much alchemy.” I took a deep breath and decided to jump right to the point. “But I do need to see my blood.”
Devi’s cheery expression froze on her face. Her mouth still smiled, but her eyes were cold. “I beg your pardon?” It wasn’t really a question.
“I need to see the blood I left here with you,” I said. “I need to know it’s safe.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Her smile fell completely away, and her mouth made a thin, flat line. “That’s not how I do business. Besides, do you think I’d be stupid enough to keep that sort of thing here?”
I felt a sinking sensation in my gut, still not wanting to believe it. “We can go to wherever you keep it,” I said calmly. “Someone has been conducting malfeasance against me. I need to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with. That’s all.”
“As if I would just show you where I keep that sort of thing,” Devi said with scathing sarcasm. “Have you been struck in the head or something?”
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
“Go ahead and be afraid,” Devi said with a glare. “Go ahead and insist. It won’t make any difference.”
It was her. There was no other reason for her to keep it from me. “If you refuse to show me,” I continued, trying to keep my voice level and calm. “I must assume you’ve sold my blood, or made your own mommet of me for some reason.”
Devi leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms with deliberate nonchalance. “You can assume whatever stupid thing pleases you.You’ll see your blood when you settle your debt with me, and not one moment sooner.”
I brought out a wax doll from underneath my cloak and rested my hand on the desk so she could see it.
“Is that supposed to be me?” she said. “With hips like that?” But the words were just the shell of a joke, a reflex action. Her tone was flat and angry. Her eyes were hard.
With my other hand I brought out a short strawberry-blond hair and fixed it to the doll’s head. Devi’s hand went unconsciously to her own hair, her expression shocked.
“Someone has been attacking me,” I said. “I need to make sure my blood is—”
This time when I mentioned my blood, I saw her eyes flicker to one of her desk’s drawers. Her fingers twitched slightly.
I met her eye. “Don’t,” I said grimly.
Devi’s hand darted to the drawer, yanking it open.
I didn’t doubt for a second that the drawer held the mommet she’d made of me. I couldn’t let her get hold of it. I concentrated and murmured a binding.
Devi’s hand came to a jarring halt halfway to the open drawer.
I hadn’t done anything to hurt her. No fire, no pain, nothing like what she’d done to me over the last several days. It was just a binding to keep her motionless. When I’d stopped at the tavern to warm myself, I’d taken a pinch of ash from their fireplace. It wasn’t a great source, and it was farther away than I’d like, but it was better than nothing.
Still, I could probably only hold her like this for a few minutes before I drew so much heat from the fire that I extinguished it. But that should be enough time for me to get the truth out of her and reclaim the mommet she’d made.
Devi’s eyes grew wild as she struggled to move. “How dare you!” she shouted. “How dare you!”
“How dare
you!
” I spat back angrily. “I can’t believe I trusted you! I defended you to my friends—” I trailed off as the unthinkable happened. Despite my binding, Devi started to move, her hand inching its way into the open drawer.
I concentrated harder and Devi’s hand came to a halt. Then, slowly, it began to creep forward again, disappearing into the drawer. I couldn’t believe it.
“You think you can come in here and threaten me?” Devi hissed, her face a mask of rage. “You think I can’t take care of myself? I made Re’lar before they threw me out, you little slipstick. I earned it. My Alar is like the ocean in storm.” Her hand was almost completely inside the drawer now.
I felt a clammy sweat break out across my forehead and broke my mind three more times. I murmured again and each piece of my mind made a separate binding, focusing on keeping her still. I drew heat from my body, feeling the cold crawl up my arms as I bore down on her. That was five bindings in all. My outside limit.
Devi went motionless as stone, and she chuckled deep in her throat, grinning. “Oh you’re
very
good. I almost believe the stories about you now. But what makes you think you can do what even Elxa Dal couldn’t? Why do you think they expelled me? They feared a woman who could match a master by her second year.” Sweat made her pale hair cling to her forehead. She clenched her teeth, her pixie face savage with determination. Her hand began to move again.
Then, with a sudden burst of motion she yanked her hand out of the drawer as if pulling it free from thick mud. She slammed something round and metallic down on the top of the desk, making the lamp’s flame leap and stutter. It wasn’t a mommet. It wasn’t a bottle of my blood.
“You bastard,” she said, almost chanting the words. “You think I’m not ready for this sort of thing? You think you’re the first to try and take advantage of me?” She twisted the top of the grey metal sphere. It gave a distinct
click
and she drew her hand slowly away. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t keep her still.
That’s when I recognized the device she’d brought out of the drawer. I’d studied them with Manet last term. Kilvin referred to them as “self-contained exothermic accelerators,” but everyone else called them pocket warmers or poor-boys.
They held kerosene, or naphtha, or sugar. Once activated, a poor-boy burned the fuel inside, pouring out as much heat as a forge fire for about five minutes. Then it needed to be dismantled, cleaned, and refilled. They were messy and dangerous and tended to break easily because of the rapid heating and cooling. But for a short time, they gave a sympathist a bonfire’s worth of energy.
I lowered myself into the Heart of Stone and splintered off another piece of my mind, murmuring the binding. Then I tried for a seventh and failed. I was tired, and I hurt. The cold was leeching up my arms, and I had been through so much in the last few days. But I clenched my teeth and forced myself to murmur the words under my breath.
Devi didn’t even seem to notice the sixth binding. Moving as slowly as the hand of a clock, she pulled a loose thread free from her sleeve. The poor-boy made a groaning, metallic creak and heat began to roll off it in shimmering waves.
“I don’t have a decent link to you right now,” Devi said, as the hand holding the thread moved slowly back toward the poor-boy. “But if you don’t loose your binding, I’ll use this to burn every scrap of clothing off your body, and smile while you scream.”
It’s strange what thoughts flash into your head in these situations. The first thing I thought of wasn’t being horribly burned. It was that the cloak Fela had given me would be ruined, and I’d be left with only two shirts.
My eyes darted to the top of Devi’s desk where the varnish was already starting to blister in a ring around the poor-boy. I could feel the heat radiating against my face.
I know when I’m beaten. I broke the bindings, my mind reeling as the pieces slid back together.
Devi rolled her shoulders. “Let go of it,” she said.
I opened my hand and the wax doll toppled drunkenly onto the desk. I sat with my hands in my lap and remained very still, not wanting to startle or threaten her in any way.
Devi stood up and leaned across the desk. She reached out and ran a hand through my hair, then made a fist, tearing some away. I yelped despite myself.
Sitting back down, Devi picked up the doll and replaced her hair with several of my own. She muttered a binding.
“Devi, you don’t understand,” I said. “I just needed to—”
When I had bound Devi, I had focused on her arms and legs. It’s the most efficient way to restrain someone. I’d had limited heat to work with and couldn’t waste energy on anything else.
But Devi had heat to spare right now, and her binding was like being shut in an iron vise. I couldn’t move my arms or legs, or jaw, or tongue. I could barely breathe, only taking tiny, shallow breaths that didn’t require any movement of my chest. It was horrifying, like having someone’s hand around my heart.
“I trusted you.” Devi’s voice was low and rough, like a fine-toothed surgeon’s saw cutting away an amputated leg. “I
trusted
you.” She gave me a look that was pure fury and loathing. “I actually had someone come here, looking to buy your blood. Fifty-five talents. I turned him away. I denied even knowing you because you and I had a business relationship. I stick to the bargains I make.”
Who?
I wanted to shout. But I could only make an inarticulate
huuu huuu
sound.
Devi looked at the wax doll she held, then at the poor-boy charring a dark ring into the top of her desk. “Our business relationship is now over,” she said tightly. “I am calling your debt due. You have until the end of the term to get me my money. Nine talents. If you are one half-breath late, I will sell your blood to recover my investment and wash my hands of you.”
She eyed me coldly. “This is better than you deserve. I still have your blood. If you go to the masters at the University or the constable in Imre, it will end badly for you.”
Smoke was curling up from the desk now, and Devi moved her hand to hold the mommet over the creaking metal of the poor-boy. She murmured, and I felt a prickle of heat wash over my whole body. It felt exactly like the sudden fevers that had been plaguing me for days.
“When I release this binding, you will say, ‘I understand, Devi.’ Then you will leave. At the end of the term, you will send someone with the money you owe. You will not come yourself. I do not ever want to see you again.”
Devi looked at me with such contempt that I cringe to remember it. Then she spat on me, tiny flecks of saliva striking the poor-boy and hissing into steam. “If I glimpse you again, even out of the corner of my eye, it will end badly for you.”
She lifted the wax mommet over her head, then brought it down sharply on the desk with her hand flat on top of it. If I’d been able to flinch or cry out in panic, I would have.
The mommet shattered, arms and legs breaking away, the head skittering off to roll across the desk and onto the floor. I felt a sudden, jarring impact, as if I’d fallen several feet and landed flat on a stone floor. It was startling, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been. Through the terror, some small part of me marveled at her precision and control.
The binding that held me fell away, and I drew a deep breath. “I understand, Devi,” I said. “But can—”
“Get OUT!” she shouted.
I got out. I would like to say it was a dignified exit, but that would not be the truth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
 
Pressure
 
W
IL AND SIM WERE waiting for me in the back corner of Anker’s. I brought over two mugs of beer and a tray laden with fresh bread and butter, cheese and fruit, and bowls of hot soup, thick with beef and turnip.
Wilem rubbed one eye with the palm of his hand. He looked a little peaked under his dark Cealdish complexion, but other than that he didn’t seem much the worse for three nights of short sleep. “What’s the occasion?”
“I just want to help you two keep your energy up,” I said.
“Way ahead of you,” Sim said. “I had a refreshing nap during my sublimation lecture.” His eyes were a little dark around the edges, but he didn’t seem much the worse for wear either.
Wilem began to load up his plate. “You mentioned you had news. What sort of news?”
“It’s mixed,” I said. “Which do you want first, good or bad?”
“Bad news first,” Simmon said.
“Kilvin won’t give me the plans I need to make my own gram. It’s the sygaldry involved. Runes for blood and bone and such. He feels they’re too dangerous to be taught to Re’lar.”
Simmon looked curious. “Did he say why?”
“He didn’t,” I admitted. “But I can guess. I could use them to make all manner of unpleasant things. Like a little metal disk with a hole in it. Then, if you put a drop of someone’s blood in it, you could use it to burn them alive.”
“God, that’s awful,” Sim said, setting down his spoon. “Do you ever have any nice thoughts?”

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