The Wise Man's Fear Part 17

The Hunt DETERMINED TO MAKE A good showing of myself in Elodin's cla.s.s, I tracked down Wilem and negotiated an exchange of future drinks for his help navigating the Archives.

We made our way through the cobbled streets of the University together, the wind gusting as the huge, windowless shape of the Archives loomed above us across the courtyard. The words Vorfelan Rhinata Morie Vorfelan Rhinata Morie were chiseled into the stone above the ma.s.sive stone doors. were chiseled into the stone above the ma.s.sive stone doors.

As we came closer, I realized my hands were sweaty. "Lord and lady, hold on for a second." I said as I stopped walking.

Wil raised an eyebrow at me.

"I'm nervous as a new wh.o.r.e," I said. "Just give me a moment."

"You said Lorren lifted his ban two days ago," Wilem said. "I thought you'd be inside as soon as you had permission."

"I was waiting for them to update the ledgers." I wiped my damp hands on my shirt. "I know something's going to happen," I said anxiously. "My name won't be in the book. Or Ambrose will be at the desk and I'll have some sort of relapse from that plum drug and end up kneeling on his throat and screaming."

"I'd like to see that," Wil said. "But Ambrose doesn't work today."

"That's something," I admitted, relaxing a bit. I pointed to the words above the door. "Do you know what that means?"

Wil glanced up. "The desire for knowledge shapes a man," he said. "Or something close to that."

"I like that." I took a deep breath. "Right. Let's go."

I pulled open the huge stone doors and entered a small antechamber, then Wil tugged open the inner doors and we stepped into the entry hall. In the middle of the room was a huge wooden desk with several large, leather-bound ledgers open atop it. Several imposing doors led off in different directions.

Fela sat behind the desk, her curling hair pulled back into a tail. The red light from the sympathy lamps made her look different, but no less pretty. She smiled.

"h.e.l.lo Fela," I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt. "I heard I'm back in Lorren's good books. Could you check for me?"

She nodded and began to flip through the ledger in front of her. Her face brightened, and she pointed. Then her expression went dark.

I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach, "What is it?" I asked. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she said. "Nothing's wrong."

"You look like something's wrong, "Wil grumbled. "What does it say?"

Fela hesitated, then spun the book around so we could read it: Kvothe, Arliden's son Kvothe, Arliden's son. Red-haired Red-haired. Fair complected Fair complected. Young Young. Written next to this in the margin in a different script were the words, Ruh b.a.s.t.a.r.d Ruh b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I grinned at her. "Correct on all counts. Can I go in?"

She nodded. "Do you need lamps?" she asked, opening a drawer.

"I do," Wil said, already writing his name in a separate ledger.

"I've got my own," I said, pulling my small lamp from a pocket of my cloak.

Fela opened the admittance ledger and signed us in. My hand shook as I wrote, skittering the pen's nib embarra.s.singly, so it flicked ink across the page.

Fela blotted it away and closed the book. She smiled up at me. "Welcome back," she said.

I let Wilem lead the way through the Stacks and did my best to look properly amazed.

It wasn't a hard part to play. While I'd had access to the Archives for some time, I'd been forced to creep around like a thief. I had kept my lamp on its dimmest setting and avoided the main hallways for fear of accidentally running into someone.

Shelves covered every bit of the stone walls. Some hallways were broad and open with high ceilings, while others formed narrow lanes barely wide enough for two people to pa.s.s if they both turned sideways. The air was heavy with the smell of leather and dust, of old parchment and binding glue. It smelled of secrets.

Wilem led me through twisting shelves, up some stairs then through a long, wide hallway lined with books bound all in identical red leather. Finally we came to a door with dim red light showing around the edges.

"There are rooms set aside for private study," Wilem said softly. "Reading holes. Sim and I use this one a lot. Not many people know about it." Wil knocked briefly on the door before he opened it to reveal a windowless room barely larger than the table and chairs it contained.

Sim sat at the table, the red light of his sympathy lamp making his face look ruddier than usual. His eyes grew wide when he saw me. "Kvothe? What are you doing in here?" He turned to Wilem, horrified. "What is he doing in here?"

"Lorren lifted his ban, "Wilem said. "Our young boy has a reading list. He's planning his first book hunt."

"Congratulations!" Sim beamed at me. "Can I help? I'm falling asleep here." He held out his hand.

I tapped my temple. "The day I can't memorize twenty t.i.tles is the day I don't belong in the Arcanum," I said. Though that was only half the truth. The full truth was that I only owned a half-dozen precious sheets of paper. I couldn't afford to waste one on something like this.

Sim pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket along with a nub of pencil. "I need things written down," he said. "Not all of us memorize ballads for fun."

I shrugged and began to jot them down. "It will probably go faster if we split my list three ways," I said.

Wilem gave me a look. "You think you can just walk around and find books by yourself?" He looked at Sim, who was grinning widely.

Of course. I wasn't supposed to know anything about the layout of the Stacks. Wil and Sim didn't know I'd been sneaking in at nights for almost a month.

It's not that I didn't trust them, but Sim couldn't lie to save his life, and Wil worked as a scriv. I didn't want to force him to choose between my secret and his duty to Master Lorren.

So I decided to play dumb. "Oh, I'll muddle through," I said nonchalantly. "It can't be that hard to figure out."

"There are so many books in the Archives," Wil said slowly, "that merely reading all the t.i.tles would take you a full span." He paused, looking at me intently. "Eleven full days without pause for food or sleep."

"Really?" Sim asked. "That long?"

Wil nodded. "I worked it out a year ago. It helps stop the E'lir's mewling when they must wait for me to fetch them a book." He looked at me. "There are books without t.i.tles too. And scrolls. And clays. And many languages."

"What's a clay?" I asked.

"Clay tablet," Wil explained. "They were some of the only things to survive when Caluptena burned. Some have been transcribed, but not all."

"All that's beside the point," Sim interjected. "The problem is the organization."

"Cataloging," Wil said. "There have been many different systems over the years. Some masters prefer one, some prefer another." He frowned. "Some create their own systems for organizing the books."

I laughed. "You sound like they should be pilloried for it."

"Perhaps," Wil grumbled. "I would not weep over such a thing."

Sim looked at him. "You can't blame a master for trying to organize things in the best way possible."

"I can," Wilem said. "If the Archives were organized badly, it would be a uniform unpleasantness we could work with. But there have been so many different systems in the last fifty years. Books mislabeled. t.i.tles mistranslated."

He ran his hands through his hair, sounding suddenly weary. "And there are always new books coming in, needing to be cataloged. Always the lazy E'lir in Tombs who want us to fetch for them. It is like trying to dig a hole in the bottom of a river."

"So what you're saying," I said slowly, "is that you find your time spent as a scriv to be both pleasant and rewarding."

Sim m.u.f.fled a laugh in his hands.

"And then there are you people." Wil looked at me, his voice dangerous and low. "Students given the freedom in the Stacks. You come in, read half a book, then hide it so you can continue later at your own convenience. "Wil's hands made gripping motions as if clutching at the front of someone's shirt. Or perhaps a throat. "Then you forget where you have put the book, and it is gone as surely as if you had burned it."

Wil pointed a finger at me. "If I ever discover you have done such a thing," he said, smoldering with anger, "no G.o.d will keep you safe from me."

I thought guiltily about three books I had hidden in just this way while I was studying for exams. "I promise," I said. "I won't ever do that." Again Again.

Sim stood up from the table, rubbing his hands together briskly. "Right. Simply said, it's a mess in here, but if you stick to the books they have listed in Tolem's catalog, you should be able to find what you're looking for. Tolem is the system we use now. Wil and I will show you where they keep the ledgers."

"And a few other things," Wil said. "Tolem is hardly comprehensive. Some of your books might require deeper digging." He turned to open the door.

As it turned out, only four books on my list were in the Tolem ledgers. After that, we were forced to leave the well-organized parts of the Stacks behind. Wil seemed to take the list as a personal challenge, so I learned a great deal about the Archives that day. Wil took me to the Dead Ledgers, the Backward Stair, the Bottom Wing.

Even so, at the end of four hours we'd only managed to track down the locations of seven books. Wil seemed frustrated by this, but I thanked him heartily, telling him he'd given me everything I needed to continue the search on my own.

Over the next several days, I spent almost every free moment I had in the Archives, hunting the books on Elodin's list. I wanted nothing more than to start this cla.s.s with my best foot forward, and I was determined to read every book he had given us.

The first was a travelogue I found rather enjoyable. The second was some rather bad poetry, but it was short, and I forced my way through by gritting my teeth and occasionally closing one eye so as not to damage the entirety of my brain. Third was a book of rhetorical philosophy, ponderously written.

Then came a book detailing wildflowers in northern Atur. A fencing manual with some rather confusing ill.u.s.trations. Another book of poetry, this one thick as a brick and even more self-indulgent than the first.

It took hours, but I read them all. I even went so far as to take notes on two of my precious pieces of paper.

Next came, as near as I could tell, the journal of a madman. While it sounds interesting, it was really only a headache pressed between covers. The man wrote in a tight script with no s.p.a.ces between the words. No breaks for paragraphs. No punctuation. No consistent grammar or spelling.

That was when I began to skim. The next day when confronted with two books written in Modegan, a series of essays concerning crop rotation and a monograph on Vintish mosaics, I stopped taking notes.

The last handful of books I merely flipped through, wondering why Elodin would want us to read a two-hundred-year-old tax ledger from a barony in the Small Kingdoms, an outdated medical text, and a badly translated morality play.

While I quickly lost my fascination with reading Elodin's books, I still delighted in hunting them down. I irritated more than a few scrivs with my constant questions:Who was in charge of reshelving? Where were the Vintish dictums kept? Who had the keys to the fourth bas.e.m.e.nt scroll storage? Where did the damaged books go while they were waiting to be repaired?

In the end, I found nineteen of the books. All of them except En Temerant Voistra En Temerant Voistra. And that one was not from lack of trying. At my best guess, the entire venture took nearly fifty hours of searching and reading.

I arrived at Elodin's next cla.s.s ten minutes early, proud as a priest. I brought my two pages of careful notes, eager to impress Elodin with my dedication and thoroughness.

All seven of us showed up for cla.s.s before the noon bell. The door to the lecture hall was closed, so we stood in the hallway, waiting for Elodin to arrive.

We shared stories about our search through the Archives and speculated as to why Elodin considered these books important. Fela had been a scriv for years, and she had only found seventeen of them. n.o.body had found En Temerant Voistra En Temerant Voistra, or even a mention of it.

Elodin still hadn't arrived by the time the noon bell rang, and at fifteen minutes past the hour I grew tired of standing in the hallway and tried the door to the lecture hall. At first the handle didn't move at all, but when I jiggled it in frustration, the latch turned and the door opened a crack.

"Thought it was locked," Inyssa said, frowning.

"Just stuck," I said, pushing it open.

We entered the huge, empty room and walked down the stairs to the front row of seats. On the large slate in front of us, written in Elodin's oddly tidy handwriting was a single word: "Discuss."

We settled into our seats and waited, but Elodin was nowhere to be seen. We looked at the slate, then at each other, at a loss for what exactly we were supposed to do.

From the looks on everyone's faces, I wasn't the only one who was irritated. I'd spent fifty hours digging up his d.a.m.n useless books. I'd done my part. Why wasn't he doing his?

The seven of us waited for the next two hours, chatting idly, waiting for Elodin to arrive.

He didn't.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

The Hidden City WHILE THE HOURS I'D wasted hunting for Elodin's books left me profoundly irritated, I emerged from the experience with a solid working knowledge of the Archives. The most important thing I learned was that it was not merely a warehouse filled with books. The Archives was like a city unto itself. It had roads and winding lanes. It had alleys and shortcuts.

Just like a city, parts of the Archives teemed with activity. The Scriptorium held rows of desks where scrivs toiled over translations or copied faded texts into new books with fresh, dark ink. The Sorting Hall buzzed with activity as scrivs sifted and reshelved books.

The b.u.g.g.e.ry was not at all what I expected, thank goodness. Instead, it proved to be the place where new books were decontaminated before being added to the collection. Apparently all manner of creatures love books, some devouring parchment and leather, others with a taste for paper or glue. Bookworms were the least of them, and after listening to a few of Wilem's stories I wanted nothing more than to wash my hands.

Cataloger's Mew, the Bindery, Bolts, Palimpsest, all of them were busy as beehives, full of quiet, industrious scrivs.

But other parts of the Archives were quite the opposite of busy. The acquisitions office, for example, was tiny and perpetually dark. Through the window I could see that one entire wall of the office was nothing but a huge map with cities and roads marked in such detail that it looked like a snarled loom. The map was covered in a layer of clear alchemical lacquer, and there were notes written at various points in red grease pencil, detailing rumors of desirable books and the last known positions of the various acquisition teams.

Tomes was like a great public garden. Any student was free to come and read the books shelved there. Or they could submit a request to the scrivs, who would grudgingly head off into the Stacks to find if not the exact book you wanted, then at least something closely related.

But the Stacks comprised the vast majority of the Archives. That was where the books actually lived. And just like in any city, there were good neighborhoods and bad.

In the good neighborhoods everything was properly organized and cataloged. In these places a ledger-entry would lead you to a book as simply as a pointing finger.

Then there were the bad neighborhoods. Sections of the Archives that were forgotten, or neglected, or simply too troublesome to deal with at the moment. These were places where books were organized under old catalogs, or under no catalog at all.

There were walls of shelves like mouths with missing teeth, where longgone scrivs had cannibalized an old catalog to bring books into whatever system was fashionable at the time. Thirty years ago two entire floors had gone from good neighborhood to bad when the Larkin ledger-books were burned by a rival faction of scrivs.

And, of course, there was the four-plate door. The secret at the heart of the city.

It was nice to go strolling in the good neighborhoods. It was pleasant to go looking for a book and find it exactly where it should be. It was easy. Comforting. Quick.

But the bad neighborhoods were fascinating. The books there were dusty and disused. When you opened one, you might read words no eyes had touched for hundreds of years. There was treasure there, among the dross.