The Wise Man's Fear Part 42

"Puppet again," I grumbled. "Are you ever going to introduce me? The two of you are so tight-lipped about him."

Wilem shrugged. "You will understand when you meet him."

Sim's books divided into three categories. One supported his side, telling of pagan rites and animal sacrifices. The other speculated about an ancient civilization that used them as marker stones for roads, despite the fact that some were located on sheer mountainsides or river bottoms where no road could be.

His final book was interesting for other reasons: "... a pair of matched stone monoliths with a third across the top," Simmon read. "The locals refer to it as the door-post. While spring and summer pageants involve decorating and dancing around the stone, parents forbid their children from spending time near it when the moon is full. One well-respected and otherwise reasonable old man claimed ..."

Sim broke off reading. "Whatever," he said disgustedly and moved to close the book.

"Claimed what?" Wilem asked, his curiosity piqued.

Simmon rolled his eyes and continued reading, "Claimed at certain times men could pa.s.s through the stone door into the fair land where Felurian herself abides, loving and destroying men with her embrace."

"Interesting," Wilem murmured.

"No it isn't. It's childish, superst.i.tious bunk," Simmon said testily. "And none of this is getting us any closer to deciding who is right."

"How do you count them, Wilem?" I asked. "You're our impartial judge."

Wilem moved to the table and looked through the books. His dark eyebrows moved up and down as he considered. "Seven for Simmon. Six for Kvothe. Three contrary."

We looked briefly at the four books I had brought. Wilem ruled one of them out, which brought the tally to seven for Simmon and ten for me. "Hardly conclusive," Wilem mused.

"We could declare it a draw," I suggested magnanimously.

Simmon scowled. Good-natured or not, he hated losing a bet. "Fair enough," he said.

I turned to Wilem and gave a significant look at the pair of books still untouched on the table. "It looks like our bet will be settled a little more quickly, nia? nia?"

Wilem gave a predatory grin. "Very quickly." He lifted a book. "Here I have a copy of the proclamation which disbanded the Amyr." He opened to a marked page and began to read. "'Their actions will henceforth be held in account by the laws of the empire. No member of the Order shall presume to take upon themselves the right to hear a case, nor to pa.s.s judgment in court.' "

He looked up smugly. "See? If they had their adjudicating powers revoked, then they must have had some to begin with. So it stands to reason they were a part of the Aturan bureaucracy."

"Actually," I said apologetically, "The church has always had judiciary powers in Atur." I held up one of my two books. "It's funny you should bring the Alpura Prolycia Amyr Alpura Prolycia Amyr. I brought it too. The decree itself was issued by the church."

Wilem's expression darkened. "No it wasn't. It was listed in here as Emperor Nalto's sixty-third decree."

Puzzled, we compared our two books and found them directly contradictory.

"Well I guess those cancel each other out," Sim said. "What else have you guys got?"

"This is Feltemi Reis. The Lights of History The Lights of History," Wilem grumbled. "It is definitive. I didn't think I would need any further proof."

"Doesn't this bother either of you?" I thumped the two contradictory books with a knuckle. "These shouldn't be saying different things."

"We just read twenty books saying different things," Simmon pointed out. "Why would I have a problem with two more?"

"The purpose of the greystones is speculative. There's bound to be a variety of opinions. But the Alpura Prolycia Amyr Alpura Prolycia Amyr was an open decree. It turned thousands of the most powerful men and women in the Aturan Empire into outlaws. It was one of the primary reasons for the collapse of the empire. There's no reason for conflicting information." was an open decree. It turned thousands of the most powerful men and women in the Aturan Empire into outlaws. It was one of the primary reasons for the collapse of the empire. There's no reason for conflicting information."

"The order has has been disbanded for over three hundred years," Simmon said. "Plenty of time for some contradictions to arise." been disbanded for over three hundred years," Simmon said. "Plenty of time for some contradictions to arise."

I shook my head, flipping through both of the books. "Contrary opinions are one thing. Contrary facts are another." I held up my book. "This is The Fall of Empire The Fall of Empire by Greggor the Lesser. He's a windbag and a bigot, but he's the best historian of his age." I held up Wilem's book. "Feltemi Reis isn't nearly the historian, but he's twice the scholar Greggor was, and scrupulous about his facts." I looked back and forth between the books, frowning. "This doesn't make any sense." by Greggor the Lesser. He's a windbag and a bigot, but he's the best historian of his age." I held up Wilem's book. "Feltemi Reis isn't nearly the historian, but he's twice the scholar Greggor was, and scrupulous about his facts." I looked back and forth between the books, frowning. "This doesn't make any sense."

"So what now?" Sim said. "Another draw? That's disappointing."

"We need someone to judge," Wilem said. "A higher authority."

"Higher than Feltemi Reis?" I asked. "I doubt Lorren can be bothered to settle our bet."

Wil shook his head, then stood and brushed the wrinkles from the front of his shirt. "It means you finally get to meet Puppet."

CHAPTER FORTY.

Puppet "THE MOST IMPORTANT THING is to be polite," Simmon said in a hushed tone as we made our way through a narrow hallway lined with books. Our sympathy lamps shot bands of light through the shelves and made the shadows dance nervously. "But don't patronize him. He's a bit-odd, but he's not an idiot. Just treat him like you would treat anyone else."

"Except polite," I said sarcastically, tiring of this litany of advice.

"Exactly," Simmon said seriously.

"Where are we going, anyway?" I asked, mostly to stop Simmon's henpecking.

"Sub-three," Wilem said as he turned to descend a long flight of stone steps. Centuries of use had worn down the stone, making the stairs look as bowed as heavy-laden shelves. As we started down, the shadows made the steps look smooth and dark and edgeless, like an abandoned riverbed worn from the rock.

"Are you sure he's going to be there?"

Wil nodded. "I don't think he leaves his chambers very much."

"Chambers?" I asked. "He lives lives here?" here?"

Neither of them said anything as Wilem led the way down another flight of stairs, then through a long stretch of wide hallway with a low ceiling. Finally we came to an unremarkable door tucked into a corner. If I hadn't known better I would have a.s.sumed it was one of the countless reading holes scattered throughout the Stacks.

"Just don't do anything to upset him," Simmon said nervously.

I a.s.sumed my most polite expression as Wilem rapped on the door. The handle began to turn almost immediately. The door opened a crack, then was thrown wide. Puppet stood framed in the doorway, taller than any of us. The sleeves of his black robe billowed strikingly in the breeze of the opening door.

He stared at us haughtily for a moment, then looked puzzled and brought a hand to touch the side of his head. "Wait, I've forgotten my hood," he said, and kicked the door closed.

Odd as his brief appearance had been, I'd noticed something more disturbing. "Burned body of G.o.d," I whispered. "He's got candles in there. Does Lorren know?"

Simmon opened his mouth to answer when the door was thrown wide again. Puppet filled the doorway, his dark robe striking against the warm candlelight behind him. He was hooded now, with his arms upraised. The long sleeves of his robes caught the inrush of air and billowed impressively. The same rush of air caught his hood and blew it partway off his head.

"d.a.m.n," he said in a distracted voice. The hood settled half on, half off his head, partially covering one eye. He kicked the door shut again.

Wilem and Simmon remained straight-faced. I refrained from any comment.

There was a moment of quiet. Finally a m.u.f.fled voice came from the other side of the door. "Would you mind knocking again? It doesn't seem quite right otherwise."

Obediently, Wilem stepped back up to the door and knocked. Once, twice, then the door swung open and we were confronted with a looming figure in a dark robe. His cowled hood shadowed his face, and the long sleeves of his robe stirred in the wind.

"Who calls on Taborlin the Great?" Puppet intoned, his voice resonant, but slightly muted by the deep hood. A hand pointed dramatically. "You! Simmon!" There was a pause, and his voice lost its dramatic resonance. "I've seen you already today, haven't I?"

Simmon nodded. I could sense the laughter tumbling around in him, trying to find a way out.

"How long ago?"

"About an hour."

"Hmm." The hood nodded. "Was I better this time?" He reached up to push the hood back and I noticed the robe was too big for him, the sleeves hanging down to his fingertips. When his face emerged from the hood he was grinning like a child playing dress-up in his parents' clothes.

"You weren't doing Taborlin before," Simmon admitted.

"Oh." Puppet seemed a little put out. "How was I this time? The last time, I mean. Was it a good Taborlin?"

"Pretty good," Simmon said.

Puppet looked at Wilem.

"I liked the robe," Wil said. "But I always imagined Taborlin with a gentle voice."

"Oh." He finally looked at me. "h.e.l.lo."

"h.e.l.lo," I said in my politest tone.

"I don't know you." A pause. "Who are you?"

"I am Kvothe."

"You seem so certain of it," he said, looking at me intently. Another pause. "They call me Puppet."

"Who is 'they?' "

"Who are are they?" he corrected, raising a finger. they?" he corrected, raising a finger.

I smiled. "Who are they then?"

"Who were were they then?" they then?"

"Who are they now? now?" I clarified, my smile growing wider.

Puppet mirrored my smile in a distracted way and made a vague gesture with one hand. "You know, them. People." He continued to stare at me the same way I might examine an interesting stone or a type of leaf I'd never seen before.

"What do you call yourself?" I asked.

He seemed a little surprised, and his eyes focused onto me in a more ordinary way. "That would be telling, I suspect," he said with a touch of reproach. He glanced at the silent Wilem and Simmon. "You should come in now." He turned and walked inside.

The room wasn't particularly large. But it seemed bizarrely out of place, nestled in the belly of the Archives. There was a deep padded chair, a large wooden table, and a pair of doorways leading into other rooms.

Books were everywhere, overflowing shelves and bookcases. They were piled on the floor, scattered across tables and stacked on chairs. A pair of drawn curtains against one wall surprised me. My mind struggled with the impression that there must be a window behind them, despite the fact that I knew we were deep underground.

The room was lit with lamps and candles, long tapers and thick dripping pillars of wax. Each tongue of flame filled me with vague anxiety as I thought of open fire in a building filled with hundreds of thousands of precious books.

And there were puppets. They hung from shelves and pegs on walls. They lay crumpled in corners and under chairs. Some were in the process of being built or repaired, scattered among tools across the tabletop. There were shelves full of figurines, each cleverly carved and painted in the shape of a person.

On his way to his table, Puppet shrugged out of the black robe and let it fall carelessly to the floor. He was dressed plainly underneath, wrinkled white shirt, wrinkled dark pants, and mismatched socks much mended in the heel. I realized he was older than I'd thought. His face was smooth and unlined, but his hair was pure white and thin on top.

Puppet cleared a chair for me, carefully removing a small string puppet from the seat and finding it a place on a nearby shelf. He then took a seat at the table, leaving Wilem and Simmon standing. To their credit, they didn't seem terribly disconcerted.

Digging a little in the clutter on the table he brought out an irregularly shaped piece of wood and a small knife. He took another long, searching look at my face, then began to methodically whittle, curls of wood falling onto the tabletop.

Oddly enough, I had no desire to ask anyone what was going on. When you ask as many questions as I do, you learn when they are appropriate.

Besides, I knew what the answers would be. Puppet was one of the talented, not-quite-sane people who had found a niche for themselves at the University.

Arcanum training does unnatural things to students' minds. The most notable of these unnatural things is the ability to do what most people call magic and we call sympathy, sygaldry, alchemy, naming, and the like.

Some minds take to it easily, others have difficulty. The worst of these go mad and end up in Haven. But most minds don't shatter when subjected to the stress of the Arcanum, they simply crack a little. Sometimes these cracks showed in small ways: facial tics, stuttering. Other students heard voices, grew forgetful, went blind, went dumb.... Sometimes it was only for an hour or a day. Sometimes it was forever.

I guessed Puppet was a student who had cracked years ago. Like Auri, he seemed to have found a place for himself, though I marveled at the fact that Lorren let him live down here.

"Does he always look like this?" Puppet asked Wilem and Simmon. A small drift of pale wood shavings had gathered around his hands.

"Mostly," Wilem said.

"Like what?" Simmon asked.

"Like he's just thought through his next three moves in a game of tirani and figured out how he's going to beat you." Puppet took another long look at my face and shaved another thin strip of wood away. "It's rather irritating, really."

Wilem barked a laugh. "That's his thinking face, Puppet. He wears it a lot, but not all the time."

"What's tirani?" Simmon asked.

"A thinker," Puppet mused. "What are you thinking now?"

"I'm thinking you must be a very careful watcher of people, Puppet," I said politely.

Puppet snorted without looking up. "What use is care? care? What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be What good is watching for that matter? People are forever watching things. They should be seeing seeing. I see see the things I look at. I am a see-er." the things I look at. I am a see-er."

He looked at the piece of wood in his hand, then to my face. Apparently satisfied, he folded his hands over the top of his carving, but not before I glimpsed my own profile cunningly wrought in wood. "Do you know what you have been, what you are not, and what you will be?" He asked.

It sounded like a riddle. "No."

"A see-er," he said with certainty. "Because that is what E'lir means."