The Wise Man's Fear Part 5

"Irritate is rather a mild word," Manet said dryly. "Not exactly the one I would have chosen, myself." is rather a mild word," Manet said dryly. "Not exactly the one I would have chosen, myself."

"You owe him," Sim said, his eyes glittering with anger. "Besides, they aren't going to charge you with Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum just for singing a song."

"No," Manet said. "They'll just raise his tuition."

"What?" Simmon said. "They can't do that. Tuition is based on your admissions interview."

Manet's snort echoed hollowly into his mug as he took another drink. "The interview is just a piece of the game. If you can afford it, they squeeze you a little. Same thing if you cause them trouble." He eyed me seriously. "You're going to be getting it from both ends this time. How many times were you brought up on the horns last term?"

"Twice." I admitted. "But the second time wasn't really my fault."

"Of course," Manet gave me a frank look. "And that's why they tied you up and whipped you b.l.o.o.d.y, is it? Because it wasn't your fault?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling the pull of the half-healed scars along my back. "Most of it wasn't my fault," I amended.

Manet shrugged it aside. "Fault isn't the issue. A tree doesn't make a thunderstorm, but any fool knows where lightning's going to strike."

Wilem nodded seriously. "Back home we say: the tallest nail gets hammered down first." He frowned. "It sounds better in Siaru."

Sim looked troubled. "But the admission interview still determines the lion's share of your tuition, doesn't it?" From his tone, I guessed Sim hadn't even considered the possibility of personal grudges or politics entering into the equation.

"For the most part," Manet admitted. "But the masters pick their own questions, and they each get their say." He began to tick things off on his fingers. "Hemme doesn't care for you, and he can carry twice his weight in grudges. You got on Lorren's bad side early and managed to stay there. You're a troublemaker. You missed nearly a span of cla.s.ses toward the end of last term. No warning beforehand or any explanation afterward." He gave me a significant look.

I looked down at the table, pointedly aware that several of the cla.s.ses I'd missed had been part of my apprenticeship under Manet in the Artificery.

After a moment, Manet shrugged and continued. "On top of it all, they'll be testing you as a Re'lar this time around. Tuitions get higher in the upper ranks. There's a reason I've stayed an E'lir this long." He gave me a hard stare. "My best guess? You'll be lucky to get out for less than ten talents."

"Ten talents." Sim sucked a breath through his teeth and shook his head sympathetically. "Good thing you're so flush."

"Not as flush as that," I said.

"How can you not be?" Sim asked. "The masters fined Ambrose almost twenty talents after he broke your lute. What did you do with all the money?"

I looked down and nudged my lute case gently with my foot.

"You spent it on a new lute?" Simmon asked, horrified. "Twenty talents? Do you know what you could buy for that amount of money?"

"A lute?" Wilem asked.

"I didn't even know you could could spend that much on an instrument," Simmon said. spend that much on an instrument," Simmon said.

"You can spend a lot more than that," Manet said. "They're like horses."

This made the conversation stumble a bit. Wil and Sim turned to look at him, confused.

I laughed. "That's a good comparison, actually."

Manet nodded sagely. "There's a wide spread with horses, you see. You can buy a broken old plow horse for less than a talent. Or you can buy a high-stepping Vaulder for forty."

"Not likely,"Wil grunted. "Not for a true Vaulder."

Manet smiled. "That's it exactly. However much you've ever known someone to spend on a horse, you could easily spend that buying yourself a fine harp or fiddle."

Simmon looked stunned by this. "But my father once spent two hundred fifty hard on a Kaepcaen tall," he said.

I leaned to one side and pointed. "The blond man there, his mandolin is worth twice that."

"But," Simmon said. "But horses have bloodlines. You can breed a horse and sell it."

"That mandolin has a bloodline," I said. "It was made by Antressor himself. It's been around for a hundred and fifty years."

I watched as Sim absorbed the information, looking around at all the instruments in the room. "Still," Sim said. "Twenty talents." He shook his head. "Why didn't you wait until after admissions? You could have spent whatever you had left over on the lute."

"I needed it to play at Anker's," I explained. "I get free room and board as their house musician. If I don't play, I can't stay."

It was the truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. Anker would have cut me some slack if I'd explained my situation. But if I'd waited, I would have had to spend almost two span without a lute. It would be like missing a tooth or a limb. It would be like spending two span with my mouth sewn shut. It was unthinkable.

"And I didn't spend all all of it on the lute," I said. "I had a few other expenses crop up too." Specifically, I'd paid off the gaelet I'd borrowed money from. That had taken six talents, but being free of my debt to Devi was like having a great weight lifted off my chest. of it on the lute," I said. "I had a few other expenses crop up too." Specifically, I'd paid off the gaelet I'd borrowed money from. That had taken six talents, but being free of my debt to Devi was like having a great weight lifted off my chest.

But now I could feel that same weight settling back onto me. If Manet's guess was even half-accurate, I was worse off than I'd thought.

Fortunately, the lights dimmed and the room grew quiet, saving me from having to explain myself any further. We looked up as Stanchion brought Marie up onto the stage. He chatted with the nearby audience while she tuned her fiddle and the room began to settle down.

I liked Marie. She was taller than most men, proud as a cat, and spoke at least four languages. Many of Imre's musicians did their best to mimic the latest fashion, hoping to blend in with the n.o.bility, but Marie wore road clothes. Pants you could do a day's work in, boots you could use to walk twenty miles.

I don't mean to imply she wore homespun, mind you. She just had no love for fashion or frippery. Her clothes were obviously tailored for her, close fitting and flattering. Tonight she wore burgundy and brown, the colors of her patron, the Lady Jhale.

The four of us eyed the stage. "I will admit," Wilem said quietly, "that I have given Marie a fair amount of consideration."

Manet gave a low chuckle. "That is a woman and a half," he said. "Which means she's five times more woman than any of you know what to do with." At a different time, such a statement might have goaded the three of us into swaggering protest. But Manet stated it without a hint of taunt in his voice, so we let it pa.s.s. Especially as it was probably true.

"Not for me," Simmon said. "She always looks like she's getting ready to wrestle someone. Or go off and break a wild horse."

"She does." Manet chuckled again. "If we were living in a better age they'd build a temple around a woman like that."

We fell silent as Marie finished tuning her fiddle and eased into a sweet roundel, slow and gentle as a soft spring breeze.

Though I didn't have time to tell him, Simmon was more than half right. Once, in the Flint and Thistle, I had seen Marie punch a man in the throat for referring to her as "that mouthy fiddler b.i.t.c.h." She kicked him when he was on the ground, too. But only once, and nowhere that hurt him in a permanent way.

Marie continued her roundel, the slow, sweet pace of it gradually building until it was trotting along briskly. The sort of tune you would only think of dancing to if you were exceptionally light on your feet, or exceptionally drunk.

She let it build until it was beyond anything a man could dream of dancing to. It was nothing like a trot now. It sprinted, fast as a pair of children racing. I marveled at how clean and clear her fingering was despite the frantic pace.

Faster. Quick as a deer with a wild dog behind it. I started to get nervous, knowing it was just a matter of time before she slid or slipped or dropped a note. But somehow she kept going, each note perfect, sharp and strong and sweet. Her flickering fingers arched high against the strings. The wrist of her bow hand hung loose and lazy despite the terrible speed.

Faster still. Her face was intent. Her bow arm a blur. Faster still. She braced herself, her long legs planted firmly on the stage, her fiddle tucked hard against her jaw. Each note sharp as early morning birdsong. Faster still.

She finished in a rush and gave a sudden, flourishing bow without a single mistake. I was sweating like a hard-run horse, my heart racing.

I wasn't the only one. Wil and Sim each had a sheen of sweat across their foreheads.

Manet's knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table. "Merciful Tehlu," he said breathlessly. "They have music like this every night?"

I smiled at him. "It's still early," I said. "You haven't heard me play."

Wilem bought the next round of drinks and our talk turned to the idle gossip of the University. Manet had been around for longer than half of the masters, so he knew more scandalous stories than the three of us put together.

A lutist with a thick grey beard played a stirring version of "En Faeant Morie." Then two lovely women, one in her forties and the other young enough to be her daughter, sang a duet about Laniel Young-Again I'd never heard before.

Marie was called back onto the stage and played a simple jig with such enthusiasm that it set folk dancing in the s.p.a.ces between the tables. Manet actually stood for the final chorus and surprised us by demonstrating a pair of remarkably light feet. We cheered him, and when he took his seat again he was flushed and breathing hard.

Wil bought him a drink, and Simmon turned to me with excitement in his eyes.

"No," I said. "I'm not going to play it. I already told you."

Sim deflated into such profound disappointment that I couldn't help but laugh. "I'll tell you what. I'll take a turn around the place. If I see Threpe, I'll put him up to it."

I made my slow way through the crowded room, and while I did keep an eye out for Threpe, the truth is I was hunting for Denna. I hadn't seen her come in by the front door, but with the music, cards, and general commotion there was a chance I'd simply missed her.

It took a quarter hour to methodically make my way through the crowded main floor, getting a look at all the faces and stopping to chat with a few of the musicians along the way.

I made my way up to the second tier just as the lights dimmed again. I settled in at the railing to watch a Yllish piper play a sad, lilting tune.

When the lights came back up, I searched the second tier of the Eolian: a wide, crescent-shaped balcony. My search was more a ritual than anything. Looking for Denna was an exercise in futility, like praying for fair weather.

But tonight was the exception to the rule. As I strolled through the second tier I spotted her walking with a tall, dark-haired gentleman. I changed my path through the tables so I would intercept them casually.

Denna spotted me half a minute later. She gave a bright, excited smile and took her hand off the gentleman's arm, motioning me closer.

The man at her side was proud as a hawk and handsome, with a jawline like a cinder brick. He wore a shirt of blindingly white silk and a richly dyed suede jacket the color of blood. Silver st.i.tching. Silver on the buckle and the cuff. He looked every bit the Modegan gentleman. The cost of his clothes, not even counting his rings, would have paid my tuition for a solid year.

Denna was playing the part of his charming and attractive companion. In the past I had seen her dressed much the same as myself: plain clothes meant for hard wear and travel. But tonight she wore a long dress of green silk. Her dark hair curled artfully around her face and tumbled down her shoulders. At her throat was an emerald pendant shaped like a smooth teardrop. It matched the color of the dress so perfectly that it couldn't be coincidence.

I felt a little shabby by comparison. More than a little. Every piece of clothing I owned in the world amounted to four shirts, two sets of pants, and a few sundries. All of it secondhand and threadbare to some degree. I was wearing my best tonight, but I'm sure you understand when I say my best was not particularly fine.

The one exception was my cloak, Fela's gift. It was warm and wonderful, tailored for me in green and black with numerous pockets in the lining. It wasn't elegant by any measure, but it was the finest thing I owned.

As I approached, Denna stepped forward and held out her hand for me to kiss, the gesture poised, almost haughty. Her expression was composed, her smile polite. To the casual observer she looked every bit the genteel lady being gracious to a poor young musician.

All except her eyes. They were dark and deep, the color of coffee and chocolate. Her eyes were dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt, full of laughter. Standing behind her, the gentleman gave a bare hint of a frown when she offered me her hand. I didn't know what game Denna was playing, but I could guess my part.

So I bent over her hand, kissing it lightly in a low bow. I had been trained in courtly manners at an early age, so I knew what I was doing. Anyone can bend at the waist, but a good bow takes skill.

This one was gracious and flattering, and as I pressed my lips to the back of her hand I flared my cloak to one side with a delicate flick of my wrist. The last was the difficult bit, and it had taken me several hours of careful practice in the bathhouse mirror to get the motion to look sufficiently casual.

Denna made a curtsey graceful as a falling leaf and stepped back to stand beside the gentleman. "Kvothe, this is Lord Kellin Vantenier. Kellin, Kvothe."

Kellin eyed me up and down, forming his full opinion of me more quickly than you can draw a short, sharp breath. His expression became dismissive, and he gave me a nod. I'm no stranger to disdain, but I was surprised how much this particular bit stung me.

"At your service, my lord." I made a polite bow and shifted my weight so my cloak fell away from my shoulder, displaying my talent pipes.

He was about to look away with practiced disinterest when his eye snagged on the bright piece of silver. It was nothing special in terms of jewelry, but here it was significant. Wilem was right: at the Eolian, I was one of the gentry.

And Kellin knew it. After a heartbeat of consideration, he returned my bow. It was barely more than a nod, really. Just low enough to be polite. "Yours and your family's," he said in perfect Aturan. His voice was deeper than mine, a warm ba.s.s with enough of a Modegan accent to lend it a slight musical cant.

Denna inclined her head in his direction. "Kellin has been showing me my way around a harp."

"I am here to win my pipes," he said, his deep voice filled with certainty.

When he spoke, women at the surrounding tables turned to look in his direction with hungry, half-lidded eyes. His voice had the opposite effect on me. To be both rich and handsome was bad enough. But to have a voice like honey over warm bread on top of that was simply inexcusable. The sound of it made me feel like a cat grabbed by the tail and rubbed backward with a wet hand.

I glanced at his hands. "So you're a harper?"

"Harpist," he corrected stiffly. "I play the Pendenhale. King of instruments."

I pulled in half a breath, then closed my mouth. The Modegan great harp had been the king of instruments five hundred years ago. These days it was an antique curiosity. I let it pa.s.s, avoiding the argument for Denna's sake. "Will you be trying your luck tonight?" I asked.

Kellin's eyes narrowed slightly. "There will be nothing of luck involved when I play. But no. Tonight I am enjoying my lady Dinael's company." He lifted Denna's hand to his lips and gave it an absentminded kiss. He looked around at the murmuring crowd in a proprietary way, as if he owned them. "I will be in worthy company here, I think."

I glanced at Denna, but she was avoiding my eyes. Her head tilted to the side as she toyed with an earring previously hidden in her hair, a tiny teardrop emerald that matched the pendant at her throat.

Kellin's eyes flickered over me again. My ill-fitting clothes. My hair, too short to be fashionable, too long to be anything other than wild. "And you are... a piper?"

The least expensive instrument. "Pipist," I said lightly. "But no. I favor the lute."

His eyebrows went up. "You play court lute?"

My smile stiffened a bit despite my best efforts. "Trouper's lute."

"Ah!" he said, laughing as if things suddenly made sense. "Folk music!"

I let that pa.s.s as well, though less easily than before. "Do you have seats yet?" I asked brightly. "Several of us have taken a table below with a good view of the stage. You're welcome to join us."

"The lady and I already have a table in the third circle." Kellin nodded in Denna's direction. "I much prefer the company above."

Outside his field of vision, Denna rolled her eyes at me.

I kept a straight face and made another polite bow to him, barely more than a nod. "I won't delay you then."

I turned to Denna. "My lady. Might I call on you some time?"

She sighed, looking every bit the put-upon socialite, except for her eyes, which were still laughing at all the ridiculous formality of the exchange. "I'm sure you understand, Kvothe. My schedule is quite full for the next several days. But you could pay a visit near the end of the span if you wish. I've taken rooms at the Grey Man."

"You're too kind," I said, and gave her a much more earnest bow than the one I had given Kellin. She rolled her eyes at me this time.

Kellin held out his arm, turning his shoulder to me in the process, and the two of them walked off into the crowd. Watching them together, moving gracefully through the throng, it would be easy to believe they owned the place, or were perhaps thinking of buying it to use as a summer home. Only old n.o.bility move with that easy arrogance, knowing deep in their guts that everything in the world exists only to make them happy. Denna was faking it marvelously, but for Lord Kellin Brickjaw it was as natural as drawing breath.