I bit into another almond and quickly spit it onto the cobblestones. “Feah!” I held them out to her. “Do these taste like plums to you?”
She gave me a vaguely disgusted look, then her eyes focused on something behind me.
I turned to see Ambrose moving through the courtyard towards us. He cut a fine figure, as he always did, dressed in clean white linen, velvet, and brocade. He wore a hat with a tall white plume, and the sight of it made me unreasonably angry. Uncharacteristically, he was alone, devoid of his usual contingent of toadies and bootlickers.
“Wonderful,” I said as soon as he came within earshot. “Ambrose, your presence is the horseshit frosting on the horseshit cake that is the admissions interview process.”
Surprisingly, Ambrose smiled at this. “Ah, Kvothe. I’m pleased to see you too.”
“I met one of your previous ladyloves today,” I said. “She was dealing with the sort of profound emotional trauma I assume comes from seeing you naked.”
His expression soured a little at that, and I leaned over and spoke to Amlia in a stage whisper. “I have it on good report that not only does Ambrose have a tiny, tiny penis, but he can only become aroused when in the presence of a dead dog, a painting of the Duke of Gibea, and a shirtless galley drummer.”
Amlia’s expression was frozen.
Ambrose looked at her. “You should leave,” he said gently. “There’s no reason you should have to listen to this sort of thing.”
Amlia practically fled.
“I’ll give you that,” I said, watching her go. “Nobody can make a woman run like you.” I tipped an imaginary hat. “You could give lessons. You could teach a class.”
Ambrose just stood, nodding contentedly and watching me in an oddly proprietary way.
“That hat makes you look like you fancy young boys,” I added. “And I’ve a mind to slap it right off your head if you don’t piss off.” I looked at him. “Speaking of which, how’s the arm?”
“It’s feeling a great deal better at the moment,” he said pleasantly. He rubbed at it absentmindedly as he stood there, smiling.
I popped another almond into my mouth, then grimaced and spit it out again.
“What’s the matter?” Ambrose asked. “Don’t fancy plum?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away. He was smiling.
It says a great deal for my state of mind that I simply watched him go, confused. I lifted the pouch to my nose and took a deep breath. I smelled the dusty smell of the corn husk, honey, and cinnamon. Nothing at all of plum or nutmeg. How could Ambrose possibly know . . . ?
Then everything came crashing together in my head. At the same time, noon bell rang out and everyone with a tile similar to mine moved to join the long line winding through the courtyard. It was time for my admissions exam.
I left the courtyard at a dead run.
I pounded frantically on the door, out of breath from running up to the third floor of Mews. “Simmon!” I shouted. “Open this door and talk to me!”
Along the hallway doors opened and students peered out at the commotion. One of the heads peering out was Simmon’s, his sandy hair in disarray. “Kvothe?” he said. “What are you doing? That’s not even my door.”
I walked over, pushed him inside his room, and closed the door behind us. “Simmon. Ambrose drugged me. I think there’s something not right in my head, but I can’t tell what it is.”
Simmon grinned. “I’ve thought that for a . . .” He trailed off, his expression turning incredulous. “What are you doing? Don’t spit on my floor!”
“I have a strange taste in my mouth,” I explained.
“I don’t care,” he said, angry and confused. “What’s wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?”
I struck him hard across the face with the flat of my hand, sending him staggering up against the wall. “I was born in a barn, actually,” I said grimly. “Is there something wrong with that?”
Sim stood with one hand braced against the wall, the other against the reddening skin of his cheek. His expression pure astonishment. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I said, “but you’d do well to watch your tone. I like you well enough, but just because I don’t have a set of rich parents doesn’t mean you’re one whit better than me.” I frowned and spit again. “God that’s foul, I hate nutmeg. I have ever since I was a child.”
A sudden realization washed over Sim’s face. “The taste in your mouth,” he said. “Is it like plums and spice?”
I nodded. “It’s disgusting.”
“God’s grey ashes,” Sim said, his voice hushed in grim earnest. “Okay. You’re right. You’ve been drugged. I know what it is.” He trailed off as I turned around and started to open the door. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to go kill Ambrose,” I said. “For poisoning me.”
“It’s not a poison. It’s—” He stopped speaking abruptly, then continued in a calm, level voice. “Where did you get that knife?”
“I keep it strapped to my leg, under my pants,” I said. “For emergencies.”
Sim drew a deep breath, then let it out. “Could you give me a minute to explain before you go kill Ambrose?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“Would you mind sitting down while we talk?” He gestured to a chair.
I sighed and sat down. “Fine. But hurry. I’ve got admissions soon.”
Sim nodded calmly and sat on the edge of his bed, facing me. “Okay, you know when someone’s been drinking, and they get it into their head to do something stupid? And you can’t talk them out of it even though it’s obviously a bad idea?”
I laughed. “Like when you wanted to go talk to that harper girl outside the Eolian and threw up on her horse?”
He nodded. “Exactly like that. There’s something an alchemist can make that does the same thing, but it’s much more extreme.”
I shook my head. “I don’t feel drunk in the least. My head is clear as a bell.”
Sim nodded again. “It’s not like being drunk,” he said. “It’s just that one piece of it. It won’t make you dizzy or tired. It just makes it easier for a person to do something stupid.”
I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “I don’t feel like I want to do anything stupid.”
“There’s one way to tell,” Sim said. “Can you think of anything right now that seems like a bad idea?”
I thought for a moment, tapping the flat of the knife’s blade idly against the edge of my boot.
“It would be a bad idea to . . .” I trailed off.
I thought for a longer moment. Sim looked at me expectantly.
“. . . to jump off the roof?” My voice curled up at the end, making it a sort of question.
Sim was quiet. He kept looking at me.
“I see the problem,” I said slowly. “I don’t seem to have any behavioral filters.”
Simmon gave a relieved smile and nodded encouragingly. “That’s it exactly. All your inhibitions have been sliced off so cleanly you can’t even tell they’re gone. But everything else is the same. You’re steady, articulate, and rational.”
“You’re patronizing me,” I said, pointing at him with the knife. “Don’t.”
He blinked. “Fair enough. Can you think of a solution to the problem?”
“Of course. I need some sort of behavioral touchstone. You’re going to need to be my compass because you still have your filters in place.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “So you’ll trust me?”
I nodded. “Except when it comes to women. You’re an idiot with women.” I picked up a glass of water from a nearby table and rinsed my mouth out with it, spitting it onto the floor.
Sim gave a shaky smile. “Fair enough. First, you can’t go kill Ambrose.”
I hesitated. “You’re sure?”
