The Wise Man's Fear

world.

I waited to see if there was more to the question. “I haven’t the slightest,” I admitted. After Elodin’s voice, my own seemed rather thin and insubstantial.

Elodin shrugged, then gestured graciously across the table. “Master Sympathist.”

Elxa Dal was the only one who really looked comfortable in his formal robes. As always, his dark beard and lean face made me think of the evil magician in so many bad Aturan plays. He gave me a bit of a sympathetic look. “How about the binding for linear galvanic attraction?” he said in an offhand way.

I rattled it off easily.

He nodded. “What’s the distance of insurmountable decay for iron?”

“Five and a half miles,” I said, giving the textbook answer despite the fact that I had some quibbles with the term insurmountable. While it was true that moving any significant amount of energy more than six miles was statistically impossible, you could still use sympathy to dowse over much greater distances.

“Once an ounce of water is boiling, how much heat will it take to boil it completely away?”

I dragged up what I could remember from the vaporization tables I’d worked with in the Fishery. “A hundred and eighty thaums.” I said with more assurance than I actually felt.

“Good enough for me,” Dal said. “Master Alchemist?”

Mandrag waved a mottled hand dismissively. “I’ll pass.”

“He’s good with questions about spades,” Elodin suggested.

Mandrag frowned at Elodin. “Master Archivist.”

Lorren stared down at me, his long face impassive. “What are the rules of the Archives?”

I flushed at this and looked down. “Move quietly,” I said. “Respect the books. Obey the scrivs. No water. No food.” I swallowed. “No fire.”

Lorren nodded. Nothing in his tone or demeanor indicated any sort of disapproval, but that just made it worse. His eyes moved across the table. “Master Artificer.”

I cursed inwardly. Over the last span I’d read all six books Master Lorren had set aside for Re’lar to study from. Feltemi Reis’ Fall of Empire alone took me ten hours. I wanted few things more than access to the Archives, and I’d desperately hoped to impress Master Lorren by answering whatever question he could think to ask.

But there was no help for it. I turned to face Kilvin.

“Galvanic throughput of copper,” the great bearlike master rumbled through his beard.

I gave it to five places. I’d had to use it while making calculations for the deck lamps.

“Conductive coefficient of gallium.”

I’d needed to know that to dope the emitters for the lamp. Was Kilvin lobbing me easy questions? I gave the answer.

“Good,” Kilvin said. “Master Rhetorician.”

I drew a deep breath as I turned to look at Hemme. I had gone so far as to read three of his books, though I have a sharp loathing for rhetoric and pointless philosophy.

Still, I could tamp down my distaste for two minutes’ time and play the part of a good, humble student. I am one of the Ruh, I could act the part.

Hemme scowled at me, his round face like an angry moon. “Did you set fire to my rooms, you little ravel bastard?”

The raw nature of the question caught me entirely off my guard. I was ready for impossibly hard questions, or trick questions, or questions he could twist to make any answer I gave seem wrong.

But this sudden accusation caught me utterly wrong-footed. Ravel is a term I particularly despise. A welter of emotion rolled through me and brought the sudden taste of plum to my mouth. While part of me was still considering the most gracious way to respond, I found I was already speaking. “I didn’t set fire to your rooms,” I said honestly. “But I wish I had. And I wish you’d been in there when it started, sleeping soundly.”

Hemme’s expression turned from scowling to astonished.

“Re’lar Kvothe!” the Chancellor snapped. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head, or I will bring you up on charges of Conduct Unbecoming myself!”

The taste of plum disappeared as quickly as it had come, leaving me feeling slightly dizzy and sweating with fear and embarrassment. “My apologies, Chancellor,” I said quickly, looking down at my feet. “I spoke in anger. Ravel is a term my people find particularly offensive. Its use makes light of the systematic slaughter of thousands of Ruh.”

A curious line appeared between the Chancellor’s eyebrows. “I’ll admit I don’t know that particular etymology,” he mused. “I guess I’ll make that my question.”

“Hold off,” Hemme interrupted. “I’m not finished.”

“You are finished,” the Chancellor said, his voice hard and firm. “You’re as bad as the boy, Jasom, and with less excuse. You’ve shown you can’t conduct yourself in a professional manner, so stint thy clep and consider yourself lucky I don’t call for an official censure.”

Hemme went white with anger, but he held his tongue.

The Chancellor turned to look at me. “Master Linguist,” he announced himself formally. “Re’lar Kvothe: What is the etymology of the word ravel?”

“It comes from the purges instigated by Emperor Alcyon,” I said. “He issued a proclamation saying any of the traveling rabble on the roads were subject to fine, imprisonment, or transportation without trial. The term became shortened to ‘ravel’ though metaplasmic enclitization.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Did it now?”

I nodded. “Though I also expect there is a connection to the term ravelend, referring to the ragged appearance of performing troupes that are out at the heels.”

The Chancellor nodded formally. “Thank you, Re’lar Kvothe. Take a seat while we confer.”

CHAPTER TEN Being Treasured

My tuition was set at nine talents and five. Better than the ten talents Manet had predicted, but more than I had in my purse. I had until tomorrow noon to settle up with the bursar or I would be forced to miss an entire term.

Having to postpone my studies wouldn’t have been a tragedy. But only students are allowed access to University resources, such as the equipment in the Artificery. That meant if I couldn’t pay my tuition, I would be barred from my work in Kilvin’s shop, the only job where I could hope to earn enough money for my tuition.

I stopped at the Stocks and Jaxim smiled as I approached the open window. “Just sold your lamps this morning,” he said. “We squeezed them for a little extra because they were the last ones left.”

He leafed through the ledger until he found the appropriate page. “Your sixty percent comes out to four talents and eight jots. After the materials and piecework you used . . .” He ran his finger down a page. “You’re left with two talents, three jots, and eight drabs.”

Jaxim made a note in the ledger, then wrote me a receipt. I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my purse. It didn’t have the satisfying weight of coins, but it brought my total up to more than six talents. So much money, but still not enough.

If I hadn’t lost my temper with Hemme my tuition might have been low enough. I could have studied more, or earned more money if I hadn’t been forced to hide in my room for almost two whole days, weeping and raging with the taste of plum in my mouth.

A thought occurred to me. “I should start something new, I guess,” I said casually. “I’ll need a small crucible. Three ounces of tin. Two ounces of bronze. Four ounces of silver. A spool of fine gold wire. A copper—”

“Hold on a second,” Jaxim interrupted me. He ran a finger back along my name in the ledger. “I don’t have you authorized for gold or silver.” He looked up at me. “Is that a mistake?”

I hesitated, not wanting to lie. “I didn’t know you needed authorization,” I said.

Jaxim gave me a knowing grin. “You’re not the first one to try something like that,” he said. “Rough