After the initial flare up, I drew a deep breath, stepped forward, and pulled the heavy wooden drawer free of the bureau with my bare hands. It was full of smoldering, blackened cloth, but as I ran to the window, I could hear something hard in the bottom of the drawer rattling against the wood. It tumbled as I threw it out the window, clothes bursting into flame as the wind caught them.
Next I yanked out the top right-hand drawer. As soon as I pulled it free, smoke and flame poured out in an almost solid mass. With these two drawers gone, all the empty space inside the bureau formed a crude chimney, giving the fire all the air it wanted. As I heaved the second drawer out the window, I could actually hear the hollow rush of fire spreading through the varnished wood and the clothes inside.
Down in the street, people drawn by the commotion were doing their best to put out the flaming debris. In the middle of the small crowd, Simmon stomped about in his new hobnail boots, smashing things to flinders like a boy splashing in puddles after the first spring rain. Even if the mommet had survived the fall, it wouldn’t survive that.
This was more than mere pettiness. Devi had signaled me twenty minutes ago, letting me know she’d already tried the wax mommet. Since there had been no result, it meant Ambrose had undoubtedly used my blood to make a clay mommet of me. A simple fire wasn’t going to destroy it.
One by one, I grabbed the other drawers and threw them into the street as well, pausing to pull down the thick velvet curtains around Ambrose’s bed to shield my hands from the heat of the fire. This also might seem petty, but it wasn’t. I was terrified of burning my hands. Every talent I had revolved around them.
Petty was when I kicked the chamber pot on my way back to the bureau. It was the expensive kind, fine glazed pottery. It tipped over and rolled crazily across the floor until it struck the hearth and shattered. Suffice to say that what spilled across Ambrose’s rugs was not delicious candy.
Flame flickered openly in the spaces where the drawers had been, lighting the room while the broken window let in some clear air. Eventually someone else was brave enough to make their way into the room. He used one of the blankets off Ambrose’s bed to protect his hands and helped me throw the last several burning drawers out the window. It was hot, sooty work, and even with the help, I was coughing by the time the last of the drawers went tumbling onto the street.
It was over in less than three minutes. A few quick-thinking bar patrons brought in pitchers of water and doused the still-burning frame of the empty bureau. I tossed the smoldering velvet drapes out the window, shouting, “Look out down there!” so Simmon would know to retrieve my siege stone from the pile of tangled cloth.
Lamps were lit and the smoke thinned as cool night air blew in through the broken window. People filtered into the room to help, or gawk, or gossip. A cluster of amazed onlookers gathered around Ambrose’s staved-in door, and I idly wondered what sort of rumors might spring out of tonight’s performance.
Once the room was properly lit, I marveled at the damage the fire had done. The chest of drawers was little more than a collection of charred sticks, and the plaster wall behind it was cracked and blistered from the heat. The white ceiling was painted with a wide fan of black soot.
I caught my reflection in the dressing-room mirror and was pleased to see my eyebrows were more or less intact. I was mightily disheveled, my hair in disarray and my face smudged with sweat and dark ash. The whites of my eyes looked very bright against the black of my face.
Wilem joined me and helped bandage up my left hand. It wasn’t really burned, but I knew it would look odd if I walked away entirely unscathed. Aside from a little lost hair, my worst injury was actually the holes charred in my long sleeves. Another shirt ruined. If this kept up I’d be naked by the end of the term.
I sat on the edge of the bed and watched as people brought more water to splash on the bureau. I pointed out a charred ceiling beam, and they doused it too, sending up a sharp hiss and a cloud of steam and smoke. People continued to wander in and out, looking at the wreckage and muttering to each other while shaking their heads.
Just as Wil was finishing my bandage, the sound of galloping hooves on cobblestones came through the broken window, temporarily overwhelming the noise of fiercely stomping hobnailed boots.
Less than a minute later, I heard Ambrose in the hallway. “What in the name of God is going on here? Get out!
Cursing and shoving people aside, Ambrose made his entrance. When he saw me sitting on his bed he pulled up short. “What are you doing in my rooms?” he demanded.
“What?” I asked, then looked around. “These are
Ambrose’s eyes narrowed, then went to the charred wreckage of his bureau. His eyes flicked back to me, then went wide with sudden realization. I fought the urge to grin.
“Get out of here you filthy, thieving Ruh,” he spat venomously. “I swear if anything’s missing, I’ll bring the constable down on you. I’ll have you on the iron law and see you hanged.”
I drew a breath to respond, then started to cough uncontrollably and had to settle for glaring at him.
“Good job, Ambrose,” Wilem said sarcastically. “You caught him. He stole your fire.”
One of the onlookers chimed in, “Yeah, make him put it back!”
“Get out!” Ambrose shouted, red-faced and furious. “And take that filthy shim with you or I’ll give you both the thrashing you deserve.” I watched the bystanders stare at Ambrose, appalled by his behavior.
I gave him a long, proud look, playing the scene for all it was worth. “You’re welcome,” I said with injured dignity, and shouldered past him, jostling him roughly out of the way.
As I was leaving, a fat, florid man in a waistcoat staggered through the ruined door to Ambrose’s rooms. I recognized him as the owner of the Golden Pony.
“What the devil’s been going on here?” he demanded.
“Candles are dangerous things,” I said. I looked over my shoulder and met Ambrose’s eye. “Honestly boy,” I said to him. “I don’t know what you were thinking. You’d think a member of the Arcanum would have more sense.”
Wil, Mola, Devi, and I were sitting around what was left of the bonfire when we heard the crackle of footsteps coming through the trees. Fela was still dressed elegantly, but her hair was unpinned. Sim was making his way carefully alongside her, absentmindedly holding branches out of her way as they moved through the undergrowth.
“And just where have you two been?” Devi asked.
“I had to walk back from Imre,” Fela explained. “Sim came to meet me halfway. Don’t worry mother, he was a perfect gentleman.”
“I hope it wasn’t too bad for you,” I said.
“Dinner was about what you would expect,” Fela admitted. “But the second part made it all worthwhile.”
“Second part?” Mola asked.
“On our way back, Sim took me to see the wreckage at the Pony. I stopped to have a word with Ambrose. I’ve never had so much fun.” Fela’s smile was wicked. “I was perfectly huffy.”
“She was,” Simmon said. “It was brilliant.”
Fela faced Sim and set her hands on her hips. “Run off on me, will you?”
Sim screwed his face up into an exaggerated scowl and gestured wildly. “Listen to me, you daft bint!” he said in a fair imitation of Ambrose’s Vintish accent. “My rooms were on fire!”
Fela turned away, throwing up her hands. “Don’t lie to me! You ran off to be with some whore. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life!
We applauded. Fela and Sim linked arms and took a bow.
“In the interest of pure accuracy,” Fela said in an offhand way, “Ambrose didn’t use the words ‘daft bint.’ ” She didn’t let go of Sim’s arm.
Simmon looked a little embarrassed. “Yes, well. There are some things you don’t call a lady, even in fun.” He reluctantly let go of Fela and sat on the trunk of the fallen tree. Fela sat next to him.
Fela leaned close to him and whispered something. Sim laughed, shaking his head. “Please?” Fela asked, laying her hand on his arm. “Kvothe doesn’t have his lute. Someone has to entertain us.”
