“Okay, Okay.” Simmon said, obviously a little flustered. He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke in a sonorous voice:
Simmon came to an abrupt stop before saying the word “bosom” and blushed red as a beet. Devi gave an earthy chuckle from where she sat on the other side of the fire.
Ever the good friend, Wilem stepped in with a distracting question. “What is that pause you keep doing?” he asked. “It’s like you can’t catch your breath.”
“I asked that too,” Fela said, smiling.
“It’s something they use in Eld Vintic verse,” Sim explained. “It’s a break in the line called a caesura.”
“You are dangerously well informed about poetry, Sim,” I said. “I’m close to losing respect for you.”
“Hush,” Fela said. “I think it’s lovely. You’re just jealous he can do it off the cuff.”
“Poetry is a song without music,” I said loftily. “A song without music is like a body without a soul.”
Wilem raised his hand before Simmon could respond. “Before we become mired in philosophical talk, I have a confession to make,” Wilem said somberly. “I dropped a poem in the hallway outside Ambrose’s rooms. It was an acrostic that spoke of his powerful affection for Master Hemme.”
We all laughed, but Simmon seemed to find it particularly funny. It took him a long while to catch his breath. “It couldn’t be more perfect if we planned it,” he said. “I bought a few pieces of women’s clothing and scattered them in with what was out on the street. Red satin. Lacy bits. A whalebone corset.”
There was more laughter. Then they turned their eyes to me.
“And what did you do?” Devi prompted.
“Only what I set out to,” I said somberly. “Only what was necessary to destroy the mommet so I could sleep safe at night.”
“You kicked over his chamber pot,” Wilem said.
“True,” I admitted. “And I found this.” I held up a piece of paper.
“If that’s one of his poems,” Devi said, “I’d suggest you burn it quickly and wash your hands.”
I unfolded the slip of paper and read it aloud. “Ledger mark 4535: Ring. White gold. Blue smokestone. Remount setting and polish.” I folded it carefully and put it in a pocket. “To me,” I said, “This is better than a poem.”
Sim sat upright. “Is that a pawnslip for your lady’s ring?”
“It’s a claim slip for a jeweler, if I don’t miss my guess. But yes, it’s for her ring,” I said. “And she’s not my lady, by the by.”
“I’m lost,” Devi said.
“That’s how all this started,” Wilem said. “Kvothe was trying to reclaim a bit of property for a girl he fancies.”
“Someone should fill me in,” Devi said. “I seem to have come in halfway through the story.”
I leaned back against a piece of fieldstone, content to let my friends tell the story.
The slip of paper hadn’t been in Ambrose’s chest of drawers. It hadn’t been on the hearth or his bedside table. It hadn’t been on his jewelry tray or his writing desk.
It had, in fact, been in Ambrose’s purse. I’d lifted it off him in a fit of pique half a minute after he called me a filthy, thieving Ruh. It had almost been a reflex action as I’d brushed roughly past him on my way out of his rooms at the Pony.
By strange coincidence, the purse also contained money. Almost six talents. Not a great deal of coin as far as Ambrose was concerned. Enough for an extravagant night out with a lady. But for me it was a great deal of money, so much I almost felt guilty for taking it. Almost.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Baubles
There was no note for me from Denna when I returned to Anker’s that night. Nor was there one waiting in the morning. I wondered if the boy had ever found her with my message, or if he had simply given up, or dropped it in the river, or eaten it.
The next morning I decided my mood was too good to spoil it with the inevitable madness of Elodin’s class. So I shouldered my lute and headed over the river to look for Denna. It had taken longer than I’d planned, but I was eager to see the look on her face when I finally returned her ring.
I walked into the jeweler’s and smiled at the small man standing behind a low display case. “Are you finished with the ring?”
His forehead creased. “I . . . I beg your pardon, sir?”
I sighed and dug around in my pocket, eventually producing the slip of paper.
He peered at it, then his face lit with understanding. “Ah, yes. Of course. Just a moment.” He made his way through a door into the back of the shop.
I relaxed a bit. This was the third shop I’d visited. The other conversations hadn’t worked out nearly this well.
The tiny man bustled out of the back room. “Here we are, sir.” He held up the ring. “Right as rain again. Lovely stone too, if you don’t mind my saying.”
I held it to the light. It was Denna’s ring. “You do good work,” I said.
He smiled at this. “Thank you, sir. All told, the work came to forty-five pennies.”
I gave a small, silent sigh. It had been too much to hope that Ambrose had paid for the work in advance. I juggled numbers in my head and counted a talent and six jots onto the glass top of the display case. As I did, I noticed it had the slightly oily texture of twice-tough glass. I ran my hand over it, wondering idly if it was one of the pieces I had made at the Fishery.
As the jeweler gathered up the coins, I noticed something else. Something inside the case.
“A bauble caught your eye?” he asked smoothly.
I pointed at a necklace in the center of the case.
“You have excellent taste,” he said, pulling out a key and unlocking a panel in the back of the case. “This is quite an exceptional piece. Not only is the setting elegant, but the stone itself is remarkably fine. You don’t often see an emerald of this quality cut in a long drop.”
“Is it your work?” I asked.
The jeweler gave a dramatic sigh. “Alas, I cannot claim that distinction. A young woman brought it in several span ago. She had more need of money than adornment it seems, and we came to an arrangement.”
“How much would you like for it?” I asked as casually as possible.
He told me. It was a staggering amount of money. More money than I had ever seen in one place. Enough money that a woman might live comfortably in Imre for several years. Enough money for a fine new harp. Enough for a lute of solid silver, or, if she desired, a case for such a lute.
The jeweler sighed again, shaking his head at the sad state of the world. “It is a shame,” he said. “Who can tell what drives young women to such things.” Then he looked up and smiled, holding the teardrop emerald to the light with an expectant expression. “Still, her loss is your gain.”
Since Denna had mentioned the Barrel and Boar in her note, I decided to start looking for her there. My lute
