The Name of the Wind

I lay down and stared at the ceiling. My bunk lay outside the light of the other student’s candles and sympathy lamps. I was finally a member of the Arcanum, in some ways exactly where I had always wanted to be.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Friend’s Blood

The next morning I woke early, washed up, and grabbed a bite to eat at the Mess. Then, because I had nothing to do before my whipping at noon, I strolled the University aimlessly. I wandered through a few apothecaries and bottle shops, admired the well-kept lawns and gardens.

Eventually I came to rest on a stone bench in a wide courtyard. Too anxious to think of doing anything productive, I simply sat and enjoyed the weather, watching the wind tumble a few scraps of wastepaper along the cobblestones.

It wasn’t too long before Wilem strolled over and sat himself next to me without an invitation. His characteristic Cealdish dark hair and eyes made him seem older than Simmon and me, but he still had the slightly awkward look of a boy who wasn’t quite used to being man-sized yet.

“Nervous?” he asked with the harsh burr a Siaru accent makes.

“Trying not to think about it, actually,” I said.

Wilem grunted. We were both quiet for a minute while we watched the students walk past. A few of them paused in their conversations to point at me.

I quickly grew tired of their attention. “Are you doing anything right now?”

“Sitting,” he said simply. “Breathing.”

“Clever. I can see why you’re in the Arcanum. Are you busy for the next hour or so?”

He shrugged and looked at me expectantly.

“Would you show me where Master Arwyl is? He told me to stop by ... after.”

“Certainly,” he said, pointing to one of the courtyard’s outlets. “Medica is on the other side of Archives.”

We made our way around the massive windowless block that was the Archives. Wilem pointed. “That is Medica.” It was a large, oddly-shaped building. It looked like a taller, less rambling version of Mains.

“Bigger than I’d thought it would be,” I mused. “All for teaching medicine?”

He shook his head. “They do much business in tending the sick. They never turn anyone away because they can’t pay”

“Really?” I looked at Medica again, thinking of Master Arwyl. “That’s surprising.”

“You need not pay in advance,” he clarified. “After you recover,” he paused and I heard the clear implication, if you recover, “you settle accounts. If you have no hard coin, you work until your debt is ...” He paused. “What is the word for sheyem?” he asked, holding out his hands with the palms up and moving them up and down as if they were the pans of a scale.

“Weighed?” I suggested.

He shook his head. “No. Sheyem” He stressed the word, and brought his hands even with each other.

“Oh,” I mimicked the gesture. “Balanced.”

He nodded. “You work until your debt is balanced with the Medica. Few leave without settling their debts.”

I gave a grim chuckle. “Not that surprising. What’s the point of running away from an arcanist who has a couple drops of your blood?”

We eventually came to another courtyard. In the center of it was a pennant pole with a stone bench underneath it. I didn’t need to guess who was going to be tied to it in an hour or so. There were about a hundred students milling around, giving things an oddly festive air.

“It’s not usually this big,” Wilem said apologetically. “But a few masters canceled classes.”

“Hemme, I’m guessing, and Brandeur.”

Wilem nodded. “Hemme hauls grudges.” He paused to give emphasis to his understatement. “He’ll be there with his whole coterie.” He pronounced the last word slowly. “Is that the right word? Coterie?”

I nodded, and Wilem looked vaguely self-satisfied. Then he frowned. “That makes me remember something strange in your language. People are always asking me about the road to Tinuë. Endlessly they say,’how is the road to Tinuë?’ What does it mean?”

I smiled. “It’s an idiomatic piece of the language. That means—”

“I know what an idiom is,” Wilem interrupted. “What does this one mean?”

“Oh,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s just a greeting. It’s kind of like asking ‘how is your day?’ or ‘how is everything going?’ ”

“That is also an idiom.” Wilem grumbled. “Your language is thick with nonsense. I wonder how any of you understand each other. How is everything going? Going where?” He shook his head.

“Tinuë, apparently.” I grinned at him. “Tuan volgen oketh ama.” I said, using one of my favorite Siaru idioms. It meant ‘don’t let it make you crazy’ but it translated literally as: ‘don’t put a spoon in your eye over it.’

We turned away from the courtyard and walked around the University aimlessly for a while. Wilem pointed out a few more notable buildings, including several good taverns, the alchemy complex, the Cealdish laundry, and both the sanctioned and unsanctioned brothels. We strolled past the featureless stone walls of the Archives, past a cooper, a bookbinder, an apothecary....