The Name of the Wind

I made my way to the Mess, the wheels of my thoughts turning slowly as I plodded along. I fumbled my meal chit into one of the dull tin trays and collected a portion of steamed pudding, a sausage, and some of the ever-present beans. I looked dully around the room until I spotted Simmon and Manet sitting in their usual place at the northeast corner of the hall.

I drew a fair amount of attention as I walked to the table. Understandable, as it was scarcely two hours since I’d been tied to the pennant pole and publicly lashed. I heard someone whisper, “... didn’t bleed when they whipped him. I was there. Not one drop.”

It was the nahlrout, of course. It had kept me from bleeding. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now it seemed petty and foolish. Ambrose would never have managed to gull me so easily if my naturally suspicious nature hadn’t been fuddled. I’m sure I could have found some way to explain things to Lorren if I’d had my wits about me.

As I made my way to the far corner of the room, I realized the truth. I had traded away my access to the Archives in exchange for a little notoriety.

Still, there was nothing to do but make the best of it. If a bit of reputation was all I had to show for this debacle, I’d have to do my best to build on it. I kept my shoulders straight as I made my way across the room to Simmon and Manet and set down my food.

“There’s no such thing as a stack fee, is there?” I asked quietly as I slid into my seat, trying not to grimace at the pain across my back.

Sim looked at me blankly. “Stack fee?”

Manet chortled into his bowl of beans. “It’s been a few years since I heard that. Back when I worked as a scriv we’d trick the first-termers into giving us a penny to use the Archives. Called it a stack fee.”

Sim gave him a disapproving look. “That’s horrible.”

Manet held up his hands defensively in front of his face. “Just a little harmless fun.” Manet looked me over. “Is that what your long face is for? Somebody cull you for a copper?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t going to announce that Ambrose had tricked me out of a whole talent. “Guess who just got banned from the Archives?” I said gravely as I tore the crust off my bread and dropped it into my beans.

They looked at me blankly. After a moment Simmon took the obvious guess. “Ummm ... you?”

I nodded and began to spoon up my beans. I wasn’t really hungry, but I hoped a little food in my stomach might help shake off the sluggishness of the nahlrout. Besides, it went against my nature to pass up an opportunity for a meal.

“You got suspended on your first day?” Simmon said. “That’s going to make studying your Chandrian folklore a whole lot harder.”

I sighed. “You could say that.”

“How long did he suspend you for?”

“He said banned” I answered. “He didn’t mention a time limit.”

“Banned?” Manet looked up at me. “He hasn’t banned anyone in a dozen years. What’d you do? Piss on a book?”

“Some of the scrivs found me inside with a candle.”

“Merciful Tehlu.” Manet lay down his fork, his expression serious for the first time. “Old Lore must have been furious.”

“Furious is exactly the right word,” I said.

“What possessed you to go in there with an open flame?” Simmon asked.

“I couldn’t afford a hand lamp,” I said. “So the scriv at the desk gave me a candle instead.”

“He didn’t,” Sim said. “No scriv would ...”

“Hold on,” Manet said. “Was this a dark-haired fellow? Well-dressed? Severe eyebrows?” He made an exaggerated scowl.

I nodded tiredly “Ambrose. We met yesterday. Got off on the wrong foot.”

“He’s hard to avoid,” Manet said carefully, with a significant look to the people sitting around us. I noticed that more than a few were casually listening to our conversation. “Someone should have warned you to keep clear of him,” he added in a softer tone.

“God’s mother,” Simmon said. “Of all the people you don’t want to start a pissing contest with....”

“Well, it’s been started,” I said. I was starting to feel a little more like myself again, less cotton-headed and weary. Either the side effects of the nahlrout were fading, or my anger was slowly burning away the haze of exhaustion. “He’ll find out I can piss along with the best of them. He’ll wish he’d never met me, let alone meddled with my affairs.”

Simmon looked a little nervous. “You really shouldn’t threaten other students,” he said with a little laugh, as if trying to pass my comment off as a joke. More softly, he said. “You don’t understand. Ambrose is heir to a barony off in Vintas.” He hesitated, looking to Manet. “Lord, how do I even start?”

Manet leaned forward and spoke in more confidential tones as well. “He’s not one of those nobility who dabble here for a term or two then leave. He’s been for years, climbed his way up to Re’lar. He’s not some seventh son either. He’s the firstborn heir. And his father is one of the twelve most powerful men in all of Vintas.”