The Name of the Wind

“Actually he’s sixteenth in the peerage,” Sim said matter-of-factly “You’ve got the royal family, the prince regents, Maer Alveron, Duchess Samista, Aculeus and Meluan Lackless....” He trailed off under Manet’s glare.

“He has money,” Manet said simply “And the friends that money buys.”

“And people who want to curry favor with his father,” Simmon added.

“The point is,” Manet said seriously, “you don’t want to cross him. Back in his first year here, one of the alchemists got on Ambrose’s bad side. Ambrose bought his debt from the moneylender in Imre. When the fellow couldn’t pay, they clapped him into debtor’s prison.” Manet tore a piece of bread in half and daubed butter onto it. “By the time his family got him out he had lung consumption. Fellow was a wreck. Never came back to his studies.”

“And the masters just let this happen?” I demanded.

“All perfectly legal,” Manet said, still keeping his voice low. “Even so, Ambrose wasn’t so silly that he bought the fellow’s debt himself.” Manet made a dismissive gesture. “He had someone else do that, but he made sure everyone knew he was responsible.”

“And there was Tabetha,” Sim said darkly. “She made all that noise about how Ambrose had promised to marry her. She just disappeared.”

This certainly explained why Fela had been so hesitant to offend him. I made a placating gesture to Sim. “I’m not threatening anyone,” I said innocently, pitching my voice so anyone who was listening could easily hear. “I’m just quoting one of my favorite pieces of literature. It’s from the fourth act of Daeonka where Tarsus says:

“Upon him I will visit famine and a fire.
Till all around him desolation rings
And all the demons in the outer dark
Look on amazed and recognize
That vengeance is the business of a man.”

There was a moment of stunned silence nearby. It spread a bit farther through the Mess than I’d expected. Apparently I’d underestimated the number of people who were listening. I turned my attention back to my meal and decided to let it go for now I was tired, and I hurt, and I didn’t particularly want any more trouble today.

“You won’t need this piece of information for a while,” Manet said quietly after a long period of silence. “What with being banned from the Archives and all. Still, I’m supposing you’d rather know....” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You don’t have to buy a hand lamp. You just sign them out at the desk and return them when you’re done.” He looked at me as if anxious about what sort of reaction the information might provoke.

I nodded wearily. I’d been right before. Ambrose wasn’t half the bastard I thought he was. He was ten times the bastard.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR The Burning Glass

The Fishery was where most of the University’s works of hands were made. The building held shops for glassblowers, joiners, potters, and glaziers. There was also a full forge and smelt-works that would figure prominently in any metallurgist’s daydreams.

Kilvin’s workshop was located in the Artificery or, as it was more commonly called, the Fishery. It was big as the inside of a granary, holding at least two dozen thick-timbered worktables strewn with countless, nameless tools and projects in progress. The workshop was the heart of the Fishery, and Kilvin was the heart of the workshop.

When I arrived, Kilvin was in the process of bending a twisted length of iron rod into what I could only assume was a more desirable shape. Seeing me peering in, he left it firmly clamped to the table and walked to meet me, wiping his hands on his shirt.

He looked me over critically “Are you well, E’lir Kvothe?”

I’d gone wandering earlier and found some willow bark to chew My back still burned and itched, but it was bearable. “Well enough, Master Kilvin.”

He nodded. “Good. Boys your age shouldn’t worry over such small things. Soon again you will be as sound as stone.”

I was trying to think up a polite response when my eye was drawn to something over our heads.

Kilvin followed my gaze up over his shoulder. When he saw what I was looking at, a grin split his great bearded face. “Ahhh,” he said with fatherly pride. “My lovelies.”

High among the high rafters of the workshop a half hundred glass spheres hung from chains. They were of varying sizes, though none were much larger than a man’s head.

And they were burning.

Seeing my expression, Kilvin made a gesture. “Come,” he said, and led me to a narrow stairway made of wrought iron. Reaching the top, we stepped out onto a series of slim iron walkways twenty-five feet above the ground, weaving their way among the thick timbers that supported the roof. After a moment of maneuvering through the maze of timber and iron, we came to the hanging row of glass spheres with fires burning inside them.

“These,” Kilvin gestured, “are my lamps.”