The Name of the Wind

I paused, taken aback by the scope of the question. None of the other students had been asked anything so broad as this. “Well sir,” I said slowly to give myself a moment or two to organize my thoughts. “Partly because Lord Nalto was an inept egomaniac. Partly because the church went into upheaval and denounced the Order Amyr who were a large part of the strength of Atur. Partly because the military was fighting three different wars of conquest at the same time, and high taxes fomented rebellion in lands already inside the empire.”

I watched the master’s expression, hoping he would give some sign when he had heard enough. “They also debased their currency, undercut the universality of the iron law, and antagonized the Adem.” I shrugged. “But of course it’s more complicated than that.”

Master Lorren’s expression remained unchanged, but he nodded. “Who was the greatest man who ever lived?”

Another unfamiliar question. I thought for a minute. “Illien.”

Master Lorren blinked once, expressionless. “Master Mandrag?”

Mandrag was clean-shaven and smooth-faced, with hands stained a half hundred different colors and seemed to be made all of knuckle and bone. “If you needed phosphorus where would you get it?”

His tone sounded for a moment so much like Abenthy’s that I forgot myself and spoke without thinking. “An apothecary?” One of the masters on the other side of the table chuckled and I bit my too-quick tongue.

He gave me a faint smile, and I drew a faint breath. “Barring access to an apothecary.”

“I could render it from urine,” I said quickly. “Given a kiln and enough time.”

“How much would you need to gain two ounces pure?” He cracked his knuckles absentmindedly

I paused to consider, as this was a new question too. “At least forty gallons, Master Mandrag, depending on the quality of the material.”

There was a long pause as he cracked his knuckles one at a time. “What are the three most important rules of the chemist?”

This I knew from Ben. “Label clearly Measure twice. Eat elsewhere.”

He nodded, still wearing the faint smile. “Master Kilvin?”

Kilvin was Cealdish, his thick shoulders and brisding black beard reminded me of a bear. “Right,” he grumbled, folding his thick hands in front of him. “How would you make an ever-burning lamp?”

Each of the other eight masters made some sort of exasperated noise or gesture.

“What?” Kilvin demanded, looking around at them, irritated. “It is my question. The asking is mine.” He turned his attention back to me. “So. How would you make it?”

“Well,” I said slowly. “I would probably start with a pendulum of some sort. Then I would bind it to—”

“Kraem. No. Not like this.” Kilvin growled out a couple words and pounded his fist on the table, each thump as his hand came down was accompanied by a staccato burst of reddish light that welled up from his hand. “No sympathy. I do not want an ever-glowng lamp. I want an ever-burning one.” He looked at me again showing his teeth, as if he were going to eat me.

“Lithium salt?” I asked without thinking, then backpedaled. “No, a sodium oil that burned in an enclosed ... no, damn.” I mumbled my way to a stop. The other applicants hadn’t had to deal with questions like these.

He cut me off with a short sideways gesture of his hand. “Enough. We will talk later. Elxa Dal.”

It took me a moment to remember that Elxa Dal was the next master. I turned to him. He looked like the archetypal sinister magician that seems to be a requirement in so many bad Aturan plays. Severe dark eyes, lean face, short black beard. For all that, his expression was friendly enough. “What are the words for the first parallel kinetic binding?”

I rattled them off glibly.

He didn’t seem surprised. “What was the binding that Master Kilvin used just a moment ago?”

“Capacatorial Kinetic Luminosity.”

“What is the synodic period?”

I looked at him oddly. “Of the moon?” The question seemed a little out of sync with the other two.

He nodded.

“Seventy-two and a third days, sir. Give or take a bit.”

He shrugged and gave a wry smile, as if he’d expected to catch me with the last question. “Master Hemme?”

Hemme looked at me over steepled fingers. “How much mercury would it take to reduce two gills of white sulfur?” he asked pompously, as if I’d already given the wrong answer.

One of the things I’d learned during my hour of quiet observation was this: Master Hemme was the king-high bastard of the lot. He took delight in student’s discomfort and did everything he could to badger and unsettle them. He had a fondness for trick questions.

Luckily, this was one I had watched him use on other students. You see, you can’t reduce white sulfur with mercury. “Well,” I drew the word out, pretending to think it through. Hemme’s smug smile grew wider by the second. “Assuming you mean red sulfur, it would be about forty-one ounces. Sir.” I smiled a sharp smile at him. All teeth.

“Name the nine prime fallacies,” he snapped.