The Name of the Wind (34 page)

It was quite by accident that I found the four-plate door.

It was made of a solid piece of grey stone the same color as the surrounding walls. Its frame was eight inches wide, also grey, and also one single seamless piece of stone. The door and frame fit together so tightly that a pin couldn't slide into the crack.

It had no hinges. No handle. No window or sliding panel. Its only features were four hard copper plates. They were set flush with the face of the door, which was flush with the front of the frame, which was flush with the wall surrounding it. You could run your hand from one side of the door to the next and hardly feel the lines of it at all.

In spite of these notable lacks, the expanse of grey stone was undoubtedly a door. It simply was. Each copper plate had a hole in its center, and though they were not shaped in the conventional way, they were undoubtedly keyholes. The door sat still as a mountain, quiet and indifferent as the sea on a windless day. This was not a door for opening. It was a door for staying closed.

In its center, between the untarnished copper plates, a word was chiseled deep into the stone:
VALARITAS
.

There were other locked doors in the University, places where dangerous things were kept, where old and forgotten secrets slept: silent and hidden. Doors whose opening was forbidden. Doors whose thresholds no one crossed, whose keys had been destroyed or lost, or locked away themselves for safety's sake.

But they all paled in comparison to the four-plate door. I lay my palm on the cool, smooth face of the door and pushed, hoping against hope that it might swing open to my touch. But it was solid and unmoving as a greystone. I tried to peer through the holes in the copper plates but couldn't see anything by the light of my single candle.

I wanted to get inside so badly I could taste it. It probably shows a perverse element of my personality that even though I was finally inside the Archives, surrounded by endless secrets, that I was drawn to the one locked door I had found. Perhaps it is human nature to seek out hidden things. Perhaps it is simply my nature.

Just then I saw the red, unwavering light of a sympathy lamp approaching through the shelves. It was the first sign I'd seen of any other students in the archives. I took a step back and waited, thinking to ask whoever was coming what was behind the door. What
Valaritas
meant.

The red light swelled and I saw two scrivs turn a corner. They paused, then one of them bolted to where I stood and snatched my candle away, spilling hot wax on my hand in the process of extinguishing it. His expression couldn't have been more horrified if he had found me carrying a freshly severed head.

“What are you doing with an open flame in here?” he demanded in the loudest whisper I had ever heard. He lowered his voice and waved the now extinguished candle at me. “Charred body of God, what's the matter with you?”

I rubbed at the hot wax on the back of my hand. Trying to think clearly through the fog of pain and exhaustion.
Of course,
I thought, remembering Ambrose's smile as he pressed the candle into my hands and hurried me though the door.
“Our little secret.” Of course. I should have known.

 

One of the scrivs led me out of the Stacks while the other ran to fetch Master Lorren. When we emerged into the entryway, Ambrose managed to look confused and shocked. He overacted the part, but it was convincing enough for the scriv accompanying me. “What's he doing in here?”

“We found him wandering around,” the scriv explained.
“With a candle.”

“What?” Ambrose's expression was perfectly aghast. “Well
I
didn't sign him in,” Ambrose said. He flipped open one of the ledger books. “Look. See for yourself.”

Before anything else could be said, Lorren stormed into the room. His normally placid expression was fierce and hard. I felt myself sweat cold and I thought of what Teccam wrote in his Theophany:
There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.

Lorren towered over the entry desk. “Explain,” he demanded of the nearby scriv. His voice was a tight coil of fury.

“Micah and I saw a flickering light in the stacks and we went to see if someone was having trouble with their lamp. We found him near the southeast stairwell with this.” The scriv held up the candle. His hand shook slightly under Lorren's glare.

Lorren turned to the desk where Ambrose sat. “How did this happen, Re'lar?”

Ambrose raised his hands helplessly. “He came in earlier and I wouldn't admit him because he wasn't in the book. We bickered for a while, Fela was here for most of it.” He looked at me. “Eventually I told him he'd have to leave. He must have snuck in when I went into the back room for more ink.” Ambrose shrugged. “Or maybe he slipped in past the desk in Tomes.”

I stood there, stupefied. What little part of my mind wasn't leaden with fatigue was preoccupied with the screaming pain across my back. “That…that's not true.” I looked up at Lorren. “He let me in. He sent Fela away, then let me in.”

“What?” Ambrose gaped at me, momentarily speechless. For all that I didn't like him, I must give him credit for a masterful performance. “Why in God's name would I do that?”

“Because I embarrassed you in front of Fela,” I said. “He sold me the candle, too.” I shook my head trying to clear my head. “No, he gave it to me.”

Ambrose's expression was amazed. “Look at him.” He laughed. “The little cocker is drunk or something.”

“I was just whipped!” I protested. My voice sounded shrill in my own ears.

“Enough!” Lorren shouted, looming over us like a pillar of anger. The scrivs went pale at the sound of him.

Lorren turned away from me, and made a brief, contemptuous gesture toward the desk. “Re'lar Ambrose is officially remanded for laxity in his duty.”

“What?” Ambrose's indignant tone wasn't feigned this time.

Lorren frowned at him, and Ambrose closed his mouth. Turning to me, he said, “E'lir Kvothe is banned from the Archives.” He made a sweeping gesture with the flat of his hand.

I tried to think of something I could say in my defense. “Master, I didn't mean—”

Lorren rounded on me. His expression, always so calm before, was filled with such a cold, terrible anger that I took a step away from him without meaning to. “You
mean?
” he said. “I care nothing for your
intentions,
E'lir Kvothe, deceived or otherwise. All that matters is the reality of your actions. Your hand held the fire. Yours is the blame. That is the lesson all adults must learn.”

I looked down at my feet, tried desperately to think of something I could say. Some proof I could offer. My leaden thoughts were still plodding along when Lorren strode out of the room.

“I don't see why I should be punished for his stupidity,” Ambrose groused to the other scrivs as I made my way numbly to the door. I made the mistake of turning around and looking at him. His expression was serious, carefully controlled.

But his eyes were vastly amused, full of laughter. “Honestly boy,” he said to me. “I don't know what you were thinking. You'd think a member of the Arcanum would have more sense.”

 

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.”

“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
Daeonica
where Tarsus says: