Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“Okay, okay,” Sim said quickly. “I get it. Ick. Ambrose is wearing green too.”

Meanwhile, Ambrose forced himself to chuckle along with the crowd at my joke. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said. “Very well, pennies for the poor.” He brought out his purse and shook it. “How much do you want?”

“Five talents,” I said.

He stared at me, frozen in the act of opening his purse. It was an outrageous price. A few of the spectators nudged each other with their elbows, obviously hoping I’d somehow swindle Ambrose into paying several times what my slot was actually worth.

“I’m sorry,” I asked. “Do you need that converted?” It was a well-known fact that Ambrose had botched the arithmetic portion of his admissions last term.

“Five is ridiculous,” he said. “You’d be lucky to get one this late in the day.”

I forced a careless shrug. “I’d settle for four.”

“You’ll settle for one,” Ambrose insisted. “I’m not an idiot.”

I took a deep breath, let it out again, resigned. “I don’t suppose I could get you to go as high as . . . one and four?” I asked, disgusted by how plaintive my voice sounded.

Ambrose smiled like a shark. “I tell you what,” he said magnanimously. “I’ll give you one and three. I’m not above a little charity now and again.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said meekly. “It’s much appreciated.” I could sense the crowd’s disappointment as I rolled over like a dog for Ambrose’s money.

“Don’t mention it,” Ambrose said smugly. “Always a pleasure to help out the needy.”

“In Vintish coin, that’ll be two nobles, six bits, two pennies, and four shims.”

“I can do my own conversion,” he snapped. “I’ve traveled the world with my father’s retinue since I was a boy. I know how money spends.”

“Of course you do.” I ducked my head. “Silly of me.” I looked up curiously. “You’ve been to Modeg then?”

“Of course,” he said absentmindedly as he proceeded to dig through his purse, pulling out an assortment of coins. “I’ve actually been to high court in Cershaen. Twice.”

“Is it true that the Modegan nobility regard haggling as a contemptible activity for those of any highborn station?” I asked innocently. “I heard that they consider it a sure sign that the person is either possessed of low blood or fallen on truly desperate times. . . .”

Ambrose looked up at me, frozen halfway through the act of digging coins out of his purse. His eyes narrowed.

“Because if that’s true, it’s terribly kind of you to come down to my level just for the fun of a little bargain.” I grinned at him. “We Ruh love to dicker.” There was a murmur of laughter from the crowd around us. It had grown to several dozen people at this point.

“That’s not it at all,” Ambrose said.

My face became a mask of concern. “Oh, I’m sorry, m’lord. I had no idea you’d come on hard times. . . .” I took several steps toward him, holding out my admissions tile. “Here, you can have it for just ha’penny. I’m not above a little charity myself.” I stood directly in front of him, holding out the tile. “Please, I insist, it’s always a pleasure to help the needy.”

Ambrose glared furiously. “Keep it and choke,” he hissed at me in a low voice. “And remember this when you’re eating beans and washing in the river. I’ll still be here the day you leave with nothing but your hands in your pockets.” He turned and left, the very picture of affronted dignity.

There was a smattering of applause from the surrounding crowd. I took flourishing bows in all directions.

“How would you score that one?” Wil asked Sim.

“Two for Ambrose. Three for Kvothe.” Sim looked at me. “Not your best work, really.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I admitted.

“Every time you do this it makes the eventual payback that much worse,” Wil said.

“We can’t do anything but snap at each other,” I said. “The masters made sure of that. Anything too extreme would get us expelled for Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum. Why do you think I haven’t made his life a hell?”

“You’re lazy?” Wil suggested.

“Laziness is one of my best characteristics,” I said easily. “If I weren’t lazy, I might go through the work of translating Edamete tass and grow terribly offended when I discover it means ‘the Edema Drip.’ ” I raised my hand again, thumb and middle finger extended. “Instead I’ll assume it translates directly into the name of the disease: ‘nemserria,’ thus preventing any unnecessary strain on our friendship.”

I eventually sold my slot to a desperate Re’lar from the Fishery named Jaxim. I drove a hard bargain, trading him my slot for six jots and a favor to be named later.

Admissions went about as well as could be expected, considering I couldn’t study. Hemme was still carrying his grudge. Lorren was cool. Elodin had his head down on the table and seemed to be asleep. My tuition was a full six talents, which put me in an interesting situation. . . .

The long road to Imre was mostly deserted. The sun brushed through the trees and the wind carried just a hint of the cool that fall would soon be bringing. I headed to the Eolian first to retrieve my lute. Stanchion had insisted that I leave it there last night, lest I break it on my long, inebriated walk home.

As I approached the Eolian, I saw Deoch lounging against the doorpost, walking a coin across the back knuckles of his hand. He smiled when he saw me. “Ho there! Thought you and your friends would end up in the river by the way you were weaving when you left last night.”

“We were swaying in different directions,” I explained. “So it balanced out.”

Deoch laughed. “We’ve got your lady inside.”

I fought down a flush and wondered how he had known I was hoping to find Denna here. “I don’t know if I would call her my lady exactly.” Sovoy was my friend, after all.

He shrugged. “Whatever you call her, Stanchion’s got her behind the bar. I’d go grab her before he gets overly familiar and starts practicing his fingering.”

I felt a flash of rage and barely managed to swallow a mouthful of hot words. My lute. He was talking about my lute. I ducked inside quickly, guessing the less Deoch saw of my expression the better it would be.

I wandered through the three levels of the Eolian, but Denna was nowhere to be found. I did run into Count Threpe though, who enthusiastically invited me to have a seat.

“I don’t suppose I might persuade you to pay me a visit at my house sometime?” Threpe asked bashfully. “I’m thinking of having a little dinner, and I know a few people who would love to meet you.” He winked. “Word about your performance is already getting around.”

I felt a twinge of anxiety, but I knew rubbing elbows with the nobility was something of a necessary evil. “I’d be honored to, my lord.”

Threpe grimaced. “Does it have to be my lord ?”

Diplomacy is a large part of being a trouper, and a large portion of diplomacy is adherence to title and rank. “Etiquette, my lord,” I said regretfully.

“Piss on etiquette,” Threpe said petulantly. “Etiquette is a set of rules people use so they can be rude to each other in public. I was born Dennais first, Threpe second, and count last of all.” He looked imploringly up at me. “Denn for short?”

I hesitated.

“Here at least,” he pleaded. “It makes me feel like a weed in a flowerbed when someone starts ‘lording’ me here.”

I relaxed. “If it makes you happy, Denn.”

He flushed as if I’d flattered him. “Tell me a bit about yourself, then. Where are you lodging?”