Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“The action on the switch is graded,” I said quickly. “It’s more of a rheostat than a switch, really.”

Kilvin nodded. “Cleverly done. That is not something most bother with on a small lamp such as this.” The light grew brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again. “The sygaldry itself seems quite good,” Kilvin said slowly as he set the lamp down on the table. “But the focus of your lens is flawed. There is very little diffusion.”

It was true. Instead of lighting the whole room, as was typical, my lamp revealed a narrow slice of the room: the corner of the worktable and half of the large black slate that stood against the wall. The rest of the room remained dark.

“It’s intentional,” I said. “There are lanterns like that, bull’s-eye lanterns.”

Kilvin was little more than a dark shape across the table. “Such things are known to me, E’lir Kvothe,” his voice held a hint of reproach. “They are much used for unsavory business. Business arcanists should have no mingling with.”

“I thought sailors used them,” I said.

“Burglars use them,” Kilvin said seriously. “And spies, and other folk who do not wish to reveal their business during the dark hours of night.”

My vague anxiety grew suddenly sharper. I had considered this meeting mostly a formality. I knew I was a skilled artificer, better than many who had worked much longer in Kilvin’s shop. Now I was suddenly worried that I might have made a mistake and wasted nearly thirty hours of work on the lamp, not to mention over a whole talent of my own money that I’d invested in materials.

Kilvin made a noncommittal grunt and muttered under his breath. The half-dozen oil lamps around the room sputtered back into life, filling the room with natural light. I marveled at the master’s casual execution of a six-way binding. I couldn’t even guess where he had drawn the energy from.

“It’s just that everyone makes a sympathy lamp for their first project,” I said to fill the silence. “Everyone always follows the same old schema. I wanted to do something different. I wanted to see if I could make something new.”

“I expect what you wanted was to demonstrate your extreme cleverness,” Kilvin said matter-of-factly. “You wished to not only finish your apprenticeship in half the usual time, you wanted to bring me a lamp of your own improved design. Let us be frank, E’lir Kvothe. Your making this lamp is an attempt to show that you are better than the ordinary apprentice, is it not?” As he said this, Kilvin looked directly at me, and for a moment there was none of his characteristic distraction lurking behind his eyes.

I felt my mouth go dry. Underneath his shaggy beard and heavily accented Aturan, Kilvin had a mind like a diamond. What had made me think I could lie to him and get away with it?

“Of course I wanted to impress you, Master Kilvin,” I said, looking down. “I would think that that goes without saying.”

“Do not grovel,” he said. “False modesty does not impress me.”

I looked up and squared my shoulders. “In that case, Master Kilvin, I am better. I learn faster. I work harder. My hands are more nimble. My mind is more curious. However, I also expect you know this for yourself without my telling you.”

Kilvin nodded. “That is better. And you are right, I do know these things.” He thumbed the lamp on and off while pointing it at different things around the room. “And in all fairness, I am duly impressed with your skill. The lamp is tidily made. The sygaldry is quite cunning. The engraving precise. It is clever work.”

I flushed with pleasure at the compliments.

“But there is more to artificing than simply skill,” Kilvin said as he lay the lamp down and spread his huge hands out flat on either side of it. “I cannot sell this lamp. It would gravitate to the wrong people. If a burglar were caught with such a tool it would reflect badly on all arcanists. You have completed your apprenticeship, and distinguished yourself in terms of skill.” I relaxed a bit. “But your greater judgment is still somewhat in question. The lamp itself we will melt down for metals, I suppose.”

“You’re going to melt down my lamp?” I had worked for a full span on the lamp and invested almost all the money I had on the purchase of raw materials. I had been counting on making a tidy profit once Kilvin sold it, but now. . . .

Kilvin’s expression was firm. “We are all responsible for maintaining the University’s reputation, E’lir Kvothe. An item like this in the wrong hands would reflect badly on all of us.”

I was trying to think of some way to persuade him when he waved a hand at me, shooing me toward the door. “Go tell Manet your good news.”

Disheartened, I made my way out into the workshop and was greeted by the sounds of a hundred hands busily chiseling wood, chipping stone, and hammering metal. The air was thick with the smell of etching acids, hot iron, and sweat. I spotted Manet off in the corner, loading tile into a kiln. I waited until he closed the door and backed away, mopping sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.

“How did it go?” he asked. “Did you pass or am I going to be stuck holding your hand for another term?”

“I passed,” I said dismissively. “You were right about the modifications. He wasn’t impressed.”

“Told you,” he said without any particular smugness. “You have to remember that I’ve been here longer than any ten students. When I tell you the masters are conservatives at heart, I’m not just making noise. I know.” Manet ran a hand idly over his wild, grey beard as he eyed the heat waves rolling off the brick kiln. “Any thoughts on what you’re going to do with yourself now that you’re a free agent?”

“I was thinking of doping a batch of the blue-lamp emitters,” I said.

“The money is good,” Manet said slowly. “Risky though.”

“You know I’m careful,” I reassured him.

“Risky is risky,” Manet said. “I trained a fellow maybe ten years back, what was his name . . . ?” He tapped his head for a moment, then shrugged.

“He made a little slip.” Manet snapped his fingers sharply. “But that’s all it takes. Got burned pretty badly and lost a couple fingers. Wasn’t much of an artificer afterward.”

I looked across the room at Cammar, with his missing eye and bald, scarred head. “Point taken.” I flexed my hands anxiously as I looked over at the burnished metal canister. People had been nervous around it for a day or two after Kilvin’s demonstration, but it had soon become just another piece of equipment. The truth was, there were ten thousand different ways to die in the Fishery if you were careless. Bone-tar just happened to be the newest, most exciting way to kill yourself.

I decided to change the subject. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away,” he said, glancing at the nearby kiln. “Get it? Fire away?”

I rolled my eyes. “Would you say you know the University as well as anyone?”

He nodded. “As well as anyone alive. All the dirty little secrets.”

I lowered my voice a bit. “So if you wanted to, could you get into the Archives without anyone knowing?”

Manet’s eyes narrowed. “I could,” he said, “but I wouldn’t.” I started to say something but he cut me off with more than a hint of exasperation. “Listen, my boy, we’ve talked about this before. Just be patient. You need to give Lorren more time to cool off. It’s only been a term or so. . . .”

“It been half a year!”

He shook his head. “That only seems like a long time to you because you’re young. Believe me, it’s fresh in Lorren’s mind. Just spend another term or so impressing Kilvin, then ask him to intercede on your behalf. Trust me. It’ll work.”