Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

I put on my best hangdog expression. “You could just . . .”

He shook his head firmly. “No. No. No. I won’t show you. I won’t tell you. I won’t draw you a map.” He softened his expression and lay a hand on my shoulder, obviously trying to take some of the sting out of his bald refusal. “Tehlu anyway, why all the hurry? You’re young. You have all the time in the world.” He leveled a finger at me. “But if you get expelled it’s forever. And that’s what’ll happen if you’re caught sneaking into the Archives.”

I let my shoulders slump, dejected. “You’re right, I suppose.”

“That’s right, I’m right,” Manet said, turning back to look at the kiln. “Now run along. You’re giving me an ulcer.”

I walked away, thinking furiously about Manet’s advice and what he had let slip in our conversation. In general I knew his advice was good. If I were well-behaved for a term or two, I would get access to the Archives. It was the safe, simple route to what I wanted.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t afford patience. I was painfully aware of the fact that this term would be my last unless I could find a way to make a great deal of money rather quickly. No. Patience wasn’t an option for me.

On my way out, I peered inside Kilvin’s office and saw him sitting at his worktable, idly thumbing my lamp on and off. His expression was distracted again, and I didn’t doubt that his vast machine of a brain was busy thinking about a half dozen things all at once.

I knocked on the door frame to get his attention. “Master Kilvin?”

He didn’t turn to look at me. “Yes?”

“Could I buy the lamp?” I asked. “I could use it to read at night. Right now I’m still spending money on candles.” I briefly considered wringing my hands before deciding against it. Too melodramatic.

Kilvin thought for a long moment. The lamp in his hand gave a soft, t-tick as he switched it on again. “You cannot buy what your own hands build,” he said. “The time and materials that made it were yours.” He held it out to me.

I stepped into the room to take it, but Kilvin drew his hand back and met my eye. “I must make clear one thing,” he said seriously. “You cannot sell or lend this. Not even to someone you trust. If this is lost, it would eventually end up in the wrong hands and be used for skulking about in the dark, doing dishonest things.”

“I give you my word, Master Kilvin. No one will be using it but me.”

As I left the shop I was careful to keep my expression neutral, but inside I was wearing a wide, satisfied smile. Manet had told me exactly what I needed to know. There was another way into the Archives. A hidden way. If it existed, I could find it.

I lured Wil and Sim to the Eolian with the promise of free drinks, the one piece of generosity I could afford.

You see, while Ambrose’s interference might keep me from gaining a wealthy noble as a patron, there were still plenty of regular music lovers who bought me more drinks than I could comfortably consume on my own.

There were two simple solutions to this. I could become a drunk, or use an arrangement that has been around for as long as there have been taverns and musicians. Attend to me as I draw back the curtain to reveal a long-kept minstrel’s secret. . . .

Let’s say you are out at an inn. You listen to me play. You laugh, cry, and generally marvel at my craft. Afterward, you want to show your appreciation, but you don’t have the wherewithal to make a substantial gift of money like some wealthy merchant or noble. So you offer to buy me a drink.

I, however, have already had a drink. Or several drinks. Or perhaps I am trying to keep a clear head. Do I refuse your offer? Of course not. That would just waste a valuable opportunity and most likely leave you feeling snubbed.

Instead I graciously accept and ask bartender for a Greysdale Mead. Or a Sounten. Or a particular vintage of white wine.

The name of the drink isn’t the important thing. The important thing is that the drink doesn’t really exist. The bartender gives me water.

You pay for the drink, I thank you graciously, and everyone walks away happy. Later, the bartender, the tavern, and the musician share your money three ways.

Better yet, some sophisticated drinking establishments allow you to keep drinks as a sort of credit for future use. The Eolian was just such a place.

That is how, despite my poverty-stricken state, I managed to bring an entire dark bottle of scutten back to the table where Wil and Sim waited.

Wil eyed it appreciatively as I sat down. “What’s the special occasion?”

“Kilvin approved my sympathy lamp. You’re looking at the Arcanum’s newest journeyman artificer,” I said a little smugly. Most students spend at least three or four terms finishing their apprenticeships. I kept my mixed success with the lamp to myself.

“About time,” Wil said dryly. “Took you what, almost three months? People were beginning to say that you had lost your touch.”

“I thought you’d be more pleased,” I said as I peeled the wax off the top of the bottle. “My days of being a pinchpenny might be coming to an end.”

Sim made a dismissive noise. “You stand your round well enough,” he said.

“I drink to your continued success as an artificer,” Wil said, sliding his cup toward me. “Knowing it will lead to more drinks in the future.”

“Plus,” I said as I stripped the last of the wax away, “there’s always the chance that if I get you drunk enough you’ll let me slip into the Archives someday when you’re working the desk.” I kept my tone carefully jovial as I glanced up at him to gauge his reaction.

Wil took a slow drink, not meeting my eye. “I can’t.”

Disappointment nestled sourly in the pit of my stomach. I made a dismissive gesture, as if I couldn’t believe he’d taken my joke seriously. “Oh, I know—”

“I thought about it,” Wilem interrupted. “Seeing as how you didn’t deserve the punishment you got, and I know how much it’s been bothering you.” Wil took a drink. “Lorren occasionally suspends students. A handful of days for too loud talking in the Tombs. A few span if they are careless with a book. But banned is different. That hasn’t happened in years. Everyone knows. If anyone saw you . . .” He shook his head. “I’d lose my position as scriv. We could both get expelled.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “Just the fact that you considered it means—”

“We’re getting maudlin here,” Sim broke in, knocking his glass against the table. “Open the bottle and we’ll drink to Kilvin being so impressed that he talks to Lorren and gets you unbanned from the Archives.”

I smiled and began to work a screw into the cork. “I have a better plan,” I said. “I vote we drink to the perpetual confusation and botherment of a certain Ambrose Jakis.”

“I think we can all agree to that,” Wil said, raising his glass.

“Great God,” Simmon said in a hushed tone. “Look what Deoch found.”

“What’s that?” I asked, concentrating on getting the cork out all in one piece.

“He’s managed to get the most beautiful woman in the place again.” Sim’s grumble was uncharacteristically surly. “It’s enough to make you hate a man.”

“Sim, your taste in women is questionable at best.” The cork came free with a pleasing sound and I held it up triumphantly for them to see. Neither of them paid me any attention, their eyes pinned to the doorway.

I turned to look. Paused. “That’s Denna.”

Sim turned back to look at me. “Denna?”

I frowned. “Dianne. Denna. She’s the one I told you about before. The one who sang with me. She goes by a lot of different names. I don’t know why.”