The Fickle Wind

T HE NEXT EVENING FOUND me at the Golden Pony, arguably the finest inn on the University side of the river. It boasted elaborate kitchens, a fine stable, and a skilled obsequious staff. It was the sort of upscale establishment only the wealthiest students could afford.

I wasn’t inside, of course. I was crouched in the deep shadows of the roof, trying not to dwell on the fact that what I was planning went well beyond the bounds of Conduct Unbecoming. If I was caught breaking into Ambrose’s rooms, I would undoubtedly be expelled.

It was a clear autumn night with a strong wind. A mixed blessing. The sound of rustling leaves would cover any small noises I might make, but I worried the flapping edges of my cloak might draw attention.

Our plan was a simple one. I had slipped a sealed note under Ambrose’s door. It was an unsigned, flirtatious request for a meeting in Imre. Wil had written it, as Sim and I judged he had the most feminine handwriting.

It was a goose chase, but I guessed Ambrose would take the bait. I would have preferred to have someone distract him personally, but the fewer people involved the better. I could have asked Denna to help, but I wanted it to be a surprise when I returned her ring.

Wil and Sim were my lookouts, Wil in the common room, Sim in the alley by the back door. It was their job to let me know when Ambrose left the building. More importantly, they would alert me if he came back before I’d finished searching his rooms.

I felt a sharp tug in my right-hand pocket as the oak twig gave two distinct twitches. After a moment the signal was repeated. Wilem was letting me know Ambrose had left the inn.

In my left pocket was a piece of birch. Simmon held a similar one where he stood watch over the inn’s back door. It was a simple, effective signaling system if you knew enough sympathy to make it work.

I crawled down the slope of the roof, moving carefully over the heavy clay tiles. I knew from my younger days in Tarbean that they tended to crack and slide and could make you lose your footing.

I made it to the lip of the roof, fifteen feet off the ground. Hardly a dizzying height, but more than enough to break a leg or a neck. A narrow piece of roof ran beneath the long row of second-story windows. There were ten in all, and the middle four belonged to Ambrose.

I flexed my fingers a couple times to loosen them, then began to edge along the narrow strip of roof.

The secret is to concentrate on what you’re doing. Don’t look at the ground. Don’t look over your shoulder. Ignore the world and trust it to return the favor. This was the real reason I was wearing my cloak. If I were spotted I would be nothing more than a dark shape in the night, impossible to identify. Hopefully.

The first window was dark, and the second had its curtains drawn. But the third was dimly lit. I hesitated. If you’re fair-skinned like me, you never want to peer into a window at night. Your face will stand out against the dark like the full moon. Rather than risk peering in, I dug around in the pockets of my cloak until I found a piece of scrap tin from the Fishery that I’d buffed into a makeshift mirror. Then I carefully used it to peer around the corner and through the window.

Inside there were a few dim lamps and a canopy bed as big as my entire room back in Anker’s. The bed was occupied. Actively occupied. What’s more, there seemed to be more naked limbs than two people could account for. Unfortunately, my piece of tin was small, and I couldn’t view the scene in its full complexity, otherwise I might have learned some very interesting things.

I briefly considered going back and coming at Ambrose’s rooms from the other side, but the wind gusted suddenly, sending leaves skipping across the cobblestones and trying to claw me away from my narrow footing. Heart pounding, I decided to risk passing this window. I guessed the people inside had better things to do than stargazing.

I pulled the hood of my cloak down and held the edges in my teeth, covering my face while leaving my hands free. Thus blinded, I inched my way past the window, listening intently for any signs I’d been spotted. There were a few surprised noises, but they didn’t seem to have anything to do with me.

The first of Ambrose’s windows was elaborate stained glass. Pretty, but not designed to open. The next was perfect: a wide, double window. I pulled a thin piece of copper wire from one of the pockets of my cloak and used it to trip the simple latch holding it closed.

When the window wouldn’t open, I realized that Ambrose had added a drop bar as well. That took several long minutes of tricky work, one-handed in the near-total dark. Thankfully, the wind had died down, at least for the moment.

Then, once I’d worked my way past the drop bar, the window still wouldn’t budge. I began to curse Ambrose’s paranoia as I searched for the third lock, hunting for nearly ten minutes before I realized the window was simply stuck shut.

I tugged on it a couple times, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. They don’t put handles on the outside, you realize. Eventually I got overenthusiastic and pulled too hard. The window sprang open and my weight shifted backward. I leaned off the edge of the roof, fighting every reflex that urged me to move my foot back and regain my balance, knowing there was nothing but fifteen feet of empty air behind me.

Do you know the feeling when you tip your chair too far and begin to fall backward? The sensation was something like that, mixed with self-recrimination and the fear of death. I flailed my arms, knowing it wouldn’t help, my mind gone suddenly blank with panic.

The wind saved me. It gusted as I teetered on the edge of the roof, giving me just enough of a push that I could regain my balance. One of my flailing arms caught the now-open window and I scrambled desperately inside, not caring how much noise I made.

Once through the window I crouched on the floor, breathing hard. My heart was just beginning to slow when the wind caught the window and slammed it closed above my head, startling me all over again.

I brought out my sympathy lamp, thumbed the switch to a dim setting, and swept the narrow arc of light around the room. Kilvin had been right to call it a thief ’s lamp. It was perfect for this sort of skulking about.

It was miles to Imre and back, and I trusted Ambrose’s curiosity would keep him waiting for his secret admirer for at least half an hour. Normally looking for something as small as a ring would be a full day’s job. But I guessed Ambrose wouldn’t even think of hiding it. In his mind, it wasn’t something he’d stolen. He would consider it either a trinket or a trophy.

I set about methodically searching Ambrose’s rooms. The ring wasn’t on his chest of drawers or the bedside table. It wasn’t in any of his desk drawers, or on his jewelry tray in his dressing room. He didn’t even have a locked jewelry box, mind you, just a tray with all manner of pins, rings, and chains scattered carelessly across it.

I left everything where it was, which isn’t to say I didn’t think about robbing the bastard blind. Just a few pieces of his jewelry could pay my tuition for a year. But it went against my plan: get in, find the ring, and get out. So long as I left no evidence of my visit, I guessed Ambrose would simply assume he’d lost the ring if he noticed it was gone at all. It was the perfect sort of crime: no suspicion, no pursuit, no consequences.

Besides, it’s notoriously difficult to fence jewelry in a town as small as Imre. It would be far too easy for someone to trace it back to me.

That said, I’ve never claimed to be a priest, and there were plenty of opportunities for mischief in Ambrose’s rooms. So I indulged myself. While checking Ambrose’s pockets, I weakened a few seams so there was a fair chance of him splitting his pants up the back the next time he sat down or mounted his horse. I loosened the handle on his chimney’s flue so it would eventually fall off, and his room would fill with smoke while he scrambled to reattach it.

I was trying to think of something to do to his damned irritating plumed hat when the oak twig in my pocket twitched violently, making me jump. Then it twitched again and broke sharply in half. I cursed bitterly under my breath. Ambrose couldn’t have been gone for more than twenty minutes. What had brought him back so soon?

I clicked off my sympathy lamp and stuffed it into my cloak. Then I scurried into the next room to make my escape through the window. It was irritating to go through all the trouble of getting in just to leave again, but as long as Ambrose didn’t know anyone had broken into his rooms, I could simply come back another night.

But the window didn’t open. I pushed harder, wondering if it had jammed itself shut when the wind had slammed it.

Then I glimpsed a thin strip of brass running along the inside of the windowsill. I couldn’t read the sygaldry in the dim light, but I know wards when I see them. That explained why Ambrose was back so soon. He knew someone had broken in. What’s more, the best sort of wards wouldn’t just warn of an intruder, they could hold a door or window shut to seal a thief in.

I bolted for the door, hands scrabbling in the pockets of my cloak, looking for something long and slender I could use to foul the lock. Not finding anything suitable, I snatched a pen from his writing desk, jammed it into the keyhole, then jerked it hard sideways, breaking the metal head off inside the lock. A moment later I heard a grating metallic noise as Ambrose attempted to unlock the door from his side, fumbling and cursing when he couldn’t get his key to fit.

By that point I was already back at the window, shining my lamp back and forth along the strip of brass and murmuring runes under my breath. It was simple enough. I could render it useless by scratching out a handful of connecting runes, then open the window and escape.

I hurried back to the sitting room and snatched the letter opener off his desk, knocking over the capped inkwell in my hurry. I was just about to begin eliding runes when I realized how stupid that would be. Any petty thief could break into Ambrose’s rooms, but the number of people who knew enough sygaldry to foul a ward was much lower. I might as well sign my name on his window frame.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts, then returned the letter opener to the desk and replaced the inkwell. I returned and examined the long brass strip more closely. Breaking something is simple, understanding it is harder.

This is doubly true when you are confronted with the sounds of muttered cursing from behind a door, accompanied by the clack and rattle of someone trying to unjam a lock.

Then the hallway went quiet, which was even more unnerving. I finally managed to puzzle out the sequence of wards as I heard several sets of footsteps in the hall. I broke my mind into three pieces and focused my Alar as I pushed against the window. My hands and feet grew cold as I pulled heat from my body to counteract the ward, trying not to panic as I heard a loud thump as something heavy struck the door.

The window swung open, and I scrambled backward over the sash and onto the roof as something struck the door again and I heard the sharp crack of splintering wood. I still could have made it away safely, but when I set my right foot down on the roof, I felt a clay tile crack under my weight. As my foot slid, I grabbed the windowsill with both hands to steady myself.

Then the wind gusted, catching the open window and flinging it toward my head. I brought up my arm to protect my face, and it struck my elbow instead, smashing one of the small panes of glass. The impact pushed me sideways onto my right foot, which slid the rest of the way out from underneath me.

Then, since all my other options seemed to be exhausted, I decided it would be best if I fell off the roof.

Acting on pure instinct, my hands scrabbled madly. I dislodged a few more clay tiles, then caught hold of the lip of the roof. My grip wasn’t good, but it slowed and spun me so that I didn’t land on my head or my back. Instead I landed facedown, like a cat.

Except a cat’s legs are all the same length. I landed on my hands and knees. My hands merely stung, but my knees striking the cobblestones hurt as badly as anything I’d ever felt in my entire young life. The pain was blinding, and I heard myself yelp like a dog that’s been kicked.

A second later a hail of heavy red roofing tiles fell around me. Most shattered on the cobblestones, but one clipped the back of my head, while another caught me square on the elbow, making my entire forearm go numb.

I didn’t spare it a moment’s thought. A broken arm would heal, but expulsion from the University would last a lifetime. I pulled my hood up and forced myself to my feet. Using one hand to make sure the hood of my cloak stayed in place, I staggered a few steps until I was under the eaves of the Golden Pony, out of sight of the upstairs window.

Then I was running, running, running. . . .

* * *

Eventually I made my careful, limping way onto the rooftops and let myself into my room by the window. It was slow going, but I had little choice. I couldn’t walk past everyone in the taproom disheveled, limping, and generally looking as if I’d just fallen off a roof.

Once I caught my breath and spent some time abusing myself for several types of blinding idiocy, I took stock of my wounds. The good news was that I hadn’t broken either of my legs, but I had splendid bruises blooming just below each knee. The tile that had grazed my head had left a lump, but hadn’t cut me. And while my elbow throbbed with a dull ache, my hand was no longer numb.

There was a knock at the door. I froze for a moment, then drew the birch twig from my pocket, muttered a quick binding, and jerked it back and forth.

I heard a startled noise from out in the hall, followed by Wilem’s low laugh. “That’s not funny,” I heard Sim say. “Let us in.”

I let them in. Simmon sat on the edge of the bed, and Wilem took the chair by the desk. I closed the door and sat on the other half of the bed. Even with all of us seated, the tiny room was crowded.

We eyed each other soberly for a moment, then Simmon spoke up. “Apparently Ambrose startled a thief in his rooms tonight. Fellow jumped out a window rather than get caught.”

I gave a brief, humorless laugh. “Hardly. I was almost out when the window blew shut on me.” I gestured awkwardly. “Knocked me off the roof.”

Wilem let out a relieved sigh. “I thought I botched the binding.”

I shook my head. “I had plenty of warning. I just wasn’t as careful as I should have been.”

“Why was he back so early?” Simmon asked, looking at Wilem. “Did you hear anything when he came in?”

“It probably occurred to him that my handwriting is not especially feminine,” Wilem said.

“He had wards on his windows,” I said. “Probably linked to a ring or something he carries with him. They must have tipped him off as soon as I opened the window.”

“Did you get it?”Wilem asked.

I shook my head.

Simmon craned his neck to get a better look at my arm. “Are you okay?”

I followed his eyes, but didn’t see anything. Then I tugged at my shirt and noticed that it was stuck to the back of my arm. With all my other pains, I hadn’t noticed it.

Moving gingerly, I pulled my shirt up over my head. The elbow of the shirt was torn and speckled with blood. I cursed bitterly. I only owned four shirts, and now this one was ruined.

I tried to get a look at my the injury, and quickly realized that you couldn’t get a look at the back of your own elbow, no matter how much you wanted to. Eventually I held it up for Simmon’s inspection.

“It’s not much,” he said, holding his fingers a little more than two inches apart. “There’s only one cut and it’s hardly bleeding. The rest of it’s just scraped up. It looks like you scuffed it hard against something.”

“Clay tile from the roof fell on me,” I said.

“Lucky,” Wilem grunted. “Who else could fall off a roof and end up with nothing more than a few scrapes?”

“I’ve got bruises on my knees the size of apples,” I said. “I’ll be lucky if I can walk tomorrow.” But deep down I knew he was right. The clay tile that had landed on my elbow could easily have broken my arm. The broken edges of the clay tiles were sometimes sharp as knives, so if it had hit me differently, it could have cut me down to the bone. I hate clay roofing tiles.

“Well, it could have been worse,” Simmon said briskly as he came to his feet. “Let’s go to the Medica and get you patched up.”

“Kraem no,” Wilem said. “He can’t go to the Medica. They will be asking to see if anyone is hurt.”

Simmon sat down again. “Of course,” he said, sounding vaguely disgusted with himself. “I knew that.” He looked me over. “At least you’re not hurt anywhere that people can see.”

I looked at Wilem. “You have a problem with blood, don’t you?”

His expression grew slightly offended. “I wouldn’t say . . .” His eyes darted to my elbow and his face grew a little pale despite his dark Cealdish complexion. His mouth made a thin line. “Yes.”

“Fair enough.” I started to cut my ruined shirt into strips of cloth. “Congratulations Sim. You’ve been promoted to field medic.” I opened a drawer and brought out hook needle and gut, iodine, and a small pot of goose grease.

Sim looked at the needle, then back at me, eyes wide.

I gave him my best smile. “It’s easy. I’ll talk you through it.”

* * *

I sat on the floor with my arm over my head while Simmon washed, stitched, and bandaged my elbow. He surprised me by being nowhere near as squeamish as I’d expected. His hands were more careful and confident than those of many students in the Medica who did this sort of thing all the time.

“So the three of us were here, playing breath all night?” Wil asked, pointedly avoiding looking in my direction.

“Sounds good,” Sim said. “Can we say I won?”

“No,” I said. “People must have seen Wil at the Pony. Lie and they’ll catch me for sure.”

“Oh,” Sim said. “What do we say then?”

“The truth.” I pointed at Wil. “You were at the Pony during the excitement, then came here to tell me about it.” I nodded to the small table, where a mass of gears, springs, and screws were spread in disarray. “I showed you the harmony clock I found, and you both gave me advice on how to fix it.”

Sim seemed disappointed. “Not very exciting.”

“Simple lies are best,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thanks again, both of you. This could have gone terribly wrong without the two of you looking out for me.”

Simmon got to his feet and opened the door. Wil stood as well, but didn’t turn to leave. “I heard a strange rumor the other night,” he said.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

He nodded. “Very. I remember hearing that you were done antagonizing a certain powerful member of the nobility. I was surprised that you had finally decided to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Come on, Wil,” Simmon said. “Ambrose isn’t sleeping. He’s a dog with the froth that deserves to be put down.”

“He more resembles an angry bear,” Wilem said. “One you seem determined to prod with a burning stick.”

“How can you say that?” Sim said hotly. “In two years as a scriv has he ever called you anything other than a filthy shim? And what about that time he almost blinded me by mixing my salts? Kvothe will be working the plum bob out of his system for—”

Wil held up his hand and nodded to acknowledge Simmon’s point. “I know this to be true, which is why I let myself be drawn into such foolishness. I merely wish to make a point.” He looked at me. “You realize you have gone well over the hill concerning this Denna girl, don’t you?”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 898