I looked at him blankly. “Do you mean runes, sir? I’m afraid not.”
Kilvin ran his hands through his beard, thoughtfully. “Do not bother with the Basic Artificing class you have signed for. Instead you will come to my workroom tomorrow. Noon.”
“I’m afraid I have another appointment at noon, Master Kilvin.”
“Hmmm. Yes.” He frowned. “First bell, then.”
“I’m afraid the boy will be having an appointment with my folk shortly after the whipping, Kilvin,” Arwyl said with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Have someone bring you to the Medica afterward, son. We’ll stitch you back together.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Arwyl nodded and made his way out of the room.
Kilvin watched him go, then turned to look at me. “My workshop. Day after tomorrow. Noon.” The tone of his voice implied that it wasn’t really a question.
“I would be honored, Master Kilvin.”
He grunted in response and left with Elxa Dal.
That left me alone with the still-seated Chancellor. We stared at each other while the sound of footsteps faded in the hallway. I brought myself back up out of the Heart of Stone and felt a tangle of anticipation and fear at everything that had just happened.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble so soon, sir.” I offered hesitantly.
“Oh?” he said. His expression considerably less stern now that we were alone. “How long had you intended to wait?”
“At least a span, sir.” My brush with disaster had left me feeling giddy with relief. I felt an irrepressible grin bubble onto my face.
“At least a span,” he muttered. The Chancellor put his face into his hands and rubbed, then looked up and surprised me with a wry smile. I realized he wasn’t particularly old when his face wasn’t locked in a stern expression. Probably only on the far side of forty. “You don’t look like someone who knows he’s going to be whipped tomorrow,” he observed.
I pushed the thought aside. “I imagine I’ll heal, sir.” He gave me an odd look, it took me a while to recognize it as the one I’d grown accustomed to in the troupe. He opened his mouth to speak, but I jumped on the words before he could say them. “I’m not as young as I look, sir. I know it. I just wish other people knew it, too.”
“I imagine they will before too long.” He gave me a long look before pushing himself up from the table. He held out a hand. “Welcome to the Arcanum.”
I shook his hand solemnly and we parted ways. I worked my way outside and was surprised to see that it was full night. I breathed in a lungful of sweet spring air and felt my grin resurface.
Then someone touched me on the shoulder. I jumped fully two feet into the air and narrowly avoided falling on Simmon in the howling, scratching, biting blur that had been my only method of defense in Tarbean.
He took a step back, startled by the expression on my face.
I tried to slow my pounding heart. “Simmon. I’m sorry. I’m just … try to make a little noise around me. I startle easily.”
“Me too,” he murmured shakily, wiping a hand across his forehead. “I can’t really blame you, though. Riding the horns will do that to the best of us. How did things go?”
“I’m to be whipped and admitted to the Arcanum.”
He looked at me curiously, trying to see if I was making a joke. “I’m sorry? Congratulations?” He made a shy smile at me. “Do I buy you a bandage or a beer?”
I smiled back. “Both.”
By the time I got back to the fourth floor of the Mews, rumor of my non-expulsion and admission into the Arcanum had spread ahead of me. I was greeted by a smattering of applause from my bunkmates. Hemme was not well loved. Some of my bunkmates offered awed congratulations while Basil made a special point of coming forward to shake my hand.
I had just climbed up to a sitting position on my bunk and was explaining to Basil the difference between a single whip and a six-tail when the third-floor steward came looking for me. He instructed me to pack up my things, explaining that Arcanum students were located in the west wing.
Everything I owned still fit neatly into my travelsack, so it was no great chore. As the steward led me away there was a chorus of good-byes from my fellow first-term students.
The west wing bunks were similar to those I had left behind. It was still rows of narrow beds, but here they weren’t stacked two high. Each bed had a small wardrobe and desk in addition to a trunk. Nothing fancy, but definitely a step up.
The biggest difference was in the attitudes of my bunkmates. There were scowls and glares, though for the most part I was pointedly ignored. It was a chilly reception, especially in light of the welcome I had just received from my non-Arcanum bunkmates.
It was easy to understand why. Most students attend the University for several terms before being admitted into the Arcanum. Everyone here had worked their way up through the ranks the hard way I hadn’t.
Only about three quarters of the bunks were full. I picked one in the back corner, away from the others. I hung my one extra shirt and my cloak in the wardrobe and put my travelsack in the trunk at the foot of my bed.
I lay down and stared at the ceiling. My bunk lay outside the light of the other student’s candles and sympathy lamps. I was finally a member of the Arcanum, in some ways exactly where I had always wanted to be.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Friend’s Blood
The next morning I woke early, washed up, and grabbed a bite to eat at the Mess. Then, because I had nothing to do before my whipping at noon, I strolled the University aimlessly. I wandered through a few apothecaries and bottle shops, admired the well-kept lawns and gardens.
Eventually I came to rest on a stone bench in a wide courtyard. Too anxious to think of doing anything productive, I simply sat and enjoyed the weather, watching the wind tumble a few scraps of wastepaper along the cobblestones.
It wasn’t too long before Wilem strolled over and sat himself next to me without an invitation. His characteristic Cealdish dark hair and eyes made him seem older than Simmon and me, but he still had the slightly awkward look of a boy who wasn’t quite used to being man-sized yet.
“Nervous?” he asked with the harsh burr a Siaru accent makes.
“Trying not to think about it, actually,” I said.
Wilem grunted. We were both quiet for a minute while we watched the students walk past. A few of them paused in their conversations to point at me.
I quickly grew tired of their attention. “Are you doing anything right now?”
“Sitting,” he said simply. “Breathing.”
“Clever. I can see why you’re in the Arcanum. Are you busy for the next hour or so?”
He shrugged and looked at me expectantly.
“Would you show me where Master Arwyl is? He told me to stop by … after.”
“Certainly,” he said, pointing to one of the courtyard’s outlets. “Medica is on the other side of Archives.”
We made our way around the massive windowless block that was the Archives. Wilem pointed. “That is Medica.” It was a large, oddly-shaped building. It looked like a taller, less rambling version of Mains.
“Bigger than I’d thought it would be,” I mused. “All for teaching medicine?”
He shook his head. “They do much business in tending the sick. They never turn anyone away because they can’t pay.”
“Really?” I looked at Medica again, thinking of Master Arwyl. “That’s surprising.”
“You need not pay in advance,” he clarified. “After you recover,” he paused and I heard the clear implication, if you recover, “you settle accounts. If you have no hard coin, you work until your debt is …” He paused. “What is the word for sheyem?” he asked, holding out his hands with the palms up and moving them up and down as if they were the pans of a scale.
“Weighed?” I suggested.
He shook his head. “No. Sheyem.” He stressed the word, and brought his hands even with each other.
&n
bsp; “Oh,” I mimicked the gesture. “Balanced.”
He nodded. “You work until your debt is balanced with the Medica. Few leave without settling their debts.”
I gave a grim chuckle. “Not that surprising. What’s the point of running away from an arcanist who has a couple drops of your blood?”
We eventually came to another courtyard. In the center of it was a pennant pole with a stone bench underneath it. I didn’t need to guess who was going to be tied to it in an hour or so. There were about a hundred students milling around, giving things an oddly festive air.
“It’s not usually this big,” Wilem said apologetically. “But a few masters canceled classes.”
“Hemme, I’m guessing, and Brandeur.”
Wilem nodded. “Hemme hauls grudges.” He paused to give emphasis to his understatement. “He’ll be there with his whole coterie.” He pronounced the last word slowly. “Is that the right word? Coterie?”
I nodded, and Wilem looked vaguely self-satisfied. Then he frowned. “That makes me remember something strange in your language. People are always asking me about the road to Tinuë. Endlessly they say, ‘how is the road to Tinuë?’ What does it mean?”
I smiled. “It’s an idiomatic piece of the language. That means—”
“I know what an idiom is,” Wilem interrupted. “What does this one mean?”
“Oh,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s just a greeting. It’s kind of like asking ‘how is your day?’ or ‘how is everything going?’ ”
“That is also an idiom.” Wilem grumbled. “Your language is thick with nonsense. I wonder how any of you understand each other. How is everything going? Going where?” He shook his head.
“Tinuë, apparently.” I grinned at him. “Tuan volgen oketh ama,” I said, using one of my favorite Siaru idioms. It meant ‘don’t let it make you crazy’ but it translated literally as: ‘don’t put a spoon in your eye over it.’
We turned away from the courtyard and walked around the University aimlessly for a while. Wilem pointed out a few more notable buildings, including several good taverns, the alchemy complex, the Cealdish laundry, and both the sanctioned and unsanctioned brothels. We strolled past the featureless stone walls of the Archives, past a cooper, a bookbinder, an apothecary… .
A thought occurred to me. “Do you know much herb lore?”
He shook his head. “Chemistry mostly, and I dapple in the Archives with Puppet sometimes.”
“Dabble,” I said, emphasizing the huh sound for him. “Dapple is something else. Who’s Puppet?”
Wil paused. “Hard to describe.” He waved a hand to dismiss the question. “I’ll introduce you later. What do you need to know about herbs?”
“Nothing really. Could you do me a favor?” He nodded and I pointed to the nearby apothecary. “Go buy me two scruples of nahlrout.” I held up two iron drabs. “This should cover it.”
“Why me?” he asked warily.
“Because I don’t want the fellow in there giving me the ‘you’re awfully young’ look.” I frowned. “I don’t want to have to deal with that today.”
I was nearly dancing with anxiety by the time Wilem got back. “He was busy,” he explained, seeing the impatient expression on my face. He handed me a small paper packet and a loose jingle of change. “What is it?”
“It’s to settle my stomach,” I said. “Breakfast isn’t sitting too well, and I don’t fancy throwing up halfway through being whipped.”
I bought us cider at a nearby pub, using mine to wash down the nahlrout, trying not to grimace at the bitter, chalky taste. Before too long we heard the belling tower striking noon.
“I think I must go to class,” Wil tried to mention it nonchalantly, but it came out almost strangled. He looked up at me, embarrassed and a little pale under his dark complexion. “I am not fond of blood.” He gave a shaky smile. “My blood … friend’s blood …”
“I don’t plan on doing much bleeding,” I said. “But don’t worry. You’ve gotten me through the hard part, the waiting. Thank you.”
We parted ways, and I fought down a wave of guilt. After knowing me less than three days Wil had gone out of his way to help me. He could have taken the easy route and resented my quick admittance into the Arcanum as many others did. Instead he had done a friend’s duty, helping me pass a difficult time, and I had repaid him with lies.
As I walked toward the pennant pole, I felt the weight of the crowd’s eyes on me. How many were there? Two hundred? Three? After a certain point is reached the numbers cease to matter, and all that remains is the faceless mass of a crowd.
My stage training held me firm under their stares. I walked steadily toward the pennant pole amid a sea of susurrus murmurings. I didn’t carry myself proudly, as I knew that might turn them against me. I was not repentant, either. I carried myself well, as my father had taught me, with neither fear nor regret on my face.
As I walked, I felt the nahlrout begin to take firm hold of me. I felt perfectly awake while everything around me grew almost painfully bright. Time seemed to slow as I approached the center of the courtyard. As my feet came down on the cobblestones I watched the small puffs of dust they raised. I felt a breath of wind catch the hem of my cloak and curl underneath to cool the sweat between my shoulder blades. It seemed for a second that, should I wish to, I could count the faces in the crowd around me, like flowers in a field.
I spotted none of the masters in the crowd except for Hemme. He stood near the pennant pole, looking piglike in his smugness. He folded his arms in front of himself, letting the sleeves of his black master’s robe hang loosely at his sides. He caught my eye and his mouth quirked up into a soft smirk that I knew was meant for me.
I resolved that I would bite out my own tongue before I gave him the satisfaction of appearing frightened, or even concerned. Instead I gave him a wide, confident smile then looked away, as if he didn’t concern me in the least.
Then I was at the pennant pole. I heard someone reading something, but the words were just a vague buzzing to me as I removed my cloak and lay it across the back of a stone bench that sat at the base of the pole. Then I began to unbutton my shirt, as casually as if I were preparing to take a bath.
A hand on my wrist stopped me. The man that had read the announcement gave me a smile that tried to be comforting. “You don’t need to go shirtless,” he said. “It’ll save you from a bit of the sting.”
“I’m not going to ruin a perfectly good shirt,” I said.
He gave me an odd look, then shrugged and ran a length of rope through an iron ring above our heads. “I’ll need your hands.”
I gave him a flat look. “You don’t need to worry about my running off.”
“It’s to keep you from falling over if you pass out.”
I gave him a hard look. “If I pass out you may do whatever you wish,” I said firmly. “Until then, I will not be tied.”
Something in my voice gave him pause. He didn’t offer me any argument as I climbed onto the stone bench beneath the pole and stretched to reach the iron ring. I gripped it firmly with both hands. Smooth and cool, I found it oddly comforting. I focused on it as I lowered myself into the Heart of Stone.
I heard people moving away from the base of the pole. Then the crowd quieted and there was no sound but the soft hiss and crack of the whip being loosened behind me. I was relieved I was to be whipped with a single headed whip. In Tarbean I had seen the terrible bloody hash a six-tail can make of a man’s back.
There was a sudden hush. Then, before I could brace myself, there came a sharper crack than the ones before. I felt a line of dim red fire trace down my back.
I gritted my teeth. But it wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be. Even with the precautions I had taken, I expected a sharper, fiercer pain.
Then the second lash came. Its crack was louder, and I heard it through my body rather than with my ears. I felt an odd looseness across my back. I held my breath, knowing I was torn and bleeding. Eve
rything went red for a moment and I leaned against the rough, tarred wood of the pennant pole.
The third lash came before I was ready for it. It licked up to my left shoulder, then tore nearly all the way down to my left hip. I grit my teeth, refusing to make a sound. I kept my eyes open and watched the world grow black around the edges for a moment before snapping back into sharp, bright focus.
Then, ignoring the burning across my back, I set my feet on the bench and loosened my clenched fingers from the iron ring. A young man jumped forward as if he expected to have to catch me. I gave him a scathing look and he backed away. I gathered my shirt and cloak, laid them carefully over one arm, and left the courtyard, ignoring the silent crowd around me.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Bloodless
“It could be worse, that much is certain.” Master Arwyl’s round face was serious as he circled me. “I was hoping you would simply welt. But I should have known better with your skin.”
I sat on the edge of a long table deep inside the Medica. Arwyl prodded my back gently as he chattered on, “But, as I say, it could be worse. Two cuts, and as cuts go, you couldn’t have done better. Clean, shallow, and straight. If you do as I tell you, you’ll have nothing but smooth silver scars to show the ladies how brave you are.” He stopped in front of me and raised his white eyebrows enthusiastically behind the round rings of his spectacles, “Eh?”
His expression wrung a smile from me.
He turned to the young man that stood by the door, “Go and fetch the next Re’lar on the list. Tell them only that they are to bring what is needful to repair a straight, shallow laceration.” The boy turned and left, his feet pattering away in the distance.
“You will provide excellent practice for one of my Re’lar,” Arwyl said cheerfully. “Your cut is a good straight one, with little chance of complication, but there is not much to you.” He prodded my chest with a wrinkled finger, and made a tsk noise with his tongue against his teeth. “Just bones and a little wrapping. It is easier for us if we have more meat to work with.”
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