The Wise Man's Fear Part 9

I left the courtyard at a dead run.

I pounded frantically on the door, out of breath from running up to the third floor of Mews. "Simmon!" I shouted. "Open this door and talk to me!"

Along the hallway doors opened and students peered out at the commotion. One of the heads peering out was Simmon's, his sandy hair in disarray. "Kvothe?" he said. "What are you doing? That's not even my door."

I walked over, pushed him inside his room, and closed the door behind us. "Simmon. Ambrose drugged me. I think there's something not right in my head, but I can't tell what it is."

Simmon grinned. "I've thought that for a ..." He trailed off, his expression turning incredulous. "What are you doing? Don't spit on my floor!"

"I have a strange taste in my mouth," I explained.

"I don't care," he said, angry and confused. "What's wrong with you? Were you born in a barn?"

I struck him hard across the face with the flat of my hand, sending him staggering up against the wall. "I was born in a barn, actually," I said grimly. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Sim stood with one hand braced against the wall, the other against the reddening skin of his cheek. His expression pure astonishment. "What in G.o.d's name is wrong with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me," I said, "but you'd do well to watch your tone. I like you well enough, but just because I don't have a set of rich parents doesn't mean you're one whit better than me." I frowned and spit again. "G.o.d that's foul, I hate nutmeg. I have ever since I was a child."

A sudden realization washed over Sim's face. "The taste in your mouth," he said. "Is it like plums and spice?"

I nodded. "It's disgusting."

"G.o.d's grey ashes," Sim said, his voice hushed in grim earnest. "Okay. You're right. You've been drugged. I know what it is." He trailed off as I turned around and started to open the door. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to go kill Ambrose," I said. "For poisoning me."

"It's not a poison. It's-" He stopped speaking abruptly, then continued in a calm, level voice. "Where did you get that knife?"

"I keep it strapped to my leg, under my pants," I said. "For emergencies."

Sim drew a deep breath, then let it out. "Could you give me a minute to explain before you go kill Ambrose?"

I shrugged. "Okay."

"Would you mind sitting down while we talk?" He gestured to a chair.

I sighed and sat down. "Fine. But hurry. I've got admissions soon."

Sim nodded calmly and sat on the edge of his bed, facing me. "Okay, you know when someone's been drinking, and they get it into their head to do something stupid? And you can't talk them out of it even though it's obviously a bad idea?"

I laughed. "Like when you wanted to go talk to that harper girl outside the Eolian and threw up on her horse?"

He nodded. "Exactly like that. There's something an alchemist can make that does the same thing, but it's much more extreme."

I shook my head. "I don't feel drunk in the least. My head is clear as a bell."

Sim nodded again. "It's not like being drunk," he said. "It's just that one piece of it. It won't make you dizzy or tired. It just makes it easier for a person to do something stupid."

I thought about it for a moment. "I don't think that's it," I said. "I don't feel like I want to do anything stupid."

"There's one way to tell," Sim said. "Can you think of anything right now that seems like a bad idea?"

I thought for a moment, tapping the flat of the knife's blade idly against the edge of my boot.

"It would be a bad idea to ..." I trailed off.

I thought for a longer moment. Sim looked at me expectantly.

"... to jump off the roof?" My voice curled up at the end, making it a sort of question.

Sim was quiet. He kept looking at me.

"I see the problem," I said slowly. "I don't seem to have any behavioral filters."

Simmon gave a relieved smile and nodded encouragingly. "That's it exactly. All your inhibitions have been sliced off so cleanly you can't even tell they're gone. But everything else is the same. You're steady, articulate, and rational."

"You're patronizing me," I said, pointing at him with the knife. "Don't."

He blinked. "Fair enough. Can you think of a solution to the problem?"

"Of course. I need some sort of behavioral touchstone. You're going to need to be my compa.s.s because you still have your filters in place."

"I was thinking the same thing," he said. "So you'll trust me?"

I nodded. "Except when it comes to women. You're an idiot with women." I picked up a gla.s.s of water from a nearby table and rinsed my mouth out with it, spitting it onto the floor.

Sim gave a shaky smile. "Fair enough. First, you can't go kill Ambrose."

I hesitated. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure. In fact, pretty much anything you think to do with that knife is going to be a bad idea. You should give it to me."

I shrugged and flipped it over in my palm, handing him the makes.h.i.+ft leather grip.

Sim seemed surprised by this, but he took hold of the knife. "Merciful Tehlu," he said with a profound sigh, setting the knife down on the bed. "Thank you."

"Was that an extreme case?" I asked, rinsing my mouth out again. "We should probably have some sort of ranking system. Like a ten point scale."

"Spitting water onto my floor is a one," he said.

"Oh," I said. "Sorry." I put the cup back onto his desk.

"It's okay," he said easily.

"Is one low or high?" I asked.

"Low," he said. "Killing Ambrose is a ten." He hesitated. "Maybe an eight." He s.h.i.+fted in his seat. "Or a seven."

"Really?" I said. "That much? Okay then." I leaned forward in my seat. "You need to give me some tips for admissions. I've got to get back into line before too long."

Simmon shook his head firmly. "No. That's a really bad idea. Eight."

"Really?"

"Really," he said. "It is a delicate social situation. A lot of things could go wrong."

"But if-"

Sim let out a sigh, brus.h.i.+ng his sandy hair out of his eyes. "Am I your touchstone or not? This is going to get tedious if I have to tell you everything three times before you listen."

I thought about it for a moment. "You're right, especially if I'm about to do something potentially dangerous." I looked around. "How long is this going to last?"

"No more than eight hours." He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it.

"What?" I asked.

Sim sighed. "There might be some side effects. It's lipid soluble, so it will hang around in your body a bit. You might experience occasional minor relapses brought about by stress, intense emotion, exercise... ." He gave me an apologetic look. "They'd be like little echoes of this."

"I'll worry about that later," I said. I held out my hand. "Give me your admissions tile. You can go through now. I'll take your slot."

He spread his hands helplessly. "I've already gone," he explained.

"Tehlu's t.i.ts and teeth," I cursed. "Fine. Go get Fela."

He waved his hands violently in front of himself. "No. No no no. Ten."

I laughed. "Not for that. She has a slot late on Cendling."

"You think she'll trade with you?"

"She's already offered."

Sim got to his feet. "I'll go find her."

"I'll stay here," I said.

Sim gave an enthusiastic nod and looked nervously around the room. "It's probably safest if you don't do anything while I'm gone," he said as he opened the door. "Just sit on your hands until I get back."

Sim was only gone for five minutes, which was probably for the best.

There was a knock on the door. "It's me," Sim's voice came through the wood. "Is everything all right in there?"

"You know what's strange?" I said to him through the door. "I tried to think of something funny I could do while you were gone, but I couldn't." I looked around at the room. "I think that means humor is rooted in social transgression. I can't transgress because I can't figure out what would be socially unacceptable. Everything seems the same to me."

"You might have a point," he said, then asked, "did you do something anyway?"

"No," I said. "I decided to be good. Did you find Fela?"

"I did. She's here. But before we come in, you have to promise not to do anything without asking me first. Fair?"

I laughed. "Fair enough. Just don't make me do stupid things in front of her."

"I promise," Sim said. "Why don't you sit down? Just to be safe."

"I'm already sitting," I said.

Sim opened the door. I could see Fela peering over his shoulder.

"h.e.l.lo Fela," I said. "I need to trade slots with you."

"First," Sim said. "You should put your s.h.i.+rt back on. That's about a two."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry. I was hot."

"You could have opened the window."

"I thought it would be safer if I limited my interactions with external objects," I said.

Sim raised an eyebrow. "That's actually a really good idea. It just steered you a little wrong in this case."

"Wow." I heard Fela's voice from the hallway. "Is he serious?"

"Absolutely serious," Sim said. "Honestly? I don't think it's safe for you to come in."

I tugged my s.h.i.+rt on. "Dressed," I said. "I'll even sit on my hands if it will make you feel better." I did just that, tucking them under my legs.

Sim let Fela inside, then closed the door behind her.

"Fela, you are just gorgeous," I said. "I would give you all the money in my purse if I could just look at you naked for two minutes. I'd give everything I own. Except my lute."

It's hard to say which of them blushed a deeper red. I think it was Sim.

"I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?" I said.

"No," Sim said. "That's about a five."

"But that doesn't make any sense," I said. "Women are naked in paintings. People buy paintings, don't they? Women pose for them."

Sim nodded. "That's true. But still. Just sit for a moment and don't say or do anything? Okay?"

I nodded.

"I can't quite believe this," Fela said, the blush fading from her cheeks. "I can't help but think the two of you are playing some sort of elaborate joke on me."