The Wise Man's Fear by Patrick Rothfuss Page B

embarrassing you. I’m not a complete barbarian.”
    “Just giving fair warning,” I said. “You let me know what’s dangerous in the Artificery. I let you know what’s dangerous here.”
    “His lute was different,” Wilem said. “It sounded different than yours. Smaller too.”
    I fought off the urge to smile and decided not to make an issue of it. “That sort of lute is called a mandolin,” I said.
    “You’re going to play, aren’t you?” Simmon asked, squirming in his seat like an eager puppy. “You should play that song you wrote about Ambrose.” He hummed a bit, then sang:
    A mule can learn magic, a mule has some class,
Cause unlike young Rosey, he’s just half an ass.
     
    Manet chuckled into his mug. Wilem cracked a rare smile.
    “No,” I said firmly. “I’m done with Ambrose. We’re quits as far as I’m concerned.”
    “Of course,” Wil said, deadpan.
    “I’m serious,” I said. “There’s no profit in it. This back and forth does nothing but irritate the masters.”
    “ Irritate is rather a mild word,” Manet said dryly. “Not exactly the one I would have chosen, myself.”
    “You owe him,” Sim said, his eyes glittering with anger. “Besides, they aren’t going to charge you with Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum just for singing a song.”
    “No,” Manet said. “They’ll just raise his tuition.”
    “What?” Simmon said. “They can’t do that. Tuition is based on your admissions interview.”
    Manet’s snort echoed hollowly into his mug as he took another drink. “The interview is just a piece of the game. If you can afford it, they squeeze you a little. Same thing if you cause them trouble.” He eyed me seriously. “You’re going to be getting it from both ends this time. How many times were you brought up on the horns last term?”
    “Twice.” I admitted. “But the second time wasn’t really my fault.”
    “Of course,” Manet gave me a frank look. “And that’s why they tied you up and whipped you bloody, is it? Because it wasn’t your fault?”
    I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling the pull of the half-healed scars along my back. “Most of it wasn’t my fault,” I amended.
    Manet shrugged it aside. “Fault isn’t the issue. A tree doesn’t make a thunderstorm, but any fool knows where lightning’s going to strike.”
    Wilem nodded seriously. “Back home we say: the tallest nail gets hammered down first.” He frowned. “It sounds better in Siaru.”
    Sim looked troubled. “But the admission interview still determines the lion’s share of your tuition, doesn’t it?” From his tone, I guessed Sim hadn’t even considered the possibility of personal grudges or politics entering into the equation.
    “For the most part,” Manet admitted. “But the masters pick their own questions, and they each get their say.” He began to tick things off on his fingers. “Hemme doesn’t care for you, and he can carry twice his weight in grudges. You got on Lorren’s bad side early and managed to stay there. You’re a troublemaker. You missed nearly a span of classes toward the end of last term. No warning beforehand or any explanation afterward.” He gave me a significant look.
    I looked down at the table, pointedly aware that several of the classes I’d missed had been part of my apprenticeship under Manet in the Artificery.
    After a moment, Manet shrugged and continued. “On top of it all, they’ll be testing you as a Re’lar this time around. Tuitions get higher in the upper ranks. There’s a reason I’ve stayed an E’lir this long.” He gave me a hard stare. “My best guess? You’ll be lucky to get out for less than ten talents.”
    “Ten talents.” Sim sucked a breath through his teeth and shook his head sympathetically. “Good thing you’re so flush.”
    “Not as flush as that,” I said.
    “How can you not be?” Sim asked. “The masters fined Ambrose almost twenty talents after he broke your lute. What did you