“Soon,” I said. “I haven’t been through admissions yet.”
“You’ll need to do that first,” he said seriously. “I can’t let anyone in unless they’re in the book.” He gestured at the ledgers on the desk in front of him.
The butterflies died. I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. “Are you sure I can’t look around just for a couple of minutes? I’ve come an awfully long way….” I looked at the two sets of double doors leading out of the room, one labeled TOMES the other STACKS. Behind the desk a smaller door was labeled SCRIVS ONLY.
His expression softened somewhat. “I cannot. There would be trouble.” He looked me over again. “Are you really going through admissions?” his skepticism was obvious even through his thick accent.
I nodded. “I just came here first.” I said looking around the empty room, eyeing the closed doors, trying to think of some way to persuade him to let me in.
He spoke before I could think of anything. “If you’re really going, you should hurry. Today is the last day. Sometimes they don’t go much longer than noon.”
My heart beat hard and quick in my chest. I’d assumed they would run all day. “Where are they?”
“Hollows.” He gestured toward the outer door. “Down, then left. Short building with…color-windows. Two big…trees out front.” He paused. “Maple? Is that the word for a tree?”
I nodded and hurried outside, soon I was pelting down the road.
Two hours later I was in Hollows, fighting down a sour stomach and climbing up onto the stage of an empty theater. The room was dark except for the wide circle of light that held the masters’ table. I walked to stand at the edge of the light and waited. Slowly the nine masters stopped talking among themselves and turned to look at me.
They sat at a huge, crescent-shaped table. It was raised, so even seated they were looking down on me. They were serious-looking men, ranging in age from mature to ancient.
There was a long moment of silence before the man sitting at the center of the crescent motioned me forward. I guessed he was the Chancellor. “Come up where we can see you. That’s right. Hello. Now, what’s your name, boy?”
“Kvothe, sir.”
“And why are you here?”
I looked him in the eye. “I want to attend the University. I want to be an arcanist.” I looked around at each of them. Some seemed amused. None looked particularly surprised.
“You are aware,” the Chancellor said. “That the University is for continuing one’s education. Not beginning it?”
“Yes, Chancellor. I know.”
“Very well,” he said. “May I have your letter of introduction?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’m afraid I don’t have one, sir. Is it absolutely necessary?”
“It is customary to have a sponsor,” he explained. “Preferably an arcanist. Their letter tells us what you know. Your areas of excellence and weakness.”
“The arcanist I learned from was named Abenthy, sir. But he never gave me a letter of introduction. Might I tell you myself?”
The Chancellor nodded gravely, “Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing that you actually have studied with an arcanist without proof of some kind. Do you have anything that can corroborate your story? Any other correspondence?”
“He gave me a book before we parted ways, sir. He inscribed it to me and signed his name.”
The Chancellor smiled. “That should do nicely. Do you have it with you?”
“No.” I let some honest bitterness creep into my voice. “I had to pawn it in Tarbean.”
Sitting to the left of the Chancellor, Master Rhetorician Hemme made a disgusted noise at my comment, earning him an irritated look from the Chancellor. “Come, Herma,” Hemme said, slapping his hand on the table. “The boy is obviously lying. I have important matters to attend to this afternoon.”
The Chancellor gave him a vastly irritated look. “I have not given you leave to speak, Master Hemme.” The two of them stared at each other for a long moment before Hemme looked away, scowling.
The Chancellor turned back to me, then his eye caught some movement from one of the other masters. “Yes, Master Lorren?”
The tall, thin master looked at me passively. “What was the book called?”
“Rhetoric and Logic, sir.”
“And where did you pawn it?”
“The Broken Binding, on Seaward Square.”
Lorren turned to look at the Chancellor. “I will be leaving for Tarbean tomorrow to fetch necessary materials for the upcoming term. If it is there I will bring it back. The matter of the boy’s claim can be settled then.”
The Chancellor gave a small nod. “Thank you, Master Lorren.” He settled himself back into his chair and folded his hands in front of himself. “Very well, then. What would Abenthy’s letter tell us, if he had written it?”
I took a good breath. “He would say that I knew by heart the first ninety sympathetic bindings. That I could double-distill, perform titration, calcify, sublimate, and precipitate solution. That I am well versed in history, argument, grammars, medicine, and geometry.”
The Chancellor did his best to not look amused. “That’s quite a list. Are you sure you didn’t leave anything out?”
I paused. “He probably would have also mentioned my age, sir.”
“How old are you, boy?”
“Kvothe, sir.”
A smile tugged at the Chancellor’s face. “Kvothe.”
“Fifteen, sir.” There was a rustle as the masters each took some small action, exchanged glances, raised eyebrows, shook their heads. Hemme rolled his eyes skyward.
Only the Chancellor did nothing. “How exactly would he have mentioned your age?”
I gave a thin sliver of a smile. “He would have urged you to ignore it.”
There was a breath of silence. The Chancellor drew a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. “Very well. We have a few questions for you. Would you like to begin, Master Brandeur?” He made a gesture toward one end of the crescent table.
I turned to face Brandeur. Portly and balding, he was the University’s Master Arithmetician. “How many grains are in thirteen ounces?”
“Six thousand two hundred and forty,” I said immediately.
He raised his eyebrows a little. “If I had fifty silver talents and converted them to Vintish coin and back, how much would I have if the Cealdim took four percent each time?”
I started the ponderous conversion between currencies, then smiled as I realized it was unnecessary. “Forty-six talents and eight drabs, if he’s honest. Forty-six even if he’s not.”
He nodded again, looking at me more closely. “You have a triangle,” he said slowly. “One side is seven feet. Another side, three feet. One angle is sixty degrees. How long is the other side?”
“Is the angle between the two sides?” He nodded. I closed my eyes for the space of half a breath, then opened them again. “Six feet six inches. Dead even.”
He made a hmmmpfh noise and looked surprised. “Good enough. Master Arwyl?”