Nevertheless, I was rapidly losing my appetite in the face of what I was hearing from my friends.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sovoy said. “You’ve got a great weighty pair on you. I’ll never call that into question. But still…” he gestured with his spoon. “They’re going to string you up for this.”
“If he’s lucky,” Simmon said. “I mean, we are talking about malfeasance here, aren’t we?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said with more assurance than I felt. “I gave him a little bit of a hotfoot, that’s all.”
“Any harmful sympathy falls under malfeasance.” Manet pointed at me with his piece of bread, his wild, grizzled eyebrows arching seriously over his nose. “You’ve got to pick your battles, boy. Keep your head down around the masters. They can make your life a real hell once you get into their bad books.”
“He started it,” I said sullenly though a mouthful of beans.
A young boy jogged up to the table, breathless. “You’re Kvothe?” He asked, looking me over.
I nodded, my stomach suddenly turning over.
“They want you in the Masters’ Hall.”
“Where is it?” I asked. “I’ve only been here a couple of days.”
“Can one of you show him?” the boy asked, looking around at the table. “I’ve got to go tell Jamison I found him.”
“I’ll do it,” Simmon said pushing away his bowl. “I’m not hungry anyway.”
Jamison’s runner boy took off, and Simmon started to get to his feet.
“Hold on,” I said, pointing to my tray with my spoon. “I’m not finished here.”
Simmon’s expression was anxious. “I can’t believe you’re eating,” he said. “I can’t eat. How can you eat?”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s waiting in the Masters’ Hall, but I’m guessing I’d rather have a full stomach for it.”
“You’re going on the horns,” Manet said. “It’s the only reason they’d call you there at this time of night.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I didn’t want to advertise my ignorance to everyone in the room. “They can wait until I’m done.” I took another bite of stew.
Simmon returned to his seat and poked idly at his food. Truth be told, I wasn’t really hungry anymore, but it galled me to be pulled away from a meal after all the times I’d been hungry in Tarbean.
When Simmon and I finally got to our feet, the normal clamor in the Mess quieted as folk watched us leave. They knew where I was headed.
Outside, Simmon put his hands in his pockets and headed roughly in the direction of Hollows. “All kidding aside, you’re in a good bit of trouble, you know.”
“I was hoping Hemme would be embarrassed and keep quiet about it,” I admitted. “Do they expel many students?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.
“There hasn’t been anyone this term,” Sim said with his shy, blue-eyed smile. “But it’s only the second day of classes. You might set some sort of record.”
“This isn’t funny,” I said, but found myself wearing a grin regardless. Simmon could always make me smile, no matter what was going on.
Sim led the way, and we reached Hollows far too soon for my liking. Simmon raised a hand in a hesitant farewell as I opened the door and made my way inside.
I was met by Jamison. He oversaw everything that wasn’t under direct control of the masters: the kitchens, the laundry, the stables, the stockrooms. He was nervous and birdlike. A man with the body of a sparrow and the eyes of a hawk.
Jamison escorted me into a large windowless room with a familiar crescent-shaped table. The Chancellor sat at the center, as he had during admissions. The only real difference was that this table was not elevated, and the seated masters were close to eye level with me.
The eyes I met were not friendly. Jamison escorted me to the front of the crescent table. Seeing it from this angle made me understand the references to being “on the horns.” Jamison retreated to a smaller table of his own, dipping a pen.
The Chancellor steepled his fingers and spoke without preamble. “On the fourth of Caitelyn, Hemme called the masters together.” Jamison’s pen scratched across a piece of paper, occasionally dipping back into the inkwell at the top of the desk. The Chancellor continued formally, “Are all the masters present?”
“Master Physicker,” said Arwyl.
“Master Archivist,” said Lorren, his face impassive as ever.
“Master Arithmetician,” Brandeur said, cracking his knuckles absently.
“Master Artificer,” grumbled Kilvin without looking up from the tabletop.
“Master Alchemist,” said Mandrag.
“Master Rhetorician,” Hemme’s face was fierce and red.
“Master Sympathist,” said Elxa Dal.
“Master Namer.” Elodin actually smiled at me. Not just a perfunctory curling of the lips, but a warm, toothy grin. I drew a bit of a shaky breath, relieved that at least one person present didn’t seem eager to hang me up by my thumbs.
“And Master Linguist,” said the Chancellor. “All eight…” He frowned. “Sorry. Strike that. All nine masters are present. Present your grievance, Master Hemme.”
Hemme did not hesitate. “Today, first-term student Kvothe, not of the Arcanum, did perform sympathetic bindings on me with malicious intent.”
“Two grievances are recorded against Kvothe by Master Hemme,” The Chancellor said sternly, not taking his eyes away from me. “First grievance, unauthorized use of sympathy. What is the proper discipline for this, Master Archivist?”
“For unauthorized use of sympathy leading to injury, the offending student will be bound and whipped a number of times, not less than two nor more than ten, singly, across the back.” Lorren said it as if reading off directions for a recipe.
“Number of lashes sought?” The Chancellor looked at Hemme.
Hemme paused to consider. “Five.”
I felt the blood drain from my face and I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath through my nose to calm myself.
“Does any master object to this?” The Chancellor looked around the table, but all mouths were silent, all eyes were stern. “The second grievance: malfeasance. Master Archivist?”
“Four to fifteen single lashes and expulsion from the University.” Lorren said in a level voice.
“Lashes sought?
Hemme stared directly at me. “Eight.”
Thirteen lashes and expulsion. A cold sweat swept over me and I felt nausea in the pit of my stomach. I had known fear before. In Tarbean it was never far away. Fear kept you alive. But I had never before felt such a desperate helplessness. A fear not just for my body being hurt, but for my entire life being ruined. I began to get light-headed.
“Do you understand these grievances set against you?” The Chancellor asked sternly.
I took a deep breath. “Not exactly, sir.” I hated the way my voiced sounded, tremulous and weak.