“You didn’t tell us you had a date,” Sim protested. “We can’t play corners with just three.”
It was something of a concession that Sovoy was here with us at all. He’d sniffed a bit at Wil and Sim’s choice of taverns. Anker’s was low-class enough so that the drinks were cheap, but high-class enough so that you didn’t have to worry about someone picking a fight or throwing up on you. I liked it.
“You are good friends and good company,” Sovoy said. “But none of you are female, nor, with the possible exception of Simmon, are you lovely.” Sovoy winked at him. “Honestly, who among you wouldn’t throw the others over if there was a lady waiting?”
We murmured a grudging agreement. Sovoy smiled; his teeth were very white and straight. “I’ll send the girl over with more drinks,” he said as he turned to go. “To ease the bitter sting of my departure.”
“He’s not a bad sort,” I mused after he left. “For nobility.”
Wilem nodded. “It’s like he knows he’s better than you, but doesn’t look down on you for it because he knows it’s not your fault.”
“So who are you going to cozy up to?” Sim asked, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m guessing not Hemme.”
“Or Lorren,” I said bitterly. “Damn Ambrose twelve ways. I would have loved to work in the Archives.”
“Brandeur’s out too,” Sim said. “If Hemme has a grudge, Brandeur helps him carry it.”
“How about the Chancellor?” Wilem asked. “Linguistics? You already speak Siaru, even if your accent is barbaric.”
I shook my head. “What about Mandrag? I’ve got a lot of experience with chemistry. It’d be a small step into alchemy.”
Simmon laughed. “Everyone thinks chemistry and alchemy are so similar, but they’re really not. They’re not even related. They just happen to live in the same house.”
Wilem gave a slow nod. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“Besides,” Simmon said. “Mandrag brought in about twenty new E’lir last term. I heard him complaining about how crowded things were.”
“You’ve got a long haul if you go through Medica,” Wilem said. “Arwyl is stubborn as pig iron. There is no bending him.” He made a gesture with his hand as if chopping something into sections while he spoke. “Six terms E’lir. Eight terms Re’lar. Ten terms El’the.”
“At least,” Simmon added. “Mola’s been a Re’lar with him for almost three years now.”
I tried to think of how I could come up with six years’ worth of tuition. “I might not have the patience for that,” I said.
The serving girl appeared with a tray of drinks. Anker’s was only half full, so she’d been running just enough to bring roses to her cheeks. “Your gentleman friend paid for this round and the next,” she said.
“I like Sovoy more and more,” Wilem said.
“However,” she held Wil’s drink out of his reach. “He didn’t pay for putting his hand on my ass,” she looked each of us in the eye. “I’ll trust the three of you to settle that debt before you leave.”
Sim stammered an apology. “He…he doesn’t mean…In his culture that sort of thing is more common.”
She rolled her eyes, her expression softening. “Well in this culture a healthy tip makes a fine apology.” She handed Wil his drink and turned to leave, resting her empty tray on one hip.
We watched her go, each of us thinking our own private thoughts.
“I noticed he had his rings back,” I mentioned eventually.
“He played a brilliant round of bassat last night,” Simmon said. “Made six doublings in a row and cracked the bank.”
“To Sovoy,” Wilem held up his tin mug. “May his luck keep him in classes and us in drinks.” We toasted and drank, then Wilem brought us back to the matter at hand. “That leaves you with Kilvin and Elxa Dal.” He held up two fingers.
“What about Elodin?” I interrupted.
They both gave me blank looks. “What about him?” Simmon asked.
“He seems nice enough,” I said. “Couldn’t I study under him?”
Simmon burst out laughing. Wilem gave a rare grin. “What?” I demanded.
“Elodin doesn’t teach anything,” Sim explained. “Except maybe advanced oddness.”
“He has to teach something,” I protested. “He’s a master, isn’t he?”
“Sim is right. Elodin is cramped.” Wil tapped the side of his head.
“Cracked,” Simmon corrected.
“Cracked,” Wil repeated.
“He does seem a little…strange,” I said.
“You do pick things up quick,” Wilem said dryly. “No wonder you made it into the Arcanum at such a tender age.”
“Ease off, Wil, he’s hardly been here a span.” Simmon turned to me. “Elodin used to be Chancellor about five years ago.”
“Elodin?” I couldn’t hide my incredulity. “But he’s so young and…” I trailed off, not wanting to say the first word that came to my mind: crazy.
Simmon finished my sentence. “…brilliant. And not that young if you consider that he was admitted to the University when he was barely fourteen.” Simmon looked at me. “He was a full arcanist by eighteen. Then he stayed around as a giller for a few years.”
“Giller?” I interrupted.
“Gillers are arcanists who stay at the University,” Wil said. “They do a lot of the teaching. You know Cammar in the Fishery?”
I shook my head.
“Tall, scarred.” Wil gestured to one side of his face. “Only one eye?”
I nodded somberly. Cammar was hard to miss. The left side of his face was a web of scars that radiated out, leaving bald strips running through his black hair and beard. He wore a patch over the hollow of his left eye. He was a walking object lesson about how dangerous work in the Fishery could be. “I’ve seen him around. He’s a full arcanist?”
Wil nodded. “He’s Kilvin’s second in command. He teaches sygaldry to the newer students.”
Sim cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Elodin was the youngest ever admitted, youngest to make arcanist, and youngest to be Chancellor.”
“Even so,” I said. “You have to admit he’s a little odd to be Chancellor.”
“Not back then,” Simmon said soberly. “That was before it happened.”
When nothing more was forthcoming I prompted, “It?”
Wil shrugged. “Something. They do not speak on it. They locked him in the Crockery until he got most of his marbles back.”
“I don’t like thinking about it,” Simmon said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I mean, a couple students go crazy every term, right?” He looked at Wilem. “Remember Slyhth?” Wil nodded somberly. “It might happen to any of us.”
There was a moment of silence as the two of them sipped their drinks, not looking at anything in particular. I wanted to ask for specifics, but I could tell that it was a touchy subject.
“Anyway,” Sim said in a low voice. “I heard they didn’t let him out of the Crockery. I heard he escaped.”
“No arcanist worth his salt can be kept in a cell,” I said. “That’s not surprising.”