Chương 41: Chapter 38 ~ The Price of Knowledge

"Are you Gysel Neekhilst?" a man asked. Gysel looked up at him.

"No, I am just an observer." He squinted and adjusted his tie—he really needs to learn how to properly style and complement patterns with each other, as that tie, with its white constellations on a blue base, is clashing with the cream and blue herringbone design of his vest.

"I am going to assume you are Gysel Neekhilst," he said.

"All right, but you are assuming wrong."

"So where is Gysel Neekhilst?"

"She is right here," Gysel stated, as she patted herself on the chest.

"So you are Gysel Neekhilst?"

"I already answered you. No, right now, I am an observer, trying to make observations about Gysel Neekhilst."

"Well, here is my observation: she is very odd," he said, as he untucked the chair across from Gysel and sat down.

"And here is mine: I think she likes being left alone."

"If she would answer my questions, then maybe she would be left alone."

"All right," said Gysel, "as long as you promise to leave after."

"Promise."

"What are your questions?"

"Are you Gysel Neekhilst?"

"No." He groaned and continued: "What would you like in exchange for your Operative Alchemy paper?"

"You have nothing of equivalent value to offer in exchange."

"There must be something."

"There is." Gysel paused, looking the man up and down—he has the build of a squire, short, thin, like Lyvahn, nothing like a knight.

"But you do not have what I desire, nor the ability to retrieve it."

"Don't dismiss me so quickly. I will have you know I have more than enough money to buy you whatever you want."

"Money cannot buy what I want."

"I'm sure it can."

"I would like the enchanted brooch of Meshkagewyoshska—" Gysel's pen flew from the table as if it were flicked, hitting her in the chest and falling to her lap: if the cap had not been on, it would surely have caused a mess, and it would not have been the fault of the Lady of the Forest's Whispers. Setting the pen back on the table, Gysel continued: "As well as the cape of her knight, Herneuer. If you can find them, you may have my notes." The man looked extremely confused.

"Can... can we be reasonable here?"

"That is entirely reasonable." Gysel shooed the man away with her hand.

"Now run along."

"I cannot do all that, I just want the papers. Please just be reasonable. I will pay you thirty-six Imperial Golds; will you give me the papers?"

"No," said Gysel: that price was not enough, and no price would be, as one cannot purchase knowledge; material currency is only good for material endeavors.

"Will you let me see them for five minutes?"

"No."

"Just be reasonable. They are just papers."

"If we were being reasonable, you would have left when I asked you to." Another man came up the stairs, and walked over to the table. He was taller, and fuller formed, with nice arms and a broad chest: a better prospect for a knightly quest.

"What is taking you so long?"

"She... Honestly, I really do not know what to tell you. I'm at a loss for words here."

"How much do you want for the papers?"

"I do not want money."

"Fine, what do you want? Name it. I am not failing this class." Gysel looked the two men over together: these two fools would not have what it takes to find either brooch nor cape, and even if they did, they would not bring them back so they could be used for their proper application of birdwatching, and would likely sell them instead.

"I want you two to go study."

"We are not here to study—""Good-bye." Gysel began to pack up her papers and pen, placing them into her bag, then she stood, slung her bag across her body, and stormed off, but stopped halfway to the stairs, returned to the table, and tucked in her chair, then hurried away, going down the stairs as quickly as she could.

As she descended, she looked over every table, searching for the others (Wyohla and Ardhy specifically, as they were the most intimidating and 'parental'), and found them on the ground floor, at a large table by the cloister-side windows. Huffing, Gysel set her bag beneath the empty chair next to Wyohla, and sat down.

"Hello everyone."

"Oh, hello, sweetie," cooed Wyohla.

"Have you been here the whole time?" Gysel smiled.

"Yes. I was finishing the exercise for Spiritual Alchemy."

"The one where you have to write five-hundred words on yourself?" asked Lyvahn.

"Yes."

"I wrote that I get mistaken for my brother," said Lyma.

"I wrote that I get mistaken for my sister," said Lyvahn, and slowly turned to look at Visi.

"I wrote that Visi has a big, beautiful beard," said Visi.

"Did you mention that he is balding and needs the beard to make up for it?" asked Lyvahn. Visi waved his hand dismissively.

"It is to help keep my head cool. It is only natural. You will notice it too, once you start using your brain more." The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Wyohla leaned into Gysel's ear, her soft breath making the small hairs on the back of Gysel's neck stand on end. Whispering, she asked: "Did you mention how cute she was?"

"Thyres," said Lyma, "are you trying to grow a beard now?" Gysel scooted her chair away from Wyohla.

"No, I did not. But I did mention that she does not like it when people get too close."

"No," answered Thyres, who was getting a bit scruffy.

"I don't have money to go to the barber."

"I can shave you if you want," offered Lyma.

"No, it's fine. I should be alright on money pretty soon." Pausing, Thyres turned to Gysel, and said: "I saw you running down the stairs. Why the rush? Hoping to turn the assignment in early until you saw us?"

"No," answered Gysel, "Two men wanted to buy my papers on Operative Alchemy. And they would not leave me alone, so I ran away."

"Oh, you poor, poor thing," started Wyohla, "I know just how you feel, attention from men can be awful. So, so pushy. They lack the subtlety that women have." Gysel stared blankly at Wyohla: nothing about the buxom blonde was subtle, not her dress, physique, nor flamboyant displays of wealth amongst their aesthetic totality.

"You can be just as bad." Wyohla scoffed and rolled her eyes, but kept her smile.

"Are those them?" asked Thyres, as he pointed between Gysel and Wyohla to two men walking down the stairs. Gysel turned and looked over her shoulder: those were them, and they were approaching.

"Yes," she said. Everyone at the table directed their attention to the two men as they stormed over like Father to the waitstaff.

"Do you know how rude it is to just leave when people are talking to you?" said the squire before he had even reached the table.

"Do you know how rude it is to continue to pester someone who does not want to talk to you and has repeatedly stated so?" asked Gysel.

"Who are they, Gysel?" asked Wyohla, as her sly, simpering smile faded, and her left brow rose. The tall one opened his mouth and started to speak: "We are—""No," said the short one, holding up a hand, "let me handle this, she left the last time you started talking. And it does not matter who we are, we just want the paper." Gysel looked from the men to Wyohla, and answered her question: "I do not know."

"You don't?" Wyohla turned in her chair, resting an arm on the backrest; she squinted, scrutinizing the men.

"Well, Gysel, if any man whom you don't want to talk to is pestering you, scream. I'll make sure it stops, or, whoever is with you will, and if none of us are, the man, or men, will leave you alone pretty quickly, and someone nearby will check on you. Is that clear?"

"Yes." Gysel took a deep breath, but Wyohla put a gloved hand over her mouth. The leather smelled of a sweet, pure vanillin: Gysel took a big sniff, as vanillin was very expensive, and not something one had the luxury of smelling normally.

"No, not now, in the future," said Wyohla with a laugh, then she looked at the men.

"Leave us alone; she already gave you your answer."

"Do you know who my father is?" asked the squire. Wyohla erupted into an ephemeral cackle, which only lasted a second before she composed herself.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I know enough fathers who did not raise their daughters to know when to speak. I'm sure I've met him." Quietly, Ardhy reached beneath his jacket, removed his sigil activator, and calmly set it on the table with the soft click of wood on wood; the two men did not seem to notice.

"Your stature doesn't exactly command respect," said Wyohla. The squire scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Enough of you, I am here to talk to Gysel."

"Gysel does not want to talk to you," answered Gysel.

"Gysel thinks you should study, or drop out and give your spot to someone more worthy. Your laziness is shameful to all who came before you." Face pinching, the squire took a deep breath in through his nose.

"The issue with sheltered protégées like you is that you spend so much time being told how great you are, and not enough time learning how the world works." Gysel's molars ground against each other, and she began to speak through gritted teeth: "I know how the world works, and I do not like it. I do not like that I have to share a point in the history of the Royal Arts, with someone like you.

Whenever I see lazy, bourgeois dilettantes like you, I feel disgusted knowing that you will have the same, if not better, opportunities as I, someone who has spent their life focused solely on this craft. You should take up polo instead, or maybe horse-breeding, and waste your own life, instead of others'. I do not want to speak with you. I do not want to sell you my paper, nor will I. Do not speak to me again, I will go to the Headmaster, and I am certain he likes me much more than you!"

"Do not raise your—" Ardhy cleared his throat; the small one with a complex looked over to Ardhy, and went pale.

"Oh... Sorry to bother you all, good day." Turning on his heel, he left, with the taller one just behind him.

"There you go. You tell him, Gysel," said Thyres, as he offered a short, quiet series of claps. Gysel turned around and smiled at Thyres, but there was only the feeling of the left cheek rising below the twitching eyelid. Wyohla turned back to face the table and sighed, "You know, Gysel, you can be a lot to manage."

"Then, I am going back to my dorm," said Gysel.

"I have to work on my essay." So she stood, and pulled her bag out from under the seat.

"I'll walk you back," said Ardhy, as he stood from his chair. Gysel watched Ardhy's hand as he lifted his sigil activator up from the table, and put it back into its underarm holster—he is already up, and packing his things, he might get mad if the noble lady he wishes to escort declines his valiant offer, so it is best to accept.

"All right," said Gysel, as she started for the doors to the cloister.

"How about we go a different way? We don't want to bump into those two. Let's take the long way." With a nod, Gysel followed Ardhy towards the west-side hall.

"I want you back here in ten minutes, Ardhy," said Wyohla. Ardhy turned back to the table.

"Why—""We have dinner reservations." He pursed his lips, nodded, and took the lead, escorting the damsel back to her quarters through the hallway of busts and portraits.

Gysel stared at the floor as she followed Ardhy through the hallway, but this was not how it was supposed to feel being escorted for one's own safety; it was supposed to make one feel important and protected, but this churning in the stomach was not that, it was not the feeling of love: it was the feeling that came with love when it was one-sided—they always offer, they always offer, usually the answer is a no, but they always offer, is the cost getting too much for Wyohla, is she bored, after only a maiden, less than a maiden, bored, what could have been done wrong, there have not been any strange tangents, no, maybe Visi is the reason, he wanted the papers, but did not get them, no but Visi is nice, but maybe he is only nice because he thinks he will get the papers, maybe he told Lyma, and now Lyma is angry at her roommate, no, no, no, none of that makes sense, these are all smart people with clear work ethics, why, why, why, "WhywasInotinvitedtodinner?!"

Shoes squeaking on the wooden floor, Ardhy started, and turned around, as did everyone else in the hall, staring with the beady eyes of carrion eaters, finding points of flesh to pick-pick-pick apart with their sharp beaks of words. Gysel threw her hand over her mouth, digging her nails into her cheeks: the words came out far too fast, with the wrong tone, the tone that Mother always complained about, 'Stop panicking, Gysel, you sound like a squealing pig when you panic, and no one wants to hear that.'

People muttered throughout the hall: "What's her issue?"; "Already? this early into the year?"; "That's the smart-girl; you should just drop out, Tyes; you're doomed."; "Poor bastard, trying his luck with one of the anxious ones."; "I told you it was a curse to be gifted in something."; "Did they catch her trying to burn this place down, too?" Then the footsteps resumed, drowning out the gossip as quickly as it started, leaving Ardhy and Gysel the only two people not moving.

Quick, shallow breaths escaped through Gysel's nose, and down her fingers. Releasing her hands from around her mouth, she started off towards the doors: the only person who should be moving needed to move, needed to run, run away to isolation. There was a strong grasp on her shoulder, and she was spun around, face to face with Ardhy.

"I am sorry, I am sorry..." muttered Gysel, "It is not my business. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I will leave. I will leave. If you do not want to see me again. I will leave."

"What is going on, Gysel?" asked Ardhy, as he squatted down to eye level.

"You do not want to be around me anymore, so you are trying to tell me by not inviting me to dinner."

"What?" He laughed at the question.

"Let me go so I can leave."

"You're not going anywhere, and we certainly are not trying to get rid of you."

"I do not believe you. Why was I not invited to dinner?"

"Because it is only Wyohla and I going for dinner. We aren't even going to Bwouker's."

"Where are you going?"

"There is a new wine shop on the east side that just opened, and they are having a tasting. My uncle knows the owner, and was given a reservation for two at twenty and a half hours. But he cannot make it, so Wyohla and I are going."

"Oh..."

"Does that clear everything up?"

"Yes."

"Good." Ardhy paused and pulled Gysel in, giving her a short hug, before releasing her.

"You don't need to worry about silly private school drama here. We address our problems and work with them. And if we had any with you, you would know."

"I—" Gysel backed away from Ardhy; his intentions were clearly good, but the hug was not needed, certainly not now.

"Let's not tell Wyohla about this," said Ardhy, standing.

"Alright?"

"Yes."