The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  But I got what I wanted. The twice-tough glass of the drench spiderwebbed into a thousand fractures, and I closed my eyes just as it burst. Five hundred gallons of water struck me like a great fist, knocking me back a step and soaking me through to the skin. Then I was off, running between the tables.

  Quick as I was, I wasn’t quick enough. There was a blinding crimson flare from the corner of the workshop as the fog began to catch fire, sending up strangely angular tongues of violent red flame. The fire would heat the rest of the tar, causing it to boil more quickly. This would make more fog, more fire, and more heat.

  As I ran, the fire spread. It followed the two trails the bone-tar made as it ran toward the drains. The flames shot up with startling ferocity, sending up two curtains of fire, effectively cutting off the far corner of the shop. The flames were already as tall as me, and growing.

  Fela had worked her way out from behind the workbench and hurried along the wall toward one of the floor drains. Since the bone-tar was pouring down the grate, there was a gap close to the wall clear of flame or fog. Fela was just about to sprint past when dark fog began to boil up out of the grate. She gave a short, startled shriek as she backed away. The fog was burning even as it boiled up, engulfing everything in a roiling pool of flame.

  I finally made my way past the last table. Without slowing I held my breath, closed my eyes, and jumped over the fog, not wanting to let the horrible corrosive stuff touch my legs. I felt a brief, intense flash of heat on my hands and face, but my wet clothing kept me from being burned or catching fire.

  Since my eyes were closed, I landed awkwardly, banging my hip against the stone top of a worktable. I ignored it and ran to Fela.

  She had been backing away from the fire toward the outer wall of the shop, but now she was staring at me, hands half-raised protectively. “Put your arms down!” I shouted as I ran up to her, spreading my dripping-wet cloak with both hands. I don’t know if she heard me over the roar of the flames, but regardless, Fela understood. She lowered her hands and stepped toward the cloak.

  As I closed the final distance between us, I glanced behind and saw the fire was growing even faster than I’d expected. The fog clung to the floor, over a foot deep, black as pitch. The flames were so high I couldn’t see to the other side, let alone guess how thick the wall of fire had become.

  Just before Fela stepped into the cloak, I lifted it to completely engulf her head. “I’m going to have to carry you out.” I shouted as I bundled the cloak around her. “Your legs will burn if you try to wade through.” She said something in reply, but it was muffled by the layers of wet cloth and I couldn’t make it out over the roar of the fire.

  I picked her up, not in front of me, like Prince Gallant out of some storybook, but over one shoulder, the way you carry a sack of potatoes. Her hip pressed hard into my shoulder and I pelted toward the fire. The heat battered the front of my body, and I threw my free arm up to protect my face, praying the moisture on my pants would save my legs from the worst of the corrosive nature of the fog.

  I drew a deep breath just before I hit the fire, but the air was sharp and acrid. I coughed reflexively and sucked down another lungful of the burning air just as I entered the wall of flame. I felt the sharp chill of the fog around my lower legs and there was fire all around me as I ran, coughing and drawing in more bad air. I grew dizzy and tasted ammonia. Some distant, rational part of my mind thought: of course, to make it volatile.

  Then nothing.

  When I awoke, the first thing that sprang to my mind was not what you might expect. Then again, it may not be that much of a surprise if you have ever been young yourself.

  “What time is it?” I asked frantically.

  “First bell after noon,” a female voice said. “Don’t try to get up.”

  I slumped back against the bed. I was supposed to have met with Denna at the Eolian an hour ago.

  Miserable and with a sour knot in my stomach, I took in my surroundings. The distinctive antiseptic tang in the air let me know that I was somewhere in the Medica. The bed was a giveaway too: comfortable enough to sleep in, but not so comfortable that you’d want to lie around.

  I turned my head and saw a familiar pair of striking green eyes framed by close-cropped blond hair. “Oh,” I relaxed back onto the pillow. “Hello Mola.”

  Mola stood next to one of the tall counters that lined the edges of the room. The classic dark colors of those who worked at the Medica made her pale complexion seem even more so. “Hello Kvothe,” she said, continuing to write her treatment report.

  “I heard you finally got promoted to El’the,” I said. “Congratulations. Everyone knows you deserved it a long time ago.”

  She looked up, her pale lips curving into a small smile. “The heat doesn’t seem to have damaged the gilding on your tongue.” She lay down her pen. “How does the rest of you feel?”

  “My legs feel fine, but numb, so I’m guessing I got burned but you’ve already done something about it.” I lifted up the bedsheet, looked under it, then tucked it carefully back into place. “I also seem to be in an advanced state of undress.” I felt a momentary panic. “Is Fela alright?”

  Mola nodded seriously and moved closer to stand by the side of the bed. “She has a bruise or two from when you dropped her, and is a little singed around the ankles. But she came out of it better than you did.”

  “How is everyone else from the Fishery?”

  “Surprisingly good, all things considered. A few burns from heat or acid. One case of metal poisoning, but it was minor. Smoke tends to be the real troublemaker with fires, but whatever was burning over there didn’t seem to give off any smoke.”

  “It did give off a sort of ammonia fume.” I took a few deep, experimental breaths. “But my lungs don’t seem to be burned,” I said, relieved. “I only got about three breaths of it before I passed out.”

  There was a knock on the door and Sim’s head popped in. “You’re not naked are you?”

  “Mostly,” I said. “But the dangerous parts are covered up.”

  Wilem followed in, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “You’re not nearly as pink as you were before,” he said. “I’m guessing that’s a good sign.”

  “His legs are going to hurt for a while, but there’s no permanent damage,” she said.

  “I brought fresh clothes,” Sim said cheerily. “The ones you were wearing were ruined.”

  “I hope you chose something suitable from my vast wardrobe?” I said dryly to hide my embarrassment.

  Sim shrugged off my comment. “You showed up without shoes, but I couldn’t find another pair in your room.”

  “I don’t have a second pair,” I said as I took the bundle of clothes from Sim. “It’s fine. I’ve been barefoot before.”

  I walked away from my little adventure without any permanent damage. However, right now there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t hurt. I had flash burn across the backs of my hands and neck and mild acid burns across my lower legs from where I’d waded through the fire-fog.

  Despite all this, I made my limping way the long three miles across the river to Imre, hoping against hope that I might still find Denna waiting.

  Deoch eyed me speculatively as I crossed the courtyard toward the Eolian. He looked me up and down pointedly. “Lord, boy. You look like you fell off a horse. Where are your shoes?”

  “A good morning to you too,” I said sarcastically.

  “A good afternoon,” he corrected, with a significant glance up at the sun. I began to brush past him, but he held up a hand to stop me. “She’s gone, I’m afraid.”

  “Black … sodding damn.” I slumped, too weary to curse my luck properly.

  Deoch gave me a sympathetic grimace. “She asked about you,” he said consolingly. “And waited for a good long while too, almost an hour. Longest I’ve ever seen that one sit still.”

  “Did she leave with someone?”

  Deoch looked down at his hands, where he was toying with a coppe
r penny, rolling it back and forth over his knuckles. “She’s not really the sort of girl who spends a lot of time alone… .” He gave me a sympathetic look. “She turned a few away, but did eventually leave with a fellow. I don’t think she was really with him, if you catch my meaning. She’s been looking for a patron, and this fellow had that sort of look about him. White-haired, wealthy, you know the type.”

  I sighed. “If you happen to see her, could you tell her …” I paused, trying to think of how I could describe what had happened. “Can you make ‘unavoidably detained’ sound a little more poetic?”

  “I reckon I can. I’ll describe your hangdog look and shoeless state for her too. Lay you a good solid groundwork for some groveling.”

  I smiled despite myself. “Thanks.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. “It’s a little early for me, but I can always make an exception for a friend.”

  I shook my head. “I should be getting back. I’ve got things to do.”

  I limped back to Anker’s and found the common room buzzing with excited folk talking about the fire in the Fishery. Not wanting to answer any questions, I slunk into an out-of-the-way table and got one of the serving girls to bring me a bowl of soup and some bread.

  As I ate, my finely tuned eavesdropper’s ears picked out pieces of the stories people were telling. It was only then, hearing it from other people, that I realized what I had done.

  I was used to people talking about me. As I’ve said, I had been actively building a reputation for myself. But this was different; this was real. People were already embroidering the details and confusing parts, but the heart of the story was still there. I had saved Fela, rushed into the fire and carried her to safety. Just like Prince Gallant out of some storybook.

  It was my first taste of being a hero. I found it quite to my liking.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  A Matter of Hands

  After lunch at Anker’s, I decided to return to the Fishery and see how much damage had been done. The stories I’d overheard implied that the fire had been brought under control fairly quickly. If that was the case, I might even be able to finish work on my blue emitters. If not, I might at least be able to reclaim my missing cloak.

  Surprisingly, the majority of the Fishery made it through the fire without much damage at all, but the northeast quarter of the shop was practically destroyed. There was nothing left but a jumble of broken stone and glass and ash. Bright blurs of copper and silver spread over broken tabletops and portions of the floor where various metals had been melted by the heat of the fire.

  More unsettling than the wreckage was the fact that the workshop was deserted. I’d never seen the place empty before. I knocked on Kilvin’s office door, then peered inside. Empty. That made a certain amount of sense. Without Kilvin, there was no one to organize the clean up.

  Finishing the emitters took hours longer than I’d expected. My injuries distracted me, and my bandaged thumb made my hand slightly clumsy. As with most artificing, this job required two skilled hands. Even the minor encumbrance of a bandage was a serious inconvenience.

  Still, I finished the project without incident and was just preparing to test the emitters when I heard Kilvin in the hallway, cursing in Siaru. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see him stomp through the doorway toward his office, followed by one of Master Arwyl’s gillers.

  I closed the fume hood and walked toward Kilvin’s office, mindful of where I set my bare feet. Through the window, I could see Kilvin waving his arms like a farmer shooing crows. His hands were swathed in white bandages nearly to the elbow. “Enough,” he said. “I will tend them myself.”

  The man caught hold of one of Kilvin’s arms and made adjustments to the bandages. Kilvin pulled his hands away and held them high in the air, out of reach. “Lhinsatva. Enough is enough.” The man said something too quiet for me to hear, but Kilvin continued to shake his head. “No. And no more of your drugs. I have slept long enough.”

  Kilvin motioned me inside. “E’lir Kvothe. I need to speak to you.”

  Not knowing what to expect, I stepped into his office. Kilvin gave me a dark look. “Do you see what I find after the fire is quenched?” He asked, gesturing toward a mass of dark cloth on his private worktable. Kilvin lifted one corner of it carefully with a bandaged hand and I recognized it as the charred remains of my cloak. Kilvin shook it once, sharply, and my hand lamp tumbled free, rolling awkwardly across the table.

  “We spoke about your thieves’ lamp not more than two days ago. Yet today I find it lying about where anyone of questionable character might take it for their own.” He scowled at me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I gaped. “I’m sorry, Master Kilvin. I was … They took me away …”

  He glanced at my feet, still scowling. “And why are you unshod? Even an E’lir should have better sense than to wander naked-footed in a place such as this. Your behavior lately has been quite reckless. I am dismayed.”

  As I fumbled about for an explanation, Kilvin’s grim expression spread into a sudden smile. “I am joking with you, of course,” he said gently. “I owe you a great weight of thanks for pulling Re’lar Fela from the fire today.” He reached out to pat me on the shoulder, then thought better of it when he remembered the bandages on his hand.

  I felt my body go limp with relief. I picked up the lamp and turned it over in my hand. It didn’t seem to have been damaged by the fire or corroded by the bone-tar.

  Kilvin brought out a small sack and lay it on the table as well. “These things were also in your cloak,” he said. “Many things. Your pockets were full as a tinker’s pack.”

  “You seem in a good mood, Master Kilvin,” I said cautiously, wondering what painkiller he’d been given at the Medica.

  “I am,” he said cheerfully. “Do you know the saying ‘Chan Vaen edan Kote’?”

  I tried to puzzle it out. “Seven years … I don’t know Kote.”

  “ ‘Expect disaster every seven years,’ ” he said. “It is an old saying, and true enough. This has been two years overdue.” He gestured to the wreckage of his shop with a bandaged hand. “And now that it has come, it proves a mild disaster. My lamps were undamaged. No one was killed. Of all the small injuries, mine were the worst, as it should be.”

  I eyed his bandages, my stomach clenching at the thought of something happening to his skilled artificer’s hands. “How are you?” I asked carefully.

  “Second-grade burns,” he said, then waved away my concerned exclamation before it hardly began. “Just blisters. Painful, but no charring, no long-term loss of mobility.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Still, I will have a damned time getting any work done for the next three span.”

  “If all you need is hands, I could lend them, Master Kilvin.”

  He gave a respectful nod. “That is a generous offer, E’lir. If it were merely a matter of hands I would accept. But much of my work involves sygaldry that would be …” he paused, choosing his next word carefully, “… unwise for an E’lir to have contact with.”

  “Then you should promote me to Re’lar, Master Kilvin.” I said with a smile. “So I might better serve you.”

  He gave a deep chuckle. “I may at that. If you continue your good works.”

  I decided to change the subject, rather than push my luck. “What went wrong with the canister?”

  “Too cold,” Kilvin said. “The metal was just a shell, protecting a glass container inside and keeping the temperature low. I suspect that the canister’s sygaldry was damaged so it grew colder and colder. When the reagent froze …”

  I nodded, finally understanding. “It cracked the inner glass container. Like a bottle of beer when it freezes. Then ate through the metal of the canister.”

  Kilvin nodded. “Jaxim is currently under the weight of my displeasure,” he said darkly. “He told me you brought it to his attention.”

  “I was sure the whole building would burn to the ground,” I said. “I c
an’t imagine how you managed to get it under control so easily.”

  “Easily?” he asked, sounding vaguely amused. “Quickly, yes. But I did not know it was easily.”

  “How did you manage it?”

  He smiled at me. “Good question. How do you think?”

  “Well, I heard one student say that you strode out of your office and called the fire’s name, just like Taborlin the Great. You said, ‘fire be still’ and the fire obeyed.”

  Kilvin gave a great laugh. “I like that story,” he said, grinning widely behind his beard. “But I have a question for you. How did you make it through the fire? The reagent produces a most intense flame. How is it you are not burned?”

  “I used a drench to wet myself, Master Kilvin.”

  Kilvin looked thoughtful. “Jaxim saw you leaping through the fire just moments after the reagent spilled. The drench is quick, but not so quick as that.”

  “I’m afraid I broke it, Master Kilvin. It seemed the only way.”

  Kilvin squinted through the window of his office, frowned, then left and walked to the other end of the shop toward the shattered drench. Kneeling down, he picked up a jagged piece of glass between his bandaged fingers. “How in all the four corners did you manage to break my drench, E’lir Kvothe?”

  His tone was so puzzled that I actually laughed. “Well, Master Kilvin, according to the students, I staved it in with a single blow from my mighty hand.”

  Kilvin grinned again. “I like that story too, but I do not believe it.”

  “More reputable sources claim I used a piece of bar-iron from a nearby table.”

  Kilvin shook his head. “You are a fine boy, but this twice-tough glass was made by my own hands. Broad-shouldered Cammar could not break it with an anvil hammer.” He dropped the piece of glass and came back to his feet. “Let the others tell whatever stories they wish, but between us let us share secrets.”