The Name of the Wind

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Cob gave a conciliatory nod. “True, that’s true. But this was a year or two after Kvothe had got all that. And you see, he’d gave a lot of that gold to some poor folk whose houses had all burned down.”

  “Burned down during their wedding,” Graham interjected.

  Cob nodded. “And Kvothe had to eat, and rent a room, and buy more oats for his horse. So his gold was all used up by then. So he—”

  “What about the diamond?” the boy insisted.

  Old Cob gave the barest of frowns. “If you’ve got to know, he gave that diamond to a special friend of his. A special lady friend. But that’s a whole different story than the one I’m telling now.” He glared at the boy, who dropped his eyes contritely and spooned up a mouthful of stew.

  Cob continued, “Since Kvothe couldn’t afford all that rich living in the University, he stayed in the town nextby instead, place called Amary.” He shot Chronicler a pointed look. “Kvothe had a room in a inn where he got to stay there for free because the widow who owned the place took a shine to him, and he did chores to help earn his keep.”

  “He played music there too,” Jake added. “He was all sorts of clever with his lute.”

  “Get your dinner into your gob and let me finish my say, Jacob,” Old Cob snapped. “Everyone knows Kvothe was clever with a lute. That’s why the widow had taken such a shine to him in the first place, and playing music every night was part of his chores.”

  Cob took a quick drink and continued. “So one day Kvothe was out running errands for the widow, when a fellow pulls out a knife and tells Kvothe if he doesn’t hand over the widow’s money, he’ll spill Kvothe’s guts all over the street.” Cob pointed an imaginary knife at the boy and gave him a menacing look. “Now you’ve got to remember, this is back when Kvothe was just a pup. He ain’t got no sword, and even if he did, he ain’t learned to fight proper from the Adem yet.”

  “So what did Kvothe do?” the smith’s prentice asked.

  “Well,” Cob leaned back. “It was the middle of the day, and they were smack in the middle of Amary’s town square. Kvothe was about to call for the constable, but he always had his eyes wide open, you see. And so he noticed that this fellow had white, white teeth….”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide. “He was a sweet-eater?”

  Cob nodded. “And even worse, the fellow was starting to sweat like a hard-run horse, his eyes were wild, and his hands…” Cob widened his own eyes and held out his hands, making them tremble. “So Kvothe knew the fellow had the hunger something fierce, and that meant he’d stab his own mum for a bent penny.” Cob took another long drink, drawing out the tension.

  “Whatever did he do?” Bast burst out anxiously from the far end of the bar, wringing his hands dramatically. The innkeeper glared at his student.

  Cob continued, “Well, first he hesitates, and the man comes closer with the knife and Kvothe can see the fellow ain’t going to ask again. So Kvothe uses a dark magic that he found locked away in a secret book in the University. He speaks three terrible, secret words and calls up a demon—”

  “A demon?” the prentice’s voice was almost a yelp. “Was it like the one…”

  Cob shook his head, slowly. “Oh no, this one weren’t spiderly at all. It was worse. This one was made all of shadows, and when it landed on the fellow it bit him on the chest, right over his heart, and it drank all the blood out of him like you’d suck the juice out of a plum.”

  “Blackened hands, Cob,” Carter said, his voice thick with reproach. “You’re going to give the boy nightmares. He’ll be carrying around that damn iron stick for a year with all your nonsense stuffed in his head.”

  “That’s not how I heard it,” Graham said slowly. “I heard there was a woman trapped in a burning house, and Kvothe called up a demon to protect him from the fire. Then he ran inside and pulled the lady out of the fire and she wasn’t burned at all.”

  “Listen to yourselves,” Jake said, disgusted. “You’re like kids at Midwinter. ‘Demons stole my doll.’ ‘Demons spilled the milk.’ Kvothe didn’t meddle with demons. He was at the University learning all manner of names, right? The fellow came at him with a knife and he called out fire and lightning, just like Taborlin the Great.”

  “It was a demon, Jake,” Cob said angrily. “Otherwise the story don’t make a lick of sense. It was a demon he called up, and it drank up the fellow’s blood, and everyone who saw was powerful shook up by it. Someone told a priest, then the priests went to the constable, and the constable went and pulled him out of the widow’s inn that night. Then they slapped him into jail for consorting with dark forces and such.”

  “Folk probably just saw the fire and thought it was a demon,” Jake persisted. “You know how folk are.”

  “No I don’t, Jacob,” Cob snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning back against the bar. “Why don’t you tell me how folk are? Why don’t you just go ahead and tell this whole damn story while…”

  Cob stopped at the sound of heavy boots clumping on the wooden landing outside. After a pause, someone fumbled with the latch.

  Everyone turned around to look at the door, curious, as all the regular customers were already there. “Two new faces in one day,” Graham said gently, knowing he was touching on a delicate subject. “Looks like your dry spell might be over, Kote.”

  “Roads must be getting better,” Shep said into his drink, a hint of relief in his voice. “About time we got a touch of luck.”

  The latch clicked and the door swung slowly open, moving in a slow arc until it struck the wall. A man stood outside in the dark, as if deciding whether or not to come in.

  “Welcome to the Waystone,” the innkeeper called out from behind the bar. “What can we do for you?”

  The man stepped into the light and the farmers’ excitement was smothered by the sight of the piecemeal leather armor and heavy sword that marked a mercenary. A lone mercenary was never reassuring, even in the best of times. Everyone knew that the difference between an unemployed mercenary and a highwayman was mostly one of timing.

  What’s more, it was obvious this mercenary had fallen on hard times. Brownburr clung thick to the bottoms of his pants and the rough leather of his boot’s laces. His shirt was fine linen dyed a deep, royal blue, but mud-spattered and bramble-torn. His hair was a greasy snarl. His eyes were dark and sunken, as if he hadn’t slept in days. He moved a few steps farther into the inn, leaving the door open behind him.

  “Looks like you’ve been on the road a while,” Kvothe said cheerily. “Would you like a drink or some dinner?” When the mercenary made no reply, he added, “None of us would blame you if you wanted to catch a bit of sleep first, either. It looks like you’ve had a rough couple days.” Kvothe glanced at Bast, who slid off his stool and went to close the inn’s front door.

  After slowly looking over everyone sitting at the bar, the mercenary moved to the empty space between Chronicler and Old Cob. Kvothe gave his best innkeeper’s smile as the mercenary leaned heavily against the bar and mumbled something.

  Across the room, Bast froze with his hand on the door handle.

  “Beg your pardon?” Kvothe asked, leaning forward.

  The mercenary looked up, his eyes meeting Kvothe’s then sweeping back and forth behind the bar. His eyes moved sluggishly, as if he had been addled by a blow to the head. “Aethin tseh cthystoi scthaiven vei.”

  Kvothe leaned forward, “I’m sorry, what was that again?” When nothing was forthcoming from the mercenary, he looked around at the other men at the bar. “Did anyone catch that?”

  Chronicler was looking the mercenary over, eyeing the man’s armor, the empty quiver of arrows, his fine blue linen shirt. The scribe’s stare was intense, but the mercenary didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s Siaru,” Cob said knowingly. “Funny. He don’t look like a shim.”

  Shep laughed, shaking his head. “Naw. He’s drunk. My uncle used to talk like that.” He nudged Graham with an elbow. “You rem
ember my Uncle Tam? God, I’ve never known a man who drank like that.”

  Bast made a frantic, covert gesture from where he stood near the door, but Kvothe was busy trying to catch the mercenary’s eye. “Speak Aturan?” Kvothe asked slowly. “What do you want?”

  The mercenary’s eyes rested momentarily on the innkeeper. “Avoi—” he began, then closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if listening. He opened his eyes again. “I…want…” he began, his voice slow and thick. “I…look…” He trailed off, his gaze wandering aimlessly around the room, his eyes unfocused.

  “I know him,” Chronicler said.

  Everyone turned to look at the scribe. “What?” Shep asked.

  Chronicler’s expression was angry. “This fellow and four of his friends robbed me about five days ago. I didn’t recognize him at first. He was clean-shaven then, but it’s him.”

  Behind the man’s back, Bast made a more urgent gesture, trying to catch his master’s attention, but Kvothe was intent on the befuddled man. “Are you sure?”

  Chronicler gave a hard, humorless laugh. “He’s wearing my shirt. Ruined it too. Cost me a whole talent. I never even got a chance to wear it.”

  “Was he like this before?”

  Chronicler shook his head. “Not at all. He was almost genteel as highwaymen go. I had him pegged as a low-ranking officer before he deserted.”

  Bast gave up signaling. “Reshi!” He called out, a hint of desperation in his voice.

  “Just a moment, Bast,” Kvothe said as he tried to catch the stupefied mercenary’s attention. He waved a hand in front of the man’s face, snapped his fingers. “Hello?”

  The man’s eyes followed Kvothe’s moving hand, but seemed oblivious to everything being said around him. “I…am…look…” he said slowly. “I look…”

  “What?” Cob demanded testily. “What are you looking for?”

  “Looking…” the mercenary echoed vaguely.

  “I imagine he’s looking to give me my horse back,” Chronicler said calmly as he took a half step closer to the man and grabbed the hilt of his sword. With a sudden motion he yanked it free, or rather, he tried to. Instead of sliding easily free it of its scabbard, it came halfway out and stuck.

  “No!” Bast cried from across the room.

  The mercenary stared vaguely at Chronicler, but made no attempt to stop him. Standing awkwardly, still gripping the hilt of the man’s sword, the scribe tugged harder and the sword pulled slowly free. The broad blade was mottled with dried blood and rust.

  Taking a step back, Chronicler regained his composure and leveled the sword at the mercenary. “And my horse is just for starters. Afterward I think he’s looking to give me my money back and have a nice chat with the constable.”

  The mercenary looked at the point of the sword where it swayed unsteadily in front of his chest. His eyes followed the gently swaying motion for a long moment.

  “Just leave him be!” Bast’s voice was shrill. “Please!”

  Cob nodded. “Boy’s right, Devan. Fella’s not right in his head. Don’t go pointing that at him. He looks likely to pass out on top of it.”

  The mercenary absentmindedly lifted a hand. “I am looking…” he said, brushing the sword aside as if it were a branch blocking his path. Chronicler sucked in a breath and jerked the sword away as the man’s hand ran along the edge of the blade, drawing blood.

  “See?” Old Cob said. “What I tell you? Sod’s a danger to hisself.”

  The mercenary’s head tilted to the side. He held up his hand, examining it. A slow trickle of dark blood made its way down his thumb, where it gathered and swelled for a moment before dripping onto the floor. The mercenary drew a deep breath through his nose, and his glassy sunken eyes came into sudden, sharp focus.

  He smiled wide at Chronicler, all the vagueness gone from his expression. “Te varaiyn aroi Seathaloi vei mela,” he said in a deep voice.

  “I…I don’t follow you,” Chronicler said, disconcerted.

  The man’s smile fell away. His eyes hardened, grew angry. “Te-tauren sciyrloet? Amauen.”

  “I can’t tell what you’re saying,” Chronicler said. “But I don’t care for your tone.” He brought the sword back up between them, pointing at the man’s chest.

  The mercenary looked down at the heavy, notched blade, his forehead furrowing in confusion. Then sudden understanding spread across his face and the wide smile returned. He threw back his head and laughed.

  It was no human sound. It was wild and exulting, like a hawk’s shrill cry.

  The mercenary brought up his injured hand and grabbed the tip of the sword, moving with such sudden speed that the metal rang dully with the contact. Still smiling, he tightened his grip, bowing the blade. Blood ran from his hand, down the sword’s edge to patter onto the floor.

  Everyone in the room watched in stunned disbelief. The only sound was the faint grating of the mercenary’s finger bones grinding against the bare edges of the blade.

  Looking Chronicler full in the face, the mercenary twisted his hand sharply and the sword broke with a sound like a shattered bell. As Chronicler stared dumbly at the ruined weapon the mercenary took a step forward and laid his empty hand lightly on the scribe’s shoulder.

  Chronicler gave a choked scream and jerked away as if he had been jabbed with a hot poker. He swung the broken sword wildly, knocking the hand away and notching it deep into the meat of the mercenary’s arm. The man’s face showed no pain or fear, or any sign of awareness that he’d been wounded at all.

  Still holding the broken tip of the sword in his bloody hand, the mercenary took another step toward Chronicler.

  Then Bast was there, barreling into the mercenary with one shoulder, striking him with such force that the man’s body shattered one of the heavy barstools before slamming into the mahogany bar. Quick as a blink, Bast grabbed the mercenary’s head with both hands and slammed it into the edge of the bar. Lips pulled back in a grimace, Bast drove the man’s head viciously into the mahogany: once, twice….

  Then, as if Bast’s action had startled everyone awake, chaos erupted in the room. Old Cob pushed himself away from the bar, tipping his stool over as he backed away. Graham began shouting something about the constable. Jake tried to bolt for the door and tripped over Cob’s fallen stool, sprawling to the floor in a tangle. The smith’s prentice grabbed for his iron rod and ended up knocking it to the floor where it rolled in a wide arc and came to rest under a table.

  Bast gave a startled yelp and was thrown violently across the room to land on one of the heavy timber tables. It broke under his weight and he lay sprawled in the wreckage, limp as a rag doll. The mercenary came to his feet, blood flowing freely down the left-hand side of his face. He seemed utterly unconcerned as he turned back to Chronicler, still holding the tip of the broken sword in his bleeding hand.

  Behind him, Shep picked up a knife from where it lay next to the half-eaten wheel of cheese. It was just a kitchen knife, its blade about a handspan long. Face grim, the farmer stepped close behind the mercenary and stabbed down hard, driving the whole of the short blade deep into the mercenary’s body where the shoulder meets the neck.

  Instead of collapsing, the mercenary spun around and lashed Shep across the face with the jagged edge of the sword. Blood sprayed and Shep lifted his hands to his face. Then, moving so quickly it was little more than a twitch, the mercenary brought the piece of metal back around, burying it in the farmer’s chest. Shep staggered backward against the bar, then collapsed to the floor with the broken end of the sword still jutting between his ribs.

  The mercenary reached up and curiously touched the handle of the knife lodged in his own neck. His expression more puzzled than angry, he tugged at it. When it didn’t budge, he gave another wild, birdlike laugh.

  As the farmer lay gasping and bleeding on the floor, the mercenary’s attention seemed to wander, as if he had forgotten what he was doing. His eyes slowly wandered around the room, moving lazily past the broken ta
bles, the black stone fireplace, the huge oak barrels. Finally the mercenary’s gaze came to rest on the red-haired man behind the bar. Kvothe did not blanch or back away when the man’s attention settled onto him. Their eyes met.

  The mercenary’s eyes sharpened again, focusing on Kvothe. The wide, humorless smile reappeared, made macabre by the blood running down his face. “Te aithiyn Seathaloi?” he demanded. “Te Rhintae?”

  With an almost casual motion, Kvothe grabbed a dark bottle from the counter and flung it across the bar. It struck the mercenary in the mouth and shattered. The air filled with the sharp tang of elderberry, dousing the man’s still-grinning head and shoulders.

  Reaching out one hand, Kvothe dipped a finger into the liquor that spattered the bar. He muttered something under his breath, his forehead furrowed in concentration. He stared intently at the bloody man standing on the other side of the bar.

  Nothing happened.

  The mercenary reached across the bar, catching hold of Kvothe’s sleeve. The innkeeper simply stood, and in that moment his expression held no fear, no anger or surprise. He only seemed weary, numb, and dismayed.

  Before the mercenary could get a grip on Kvothe’s arm, he staggered as Bast tackled him from behind. Bast managed to get one arm around the mercenary’s neck while the other raked at the man’s face. The mercenary let go of Kvothe and laid both hands on the arm that circled his neck, trying to twist away. When the mercenary’s hands touched him, Bast’s face became a tight mask of pain. Teeth bared, he clawed wildly at the mercenary’s eyes with his free hand.

  At the far end of the bar, the smith’s prentice finally retrieved his iron rod from under the table and stretched to his full height. He charged over the fallen stools and strewn bodies on the floor. Bellowing, he lifted the iron rod high over one shoulder.

  Still clinging to the mercenary, Bast’s eyes grew wide with sudden panic as he saw the smith’s prentice approaching. He released his grip and backed away, his feet tangling in the wreckage of the broken barstool. Falling backward, he scuttled madly away from the both of them.