Kingkiller Chronicle [01] The Name of the Wind

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Honestly, I would have liked another month’s practice, another year’s practice before gambling away an entire talent. But there was no time. The term was nearly over. I needed money to stave off my debt to Devi and pay my upcoming tuition. I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “You sure?” Sim asked. “I’ve heard people try for their talent that were really good. Early this term an old man sang a song about…about this woman whose husband had gone off to war.”

  “‘In the Village Smithy,’” I said.

  “Whatever,” Simmon said dismissively. “What I’m saying is that he was really good. I laughed and cried and just hurt all over.” He gave me an anxious look. “But he didn’t get his pipes.”

  I covered my own anxiety with a smile. “You still haven’t heard me play, have you?”

  “You know damn well I haven’t,” he said crossly.

  I smiled. I had refused to play for Wilem and Simmon while I was out of practice. Their opinions were nearly as important as those at the Eolian.

  “Well, you’ll get your chance this Mourning,” I teased. “Will you come?”

  Simmon nodded. “Wilem too. Barring earthquakes or a rain of blood.”

  I looked up at the sunset. “I should go,” I said, getting to my feet. “Practice makes the master.”

  Sim waved and I headed to the Mess, where I sat down long enough to spoon up my beans and chew through a flat piece of tough grey meat. I took my small loaf of bread with me, drawing a few odd looks from the nearby students.

  I headed to my bunk and retrieved my lute from the trunk at the foot of the bed. Then, given the rumors Sim had mentioned, I took one of the trickier ways onto the roof of Mains, shimmying up a series of drainpipes in a sheltered box alley. I didn’t want to draw any extra attention to my nighttime activities there.

  It was fully dark by the time I made it to the isolated courtyard with the apple tree. All the windows were dark. I looked down from the edge of the roof, seeing nothing but shadows.

  “Auri,” I called. “Are you there?”

  “You’re late,” came the vaguely petulant reply.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to come up tonight?”

  A slight pause. “No. Come down.”

  “There’s not much moon tonight,” I said in my best encouraging tones. “Are you sure you don’t want to come up?”

  I heard a rustle from the hedges below and then saw Auri scamper up the tree like a squirrel. She ran around the edge of the roof, then pulled up short a few dozen feet away.

  At my best guess, Auri was only a few years older than me, certainly no more than twenty. She dressed in tattered clothes that left her arms and legs bare, was shorter than me by almost a foot. She was thin. Part of this was simply her tiny frame, but there was more to it than that. Her cheeks were hollow and her bare arms waifishly narrow. Her long hair was so fine that it trailed her, floating in the air like a cloud.

  It had taken me a long while to draw her out of hiding. I’d suspected someone was listening to me practice from the courtyard, but it had been nearly two span before I caught a glimpse of her. Seeing that she was half-starved, I began bringing whatever food I could carry away from the Mess and leaving it for her. Even so, it was another span before she had joined me on the roof as I practiced my lute.

  The last few days, she’d even started talking. I’d expected her to be sullen and suspicious, but nothing could be further from the truth. She was bright-eyed and enthusiastic. Though I couldn’t help but be reminded of myself in Tarbean when I saw her, there was little real resemblance. Auri was scrupulously clean and full of joy.

  She didn’t like the open sky, or bright lights, or people. I guessed she was some student who had gone cracked and run underground before she could be confined to Haven. I hadn’t learned much about her, as she was still shy and skittish. When I’d asked her name, she bolted back underground and didn’t return for days.

  So I picked a name for her, Auri. Though in my heart I thought of her as my little moon-fey.

  Auri came a few steps closer, stopped, waited, then darted forward again. She did this several times until she stood in front of me. Standing still, her hair spread in the air around her like a halo. She held both her hands in front of her, just under her chin. She reached out and tugged my sleeve, then pulled her hand back. “What did you bring me?” She asked excitedly.

  I smiled. “What did you bring me?” I teased gently.

  She smiled and thrust her hand forward. Something gleamed in the moonlight. “A key,” she said proudly, pressing it on me.

  I took it. It had a pleasing weight in my hand. “It’s very nice,” I said. “What does it unlock?”

  “The moon,” she said, her expression grave.

  “That should be useful,” I said, looking it over.

  “That’s what I thought,” she said. “That way, if there’s a door in the moon you can open it.” She sat cross-legged on the roof and grinned up at me. “Not that I would encourage that sort of reckless behavior.”

  I squatted down and opened my lute case. “I brought you some bread.” I handed her the loaf of brown barley bread wrapped in a piece of cloth. “And a bottle of water.”

  “This is very nice as well,” she said graciously. The bottle seemed very large in her hands. “What’s in the water?” she asked as she pulled out the cork and peered down into it.

  “Flowers,” I said. “And the part of the moon that isn’t in the sky tonight. I put that in there too.”

  She looked back up. “I already said the moon,” she said with a hint of reproach.

  “Just flowers then. And the shine off the back of a dragonfly. I wanted a piece of the moon, but blue-dragonfly-shine was as close as I could get.”

  She tipped the bottle up and took a sip. “It’s lovely,” she said, brushing back several strands of hair that were drifting in front of her face.

  Auri spread out the cloth and began to eat. She tore small pieces from the loaf and chewed them delicately, somehow making the whole process look genteel.

  “I like white bread,” she said conversationally between mouthfuls.

  “Me too,” I said as I lowered myself into a sitting position. “When I can get it.”

  She nodded and looked around at the starry night sky and the crescent moon. “I like it when it’s cloudy, too. But this is okay. It’s cozy. Like the Underthing.”

  “Underthing?” I asked. She was rarely this talkative.

  “I live in the Underthing,” Auri said easily. “It goes all over.”

  “Do you like it down there?”

  Auri’s eyes lit up. “Holy God yes, it’s marvelous. You can just look forever.” She turned to look at me. “I have news,” she said teasingly.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  She took another bite and finished chewing before she spoke. “I went out last night.” A sly smile. “On top of things.”

  “Really?” I said, not bothering to hide my surprise. “How did you like it?”

  “It was lovely. I went looking around,” she said, obviously pleased with herself. “I saw Elodin.”

  “Master Elodin?” I asked. She nodded. “Was he on top of things, too?”

  She nodded again, chewing.

  “Did he see you?”

  Her smile burst out again making her look closer to eight than eighteen. “Nobody sees me. Besides, he was busy listening to the wind.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and made a hooting noise. “There was good wind for listening last night,” she added confidentially.

  While I was trying to make sense of what she’d said, Auri finished the last of her bread and clapped her hands excitedly. “Now play!” she said breathlessly. “Play! Play!”

  Grinning, I pulled my lute out of its case. I couldn’t hope for a more enthusiastic audience than Auri.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  A Place to Burn

  “YOU LOOK DIFFERENT TODAY,” Simmon observed. Wilem grunted in agreement.<
br />
  “I feel different,” I admitted. “Good, but different.”

  The three of us were kicking up dust on the road to Imre. The day was warm and sunny, and we were in no particular hurry.

  “You look…calm,” Simmon continued, brushing his hand through his hair. “I wish I felt as calm as you look.”

  “I wish I felt as calm as I looked,” I mumbled.

  Simmon refused to give up. “You look more solid.” He grimaced. “No. You look…tight.”

  “Tight?” Tension forced laughter out of me, leaving me more relaxed. “How can someone look tight?”

  “Just tight.” He shrugged. “Like a coiled spring.”

  “It’s the way he’s holding himself,” Wilem said, breaking his usual thoughtful silence. “Standing straight, neck unbent, shoulders back.” He gestured vaguely to illustrate his points. “When he steps, his whole foot treads the ground. Not just the ball, as if he would run, or the heel, as if he would hesitate. He steps solidly down, claiming the piece of ground for his own.”

  I felt a momentary awkwardness as I tried to watch myself, always a futile thing to attempt.

  Simmon gave him a sideways look. “Someone’s been spending time with Puppet, haven’t they?”

  Wilem shrugged a vague agreement and threw a stone into the trees by the side of the road.

  “Who is this Puppet you two keep mentioning?” I asked, partly to draw the attention away from myself. “I’m about to die of terminal curiosity, you know.”

  “If anyone could, it would be you,” Wilem said.

  “He spends most of his time in the Archives,” Sim said hesitantly, knowing that he was touching on a sore subject. “It would be hard to introduce you since…you know….”

  We came to Stonebridge, the ancient arch of grey stone that spanned the Omethi River between the University and Imre. Over two hundred feet from one bank to another, and arching more than sixty feet at its peak, Stonebridge had more stories and legends surrounding it than any other University landmark.

  “Spit for luck,” Wilem urged, as we began to climb one side, and followed his own advice. Simmon followed suit, spitting over the side with a childlike exuberance.

  I almost said, “Luck has nothing to do with it.” Master Arwyl’s words, repeated sternly a thousand times in the Medica. I tasted them on the tip of my tongue for a minute, hesitated, then spat instead.

  The Eolian lay at the heart of Imre, its front doors facing out onto the city’s central cobblestone courtyard. There were benches, a few flowering trees, and a marble fountain misting water over a statue of a satyr chasing a group of half-clothed nymphs whose attempt at flight seemed token at best. Well-dressed people milled around, nearly a third carrying some sort of musical instrument or another. I counted at least seven lutes.

  As we approached the Eolian the doorman tugged at the front of a wide-brimmed hat and made a nodding bow. He was at least six and a half feet tall, deeply tanned and muscular. “That will be one jot, young master,” he smiled as Wilem handed over a coin.

  He turned to me next with the same sunny smile. Looking at the lute case I carried he cocked an eyebrow at me. “Good to see a new face. You know the rules?”

  I nodded and handed him a jot.

  He turned to point inside. “You see the bar?” It was hard to miss fifty feet of winding mahogany that curved through the far end of the room. “See where the far end turns toward the stage?” I nodded. “See him on the stool? If you decide to try for your pipes, he’s the one you want to talk to. Name’s Stanchion.”

  We both turned away from the room at the same time. I shrugged my lute higher onto my shoulder. “Thank you—” I paused, not knowing his name.

  “Deoch.” He smiled again in his relaxed way.

  A sudden impulse seized me, and I held out my hand. “Deoch means ‘to drink.’ Will you let me buy you one later?”

  He looked at me for a long second before he laughed. It was an unrestrained, happy sound that came leaping straight from his chest. He shook my hand warmly. “I just might at that.”

  Deoch released my hand, looking behind me. “Simmon, did you bring us this one?”

  “He brought me, actually.” Simmon seemed put out by my brief exchange with the doorman, but I couldn’t guess why. “I don’t think anyone can really take him anywhere.” He handed a jot to Deoch.

  “I’ll believe that,” Deoch said. “There’s something about him I like. He’s a little fae around the edges. I hope he plays for us tonight.”

  “I hope so too,” I said, and we moved inside.

  I looked around the Eolian as casually as I could manage. A raised circular stage thrust out from the wall opposite the curving mahogany bar. Several spiraling stairways lead to a second level that was much like a balcony. A smaller, third level was visible above that, more like a high mezzanine circling the room.

  Stools and chairs ringed tables throughout around the room. Benches were recessed into niches in the walls. Sympathy lamps were mixed with candles, giving the room a natural light without fouling the air with smoke.

  “Well that was cleverly done,” Simmon’s voice was brittle. “Merciful Tehlu, warn me before you try any more stunts, will you?”

  “What?” I asked. “The thing with the doorman? Simmon, you are jittery as a teenage whore. He was friendly. I liked him. What’s the harm in offering him a drink?”

  “Deoch owns this place,” Simmon said sharply. “And he absolutely hates it when musicians suck up to him. Two span ago he threw someone out of here for trying to tip him.” He gave me a long look. “Actually threw him. Almost far enough to make it into the fountain.”

  “Oh,” I said, properly taken aback. I snuck a look at Deoch as he bantered with someone at the door. I saw the thick muscles in his arm tense and relax as he made a gesture outside. “Did he seem upset to you?” I asked.

  “No, he didn’t. That’s the damnedest thing.”

  Wilem approached us. “If the two of you will stop fishwiving and come to table, I will buy the first drinks, lhin?” We made our way to the table Wilem had picked out, not too far from where Stanchion sat at the bar. “What do you want to drink?” Wilem asked as Simmon and I sat down and I settled my lutecase into the fourth chair.

  “Cinnamon mead,” Simmon said without stopping to think.

  “Girl,” Wilem said in a vaguely accusatory way and turned to me.

  “Cider,” I said. “Soft cider.”

  “Two girls,” he said, and walked off to the bar.

  I nodded toward Stanchion. “What about him?” I asked Simmon. “I thought he owned the place?”

  “They both do. Stanchion handles the music end of it.”

  “Is there anything I should know about him?” I asked, my near catastrophe with Deoch having sharpened my anxiety.

  Simmon shook his head. “I hear he’s cheerful enough in his own right, but I’ve never talked with him. Don’t do anything stupid and everything should be fine.”

  “Thanks,” I said sarcastically as I pushed my chair back from the table and stood.

  Stanchion had a medium build and was handsomely dressed in deep green and black. He had a round, bearded face and a slight paunch that was probably only noticeable because he was sitting. He smiled and motioned me forward with the hand that wasn’t holding an impressively tall tankard.

  “Ho there,” he said cheerily. “You have the hopeful look about you. Are you here to play for us tonight?” He raised a speculative eyebrow. Now that I was closer, I noticed that Stanchion’s hair was a deep, bashful red that hid if the light struck him the wrong way.

  “I hope to, sir,” I said. “Though I was planning to wait for a while.”

  “Oh, certainly. We never let anyone try their talent until the sun is down.” He paused to take a drink, and as he turned his head I saw a golden set of pipes hanging from his ear.

  Sighing, he wiped his mouth happily across the back of his sleeve. “What do you play then, lute?” I nodded. “H
ave any idea what you’ll use to woo us?”

  “That depends sir. Has anyone played ‘The Lay of Sir Savien Traliard’ lately?”

  Stanchion raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. Smoothing his beard with his free hand, he said, “Well, no. Someone gave it a whirl a few months ago, but he bit off more than he could swallow whole. Missed a couple fingerings then fell apart.” He shook his head. “Simply said, no. Not lately.”

  He took another drink from his tankard, and swallowed thoughtfully before he spoke again. “Most people find that a song of more moderate difficulty allows them to showcase their talent,” he said carefully.

  I sensed his unspoken advice and was not offended. “Sir Savien” is the most difficult song I had ever heard. My father had been the only one in the troupe with the skill to perform it, and I had only heard him do it perhaps four or five times in front of an audience. It was only about fifteen minutes long, but those fifteen minutes required quick, precise fingering that, if done properly, would set two voices singing out of the lute at once, both a melody and a harmony.

  That was tricky, but nothing any skilled lutist couldn’t accomplish. However, “Sir Savien” was a ballad, and the vocal part was a counter melody that ran against the timing of the lute. Difficult. If the song was being done properly, with both a man and a woman alternating the verses, the song was further complicated by the female’s counter harmony in the refrains. If it is done well, it is enough to cut a heart. Unfortunately, few musicians could perform calmly in the center of such a storm of song.

  Stanchion drank off another solid swallow from his tankard and wiped his beard on his sleeve. “You singing alone?” he asked, seeming a bit excited in spite of his half-spoken warning. “Or have you brought someone to sing opposite you? Is one of the boys you came in with a castrati?”

  I fought down laughter at the thought of Wilem as a soprano and shook my head. “I don’t have any friends that can sing it. I was going to double the third refrain to give someone the chance to come in as Aloine.”

  “Trouper style, eh?” He gave me a serious look. “Son, it’s really not my place to say this, but do you really want to try for your pipes with someone you’ve never even practiced with?”