I nodded, a full-blooded Khershaen was exactly suited to my purpose. They had a legendary endurance, but there would be no avoiding the price, either. A well-trained forth horse was worth a dozen talents. “How much are you asking for him?”
“I’ll want two solid marks,” he said without any hint of apology or wheedling in his voice.
Merciful Tehlu, twenty talents. He’d have to have silver shoes to be worth that much. “I’m in no mood for a lengthy dicker, Kaerva,” I said shortly.
“You’ve made me well aware of that, milord,” he said. “I’m telling you my honest price. Here. You’ll see why.”
The boy hurried out leading a sleek monster of a horse. At least eighteen hands tall, proud head, and black from his nose to the tip of his tail. “He loves to run,” Kaerva said with genuine affection in his voice. He ran a hand along the smooth black neck. “And look at that color. Not so much as a pale whisker, that’s why he’s worth twenty if he’s worth a single shim.”
“I don’t care about the color,” I said absentmindedly while I looked him over for signs of injury or old age. There was nothing. He was glossy, young, strong. “I just need to move quickly.”
“I understand,” he said apologetically. “But I can’t just ignore the coloring. If I wait a span or two, some young lord will pay just for the snappy look of him.”
I knew it was true. “Does he have a name?” I asked moving slowly toward the black horse, letting him smell my hands and get used to me. Bargaining can be hurried, but befriending a horse cannot. Only a fool rushes first impressions with a spirited young Khershaen.
“Not one that’s stuck on him,” he said.
“What’s your name, boy?” I asked gently, just so he could get used to the sound of my voice. He snuffed delicately at my hand, keeping close watch with one large, intelligent eye. He didn’t back away, but he certainly wasn’t at his ease either. I kept talking as I came closer, hoping he would relax at the sound of my voice. “You deserve a good name. I hate to see some lordling with delusions of wit saddle you with some terrible name like Midnight or Sooty or Scut.”
I came closer and lay one hand along his neck. His skin twitched, but he didn’t pull away. I needed to be sure of his temperament as much as his stamina. I couldn’t take the risk of jumping on the back of a skittish horse. “Someone half clever might dub you Pitch or Scuttle, ill-favored names. Or Slate, a sedentary name. Heaven forbid you end up Blackie, that’s an ill-fitting name for a prince like you.”
My father always talked to new horses in this way, in a steady calming litany. As I stroked his neck, I kept speaking without giving any mind to what I said. Words don’t matter to the horse, the tone of your voice is the important thing. “You’ve come a long way. You should have a proud name, so folk won’t think of you as common. Was your previous owner Cealdish?” I asked. “Ve vanaloi. Tu teriam keta. Palan te?”
I could sense him relax a bit at the sound of the familiar language. I walked onto his other side, still looking him over carefully and letting him get used to my presence. “Tu Ketha?” I asked him. Are you coal? “Tu mahne?” Are you a shadow?
I wanted to say twilight, but I couldn’t bring the Siaru word to mind. Rather than pause, I just bulled ahead, faking it as best I could as I eyed his hooves to see if they were chipped or cracked. “Tu Keth-Selhan?” Are you first night?
The big black lowered his head and nuzzled me. “You like that one, do you?” I said with a bit of a laugh, knowing that what really happened was that he had caught scent of the package of dried apple I had tucked in one of the pockets of my cloak. The important thing was that he had a feel for me now. If he was comfortable enough to nuzzle at me for food, we could get along well enough for a hard day’s ride.
“Keth-Selhan seems to suit him for a name,” I said, turning back to Kaerva. “Anything else I need to know?”
Kaerva seemed disconcerted. “He shies a bit on his right side.”
“A bit?”
“Just a bit. It stands to reason that he’s probably a bit prone to spooking on that side too, but I haven’t seen him do it.”
“How’s he trained? Close rein or trouper style?
“Close.”
“Fine. You’ve got one minute left to make this deal. He’s a good animal, but I’m not paying twenty talents for him.” I spoke with certainty in my voice, but no hope in my heart. He was a gorgeous animal, and his coloring made him worth at least twenty talents. Still, I’d go through the motions and hope to squeeze the man down to nineteen. That at least would leave me money for food and lodging when I got to Trebon.
“Very well,” Kaerva said. “Sixteen.”
Only my years of stage training kept me from gaping openly at his sudden drop. “Fifteen,” I said, feigning irritation. “And that will include the saddle, tack, and a bag of oats.” I began pulling money out of my purse as if the deal was already finished.
Unbelievably, Kaerva nodded and called for one of the boys to bring a saddle and tack.
I counted the money into Kaerva’s hand as his assistant saddled the big black. The Ceald seemed uncomfortable meeting my eye.
If I didn’t know horses as well as I do, I would have thought I was being swindled. Maybe the horse was stolen, or the man was desperate for money.
Whatever the reason, I didn’t care. I was due a bit of good luck. Best of all, this meant that I might be able to resell the horse at a bit of a profit after I reached Trebon. Honestly, I would need to sell him as soon as I could manage, even if I lost money on the deal. Stabling, food, and grooming for a horse like this would cost me a penny a day. I couldn’t afford to keep him.
I strapped my travelsack into a saddlebag, checked the cinch and stirrups, then swung myself up onto Keth-Selhan’s back. He danced slightly to the right, eager to be off. That made two of us. I twitched the reins and we were on our way.
Most problems with horses have nothing to do with the horses themselves. They stem from the ignorance of the rider. Folk shoe their horses badly, saddle them improperly, feed them poorly, then complain that they were sold a half-lame, swayback, ill-tempered hack.
I knew horses. My parents had taught me to ride and care for them. While most of my experience had been with sturdier breeds, bred to pull rather than to race, I knew how to cover ground quickly when I needed to.
When they’re in a hurry, most folk push their mount too hard too soon. They head out at a dead gallop, then find themselves with a horse lame or half dead inside an hour. Pure idiocy. Only a twelve-color bastard treats a horse that way.
But to be entirely truthful, I would have ridden Keth-Selhan to death if it would have brought me to Trebon in a timely fashion. There are some times when I am willing to be a bastard. I would have killed a dozen horses if it would have helped me get more information about the Chandrian and why they had killed my parents.
But ultimately, there was no sense in thinking that way. A dead horse wouldn’t get me to Trebon. A live one would.
So I started Keth-Selhan at a nice walk to warm him up. He was eager to go faster, probably sensing my own impatience, and that would have been fine if I’d only needed to go a mile or three. But I needed him for at least fifty, maybe seventy, and that meant patience. I had to rein him back down to a walk twice before he resigned himself to it.
After a mile, I trotted him for a bit. His gait was smooth, even for a Khershaen, but a trot is jarring no matter what, and it pulled at the new stitches in my side. I urged him up to a canter after another mile or so. Only after we were three or four miles out of Imre and we came to a good, straight stretch of flat road did I nudge him up to a gallop.
Finally given the chance to run, he surged ahead. The sun had just finished burning away the morning dew, and farmers harvesting wheat and barley in the fields looked up as we thundered past. Keth-Selhan was fast; so fast that the wind tore at my cloak, stretching it behind me like a flag. Despite the fact that I knew I must cut quite the dramatic figure, I quickly grew
tired of the drag on my neck, unfastened the cloak, then stuffed it into a saddlebag.
When we passed through a stand of trees, I brought Selhan back down to a trot. That way he got a little rest, and we didn’t run the risk of rounding a corner and barreling into a fallen tree or slow-moving cart. When we came out into pastureland and could see our way clear, I gave him his head again and we practically flew.
After an hour and a half of this, Selhan was sweating and breathing hard, but he was doing better than I was. My legs were a rubbery mess. I was fit enough, and young, but I hadn’t been in the saddle for years. Riding uses different muscles than walking, and riding at a gallop is just as hard as running unless you want to make your horse work twice as hard for every mile.
Suffice to say I welcomed the next stretch of trees. I hopped out of the saddle and walked to give both of us a well-deserved break. I cut one of my apples down the middle and gave him the larger half. I figured we’d come about thirty miles, and the sun wasn’t even fully at zenith.
“That’s the easy bit,” I told him, stroking his neck fondly. “Lord, but you are lovely. You’re not half blown yet, are you?”
We walked for about ten minutes, then we had the good luck to come across a little creek with a wooden bridge running across it. I let him drink for a long minute, then pulled him away before he took too much.
Then I mounted up and gaited him back up to a gallop by slow stages. My legs burned and ached as I leaned over his neck. The drumming of his hooves was like a counterpoint to the slow song of the wind, endlessly burning past my ears.
The first snag came about an hour later when we had to cross a wide stream. It wasn’t treacherous by any means, but I had to unsaddle him and carry everything across rather than risk it getting wet. I couldn’t ride him for hours wearing a wet harness.
On the other side of the river I dried him off with my blanket and re-saddled him. It took half an hour, which meant he had gone from being rested to being cold, so I had to warm him up gently, slow walk to trot to canter. That stream cost me an hour all told. I worried if there was another one the chill would get into Selhan’s muscles. If that happened, Tehlu himself wouldn’t be able to bring him up to a gallop again.
An hour later I passed through a small town, hardly more than a church and a tavern that happened to be next to each other. I stopped long enough to let Selhan drink a bit from a trough. I stretched my numb legs and looked up anxiously at the sun.
After that, the fields and farms grew fewer and farther between. The trees grew thicker and denser. The road narrowed and was not in good repair, rocky in places, washed out in others. It made for slower and slower going. But, truth be told, neither myself or Keth-Selhan had much more galloping left in us.
Eventually we came to another stream crossing the road. Not much more than a foot deep at the most. The water had a sharp, foul smell that let me know there was a tannery upstream, or a refinery. There wasn’t any bridge, and Keth-Selhan made his way slowly across, placing his hooves gingerly on the rocky bottom. I wondered idly if it felt good, like when you dandle your feet in the water after a long day’s walking.
The stream didn’t slow us down much, but over the next half hour we had to cross it three separate times as it wound back and forth across the road. It was an inconvenience more than anything, never much deeper than a foot and half. Each time we crossed it the acrid smell of the water was worse. Solvents and acids. If not a refinery, then at least a mine. I kept my hands on the reins, ready to pull Selhan’s head up if he tried to drink, but he was smarter than that.
A long canter later I came up over a hill and looked down onto a cross-roads at the bottom of a small grassy valley. Right under the signpost was a tinker with a pair of donkeys, one of them loaded so high with bags and bundles that it looked ready to tip over, the other conspicuously unburdened. It stood by the side of the dirt road grazing with a small mountain of gear piled beside it.
The tinker sat on a small stool at the side of the road, looking dispirited. His expression brightened when he saw me riding down the hill.
I read the signpost as I came closer. North was Trebon. South was Temfalls. I reined in as I approached. Keth-Selhan and I could both use the rest, and I was not in enough of a hurry to be rude to a tinker. Not by half. If nothing else the fellow could tell me how far I had left to go before I came to Trebon.
“Hello there!” he said, looking up at me, shading his eyes with one hand. “You’ve got the look of a lad that’s wanting something.” He was older, balding, with a round, friendly face.
I laughed. “I’m wanting a lot of things, tinker, but I don’t think you’ve got any of them in your packs.”
He gave me an ingratiating smile. “Well now, don’t go assuming…” He stopped and looked down for a moment, thoughtfully. When he met my eyes again his expression was still kind, but more serious than before. “Listen, I’ll be honest with you, son. My little donkey has got herself a stone bruise in her forehoof and can’t carry her load. I’m stuck here until I come by some manner of help.”
“Normally nothing would make me happier than to help you, tinker,” I said. “But I need to get to Trebon as quickly as I can.”
“That won’t take much doing.” He nodded over the hill to the north. “You’re only about a half mile out. If the wind was blowing southerly you could smell the smoke.”
I looked in the direction he gestured and saw chimney smoke rising from behind the hill. A great wave of relief washed over me. I’d made it, and it was barely an hour after noon.
The tinker continued. “I need to get to the Evesdown docks.” He nodded to the east. “I’ve made arrangements to ship downriver and I’d dearly love to catch my boat.” He eyed my horse significantly. “But I’ll need a new pack animal to carry my gear….”
It seems my luck had finally turned. Selhan was a fine horse, but now that I was in Trebon, he would be little more than a constant drain on my limited resources.
Still, it’s never wise to look eager to sell. “This is an awful lot of horse to be used for packing,” I said, patting Keth-Selhan’s neck. “He’s a full-blooded Khershaen, and I can tell you I’ve never seen a better horse in all my days.”
The tinker looked him over skeptically. “He’s knackered is what he is,” he said. “He hasn’t got another mile left in him.”
I swung off the saddle, staggering a bit when my rubbery legs almost buckled underneath me. “You should give him some credit, tinker. He’s come all the way from Imre today.”
The tinker chuckled. “You’re not a bad liar, boy, but you need to know when to stop. If the bait’s too big, the fish won’t bite.”
I didn’t need to pretend to be horrified. “I’m sorry I didn’t properly introduce myself.” I held out my hand. “My name is Kvothe, I am a trouper and one of the Edema Ruh. Never on my most desperate day would I lie to a tinker.”
The tinker shook my hand. “Well,” he said, slightly taken aback, “my sincere apologies to you and your family. It’s rare to see one of your folk alone on the road.” He looked the horse over critically. “All the way from Imre, you say?” I nodded. “That’s what, almost sixty miles? Hell of a ride….” He looked at me with a knowing smile. “How are your legs?”
I grinned back at him. “Let’s just say I’ll be glad to be on my own feet again. He’s good for another ten miles I’d guess. But I can’t say the same for myself.”
The tinker looked over the horse again and gave a gusty sigh. “Well, as I said, you’ve got me over a bit of a barrel. How much do you want for him?”
“Well,” I said. “Keth-Selhan here’s a full-blood Khershaen, and his color is lovely, you have to admit. Not a patch on him but isn’t black. Not a white whisker—”
The tinker burst out laughing. “I take it back,” he said. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” I said a little stiffly.
The tinker gave me an odd look. “Not a white whisker,
no.” He nodded past me toward Selhan’s hindquarters. “But if he’s all black then I’m Oren Velciter.”
I turned to look and saw that Keth-Selhan’s left hind foot had a distinct white sock that went halfway up to his hock. Stupefied, I walked back and bent down to look. It wasn’t a clean white, more of a washed-out grey. I could smell the faint odor of the stream we had splashed through on the last leg of our journey: solvents.
“That shim bastard,” I said incredulously. “He sold me a dyed horse.”
“Didn’t the name tip you off?” the tinker chuckled. “Keth-Selhan? Lord boy, someone’s been thumbing their nose at you.”
“His name means twilight,” I said.
The tinker shook his head, “Your Siaru is rusty. Ket-Selem would be ‘first-night.’ Selhan means ‘sock.’ His name is one sock.”
I thought back to the horse-trader’s reaction when I’d picked the name. No wonder the fellow had seemed so disconcerted. No wonder he had dropped the price so quickly and easily. He thought I knew his little secret.
The tinker laughed at my expression and clapped me on the back. “Don’t sweat it, lad. It happens to the best of us from time to time,” he turned away and began to rummage through his bundles. “I think I have something you’ll like. Let me offer you a trade.” He turned around and held out something black and gnarled like a piece of driftwood.
I took it from him and looked it over. It was heavy and cold to the touch. “A lump of slag iron?” I asked. “Are you out of magic beans?”
The tinker held out a pin in his other hand. He held it about a handspan away then let go. Instead of falling, the pin snapped to the side and clung to the smooth blob of black iron.
I drew in an appreciative breath. “A loden-stone? I’ve never seen one of these.”
“Technically, it’s a Trebon-stone,” he said matter-of-factly. “As it’s never been near Loden, but you’re near enough. There’s all manner of people who would be interested in that beauty down Imre-way….”
I nodded absently as I turned it over in my hands. I’d always wanted to see a drawstone, ever since I was a child. I pulled the pin away, feeling the strange attraction it had to smooth black metal. I marveled. A piece of star-iron in my hand. “How much do you figure it’s worth?” I asked.
Kingkiller Chronicle [01] The Name of the Wind Page 59