The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Kvothe gave a sigh that hovered between annoyance and resignation. “I will admit,” he said, “that I am not sure how to approach the next part of the story.”

  Afraid to let the silence stretch for too long, Bast chirruped, “Why don’t you simply talk about what is most important first? Then you can go back and touch on other things, if you need to.”

  “As if it were as simple as that,” Kvothe said sharply. “What is most important? My magic or my music? My triumphs or my follies?”

  Bast flushed a deep crimson and bit his lips.

  Kvothe let out his breath in a sudden rush. “I’m sorry, Bast. It’s good advice, as all of your seemingly inane advice turns out to be.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “But before we continue, the real world has certain calls on me that I can no longer ignore. If you will please excuse me for a moment?”

  Chronicler and Bast stood as well, stretching their legs and attending to calls of their own. Bast lit the lamps. Kvothe produced more cheese and bread and hard spiced sausage. They ate, and some small effort was made at polite conversation, but their minds were elsewhere, dwelling on the story.

  Bast ate half of everything. Chronicler accounted for a sizable, though more modest amount. Kvothe had a bite or two before he spoke. “Onward then. Music and magic. Triumph and folly. Think now. What does our story need? What vital element is it lacking?”

  “Women, Reshi,” Bast said immediately. “There’s a real paucity of women.”

  Kvothe smiled. “Not women, Bast. A woman. The woman.” Kvothe looked at Chronicler. “You have heard bits and pieces, I don’t doubt. I will tell you the truth of her. Though I fear I may not be equal to the challenge.”

  Chronicler picked up his pen, but before he could dip it, Kvothe held up a hand. “Let me say one thing before I start. I’ve told stories in the past, painted pictures with words, told hard lies and harder truths. Once, I sang colors to a blind man. Seven hours I played, but at the end he said he saw them, green and red and gold. That, I think, was easier than this. Trying to make you understand her with nothing more than words. You have never seen her, never heard her voice. You cannot know.”

  Kvothe motioned for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “But still, I will try. She is in the wings now, waiting for her cue. Let us set the stage for her arrival… .”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  The Nature of Wild Things

  As with all truly wild things, care is necessary in approaching them. Stealth is useless. Wild things recognize stealth for what it is, a lie and a trap. While wild things might play games of stealth, and in doing so may even occasionally fall prey to stealth, they are never truly caught by it.

  So. With slow care rather than stealth we must approach the subject of a certain woman. Her wildness is of such degree, I fear approaching her too quickly even in a story. Should I move recklessly, I might startle even the idea of her into sudden flight.

  So in the name of slow care, I will speak of how I met her. And to do that, I must speak of the events that brought me, quite unwillingly, across the river and into Imre.

  I finished my first term with three silver talents and a single jot. Not long ago, it would have seemed like all the money in the world to me. Now I simply hoped it would be enough for one more term’s tuition and a bunk in the Mews.

  The last span of every term at the University was reserved for admissions exams. Classes were canceled and the masters spent several hours of each day conducting examinations. Your next term’s tuition was based on your performance. A lottery determined what day and hour you would go through admissions.

  A great deal hung on the brief interview. Missing a few questions could easily double your tuition. Because of this, slots later in the span were highly prized, as they gave students more time to study and prepare. There was a vigorous trade in appointment times after the lottery was held. Money and favors were bartered as everyone vied for a time that suited them.

  I was lucky enough to draw a midmorning hour on Cendling, the last day of admissions. If I’d wanted to, I could have sold my slot, but I preferred to take the extra time to study. I knew my performance would have to be brilliant, as several of the masters were now less than impressed by me. My previous trick of spying was out of the question. I now knew it was grounds for expulsion, and I couldn’t risk that.

  Despite the long days I spent studying with Wil and Sim, admissions were difficult. I breezed through many of the questions, but Hemme was openly hostile, asking questions with more than one answer so that nothing I said could be correct. Brandeur was difficult as well, clearly helping Hemme carry his grudge. Lorren was unreadable, but I sensed his disapproval rather than seeing it on his face.

  Afterward, I fidgeted while the masters discussed my tuition. Voices were calm and muted at first, then became somewhat louder. Eventually, Kilvin stood and shook a finger at Hemme while shouting and pounding the table with his other hand. Hemme maintained more composure than I would have if I had been faced with twenty stone of furious, bellowing artificer.

  After the Chancellor managed to regain control of things, I was called forward and given my receipt. “E’lir Kvothe. Fall term. Tuition: 3 Tln. 9 Jt. 7 Fe.”

  Eight jots more than I had. As I walked out of the Masters’ Hall, I ignored the sinking feeling in my gut and tried to think of a way I could lay hands on more money by tomorrow noon.

  I made a brief stop at the two Cealdish moneychangers on this side of the river. As I suspected, they wouldn’t lend me a thin shim. While I wasn’t surprised, the experience was sobering, reminding me again of how different I was from the other students. They had families paying their tuition, granting them allowances to cover their living expenses. They had reputable names they could borrow against in a pinch. They had possessions they could pawn or sell. If worse came to worst, they had homes to return to.

  I had none of these things. If I couldn’t come up with eight more jots for tuition, I had nowhere in the world I could go.

  Borrowing from a friend seemed like the simplest option, but I valued my handful of friends too much to risk losing them over money. As my father used to say: “There are two sure ways to lose a friend, one is to borrow, the other to lend.”

  Besides, I did my best to keep my desperate poverty to myself. Pride is a foolish thing, but it is a powerful force. I wouldn’t ask them for money except as my very last resort.

  I briefly considered trying to cutpurse the money, but I knew it was a bad idea. If I were caught with my hand in someone’s pocket, I would get more than a cuff round the head. At best I’d be jailed and forced to stand against the iron law. At worst, I’d end up on the horns and expelled for Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum. I couldn’t risk it.

  I needed a gaelet, one of the dangerous men who lend money to desperate people. You might have heard them referred to romantically as copper hawks, but more often they’re referred to as shim-galls, or lets. Regardless of the name, they exist everywhere. The hard part is finding them. They tend to be rather secretive as their business is semilegal at best.

  But living in Tarbean had taught me a thing or two. I spent a couple of hours visiting the seedier taverns around the University, making casual conversations, asking casual questions. Then I visited a pawnshop called the Bent Penny, and asked a few more pointed questions. Finally I learned where I needed to go. Over the river, to Imre.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Negotiations

  Imre lay a little over two miles from the University, on the eastern side of the Omethi River. Since it was a mere two days in a fast coach from Tarbean, a great many wealthy nobles, politicians, and courtiers made their homes there. It was conveniently close to the governing hub of the Commonwealth, while being a comfortable distance from the smell of rotten fish, hot tar, and the vomit of drunken sailors.

  Imre was a haven for the arts. There were musicians, dramatists, sculptors, dancers, and the practitioners of a hundred other smaller arts, even the lowest
art of all: poetry. Performers came because Imre offered what every artist needs most—an appreciative, affluent audience.

  Imre also benefited by its proximity to the University. Access to plumbing and sympathy lamps improved the quality of the town’s air. Quality glass was easy to come by, so windows and mirrors were commonplace. Eyeglasses and other ground lenses, while expensive, were readily available.

  Despite this, there was little love lost between the two towns. Most of Imre’s citizens did not like the thought of a thousand minds tinkering with dark forces better left alone. Listening to the average citizen speak, it was easy to forget that this part of the world had not seen an arcanist burned for nearly three hundred years.

  To be fair, it should be mentioned that the University had a vague contempt for Imre’s populace, too, viewing them as self-indulgent and decadent. The arts that were viewed so highly in Imre were seen as frivolous by those at the University. Often, students who quit the University were said to have “gone over the river,” the implication being that minds that were too weak for academia had to settle for tinkering with the arts.

  And both sides of the river were, ultimately, hypocrites. University students complained about frivolous musicians and flufmead actors, then lined up to pay for performances. Imre’s population griped about unnatural arts being practiced two miles away, but when an aqueduct collapsed or someone fell suddenly sick, they were quick to call on engineers and doctors trained at the University.

  All in all, it was a long-standing and uneasy truce where both sides complained while maintaining a grudging tolerance. Those people did have their uses after all, you just wouldn’t want your daughter marrying one… .

  Since Imre was such a haven for music and drama, you might think I spent a great deal of time there, but nothing could be further from the truth. I had been there only once. Wilem and Simmon had taken me to an inn where a trio of skilled musicians played: lute, flute, and drum. I bought a short beer for ha’penny and relaxed, fully intending to enjoy an evening with my friends… .

  But I couldn’t. Bare minutes after the music started I practically fled the room. I doubt very much you’ll be able to understand why, but I suppose I have to explain if things are to make any sense at all.

  I couldn’t stand being near music and not be a part of it. It was like watching the woman you love bedding down with another man. No. Not really. It was like… .

  It was like the sweet-eaters I’d seen in Tarbean. Denner resin was highly illegal, of course, but that didn’t matter in most parts of the city. The resin was sold wrapped in waxy paper, like a sucking candy or a toffee. Chewing it filled you with euphoria. Bliss. Contentment.

  But after a few hours you were shaking, filled with a desperate hunger for more, and that hunger grew worse the longer you used it. Once in Tarbean I saw a young girl of no more than sixteen with the telltale hollow eyes and unnaturally white teeth of the hopelessly addicted. She was begging a sailor for a sweet, which he held tauntingly out of reach. He told her it was hers if she stripped naked and danced for him, right there in the street.

  She did, not caring who might be watching, not caring that it was nearly Midwinter and she stood in four inches of snow. She pulled off her clothes and danced desperately, her thin limbs pale and shaking, her movements pathetic and jerky. Then, when the sailor laughed and shook his head, she fell to her knees in the snow, begging and weeping, clutching frantically at his legs, promising him anything, anything… .

  That is how I felt, watching the musicians play. I couldn’t stand it. The everyday lack of my music was like a toothache I had grown used to. I could live with it. But having what I wanted dangled in front of me was more than I could bear.

  So I avoided Imre until the problem of my second term’s tuition forced me back across the river. I had learned that Devi was the person anyone could ask for a loan, no matter how desperate the circumstances.

  So I crossed the Omethi by Stonebridge and made my way to Imre. Devi’s place of business was through an alley and up a narrow balcony staircase behind a butcher’s shop. This part of Imre reminded me of Waterside in Tarbean. The cloying smell of rancid fat from the butcher shop below made me thankful for the cool autumn breeze.

  I hesitated in front of the heavy door, looking down into the alley. I was about to become involved in dangerous business. A Cealdish moneylender could take you to court if you didn’t repay your loan. A gaelet would simply have you beaten, or robbed, or both. This was not smart. I was playing with fire.

  But I didn’t have any better options. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and knocked on the door.

  I wiped my sweaty palms against my cloak, hoping to keep them reasonably dry for when I shook Devi’s hand. I had learned in Tarbean that the best way to deal with this type of man was to act with confidence and self-assurance. They were in the business of taking advantage of other people’s weakness.

  I heard the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back, then the door opened, revealing a young girl with straight, strawberry-blond hair framing a pixielike face. She smiled at me, cute as a new button. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Devi,” I said.

  “You’ve found her,” she said easily. “Come on in.”

  I stepped inside and she closed the door behind her, sliding the iron bolt home. The room was windowless, but well-lit and filled with the scent of lavender, a welcome change from the smell of the alley. There were hangings on the walls, but the only real furniture was a small desk, a bookshelf, and a large canopy bed with the curtains drawn around it.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing to the desk. “Have a seat.”

  She settled herself behind the desk, folding her hands across the top. The way she carried herself made me rethink her age. I’d misjudged her because of her small size, but even so, she couldn’t be much older than her early twenties, hardly what I had expected to find.

  Devi blinked prettily at me.

  “I need a loan,” I said.

  “How about your name, first?” She smiled. “You already know mine.”

  “Kvothe.”

  “Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve heard a thing or two about you.” She looked me up and down. “I thought you’d be taller.”

  I could say the same. I was caught off balance by the situation. I’d been ready for a muscular thug and negotiations filled with thinly veiled threats and bravado. I didn’t know what to make of this smiling waif. “What have you heard?” I asked to fill the silence. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “Good and bad.” She grinned. “But nothing boring.”

  I folded my hands to keep from fidgeting. “So how exactly do we do this?”

  “Not much for banter, are you?” she said, giving a brief, disappointed sigh. “Fair enough, straight to business. How much do you need?”

  “Only about a talent,” I said. “Eight jots, actually.”

  She shook her head seriously, her strawberry-blond hair swinging back and forth. “I can’t do that, I’m afraid. It’s not worth my while to make ha’penny loans.”

  I frowned. “How much is worth your while?”

  “Four talents,” she said. “That’s the minimum.”

  “And the interest?”

  “Fifty percent every two months. So if you’re looking to borrow as little as possible, it’ll be two talents at the end of the term. You can pay off the whole debt for six if you like. But until I get all the principle back, it’s two talents every term.”

  I nodded, not terribly surprised. It was roughly four times what even the most avaricious moneylender would charge. “But I’m paying interest on money I don’t really need.”

  “No,” she said, meeting my eyes seriously. “You’re paying interest on money you borrowed. That’s the deal.”

  “How about two talents?” I said. “Then at the end—”

  Devi waved her hands, cutting me off. “We aren’t bargaining here. I’m just informing you as to the conditions of the
loan.” She smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear from the beginning.”

  I looked at her, the set of her shoulders, the way she met my eyes. “Okay,” I said, resigned. “Where do I sign?”

  She gave me a slightly puzzled look, her forehead furrowing slightly. “No need to sign anything.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a small brown bottle with a glass stopper. She laid a long pin next to it on the desk. “Just a little blood.”

  I sat frozen in my chair, my arms at my sides. “Don’t worry,” she reassured me. “The pin’s clean. I only need about three good drops.”

  I finally found my voice. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Devi cocked her head to one side, a tiny smile curling one edge of her mouth. “You didn’t know?” she said, surprised. “It’s rare that anyone comes here without knowing the whole story.”

  “I can’t believe anyone actually …” I stalled, at a loss for words.

  “Not everyone does,” she said. “I usually do business with students and ex-students. Folk on this side of the river would think I was some sort of witch or a demon or some nonsense like that. Members of the Arcanum know exactly why I want blood, and what I can do with it.”

  “You’re a member of the Arcanum too?”

  “Former,” she said, her smile fading a little. “I made Re’lar before I left. I know enough so that with a little blood, you can never hide from me. I can dowse you out anywhere.”

  “Among other things,” I said, incredulously, thinking of the wax mommet I’d made of Hemme at the beginning of the term. That was just hair. Blood was much more effective at creating a link. “You could kill me.”

  She gave me a frank look. “You’re awfully thick to be the Arcanum’s bright new star. Think it through. Would I stay in business if I made a habit of malfeasance?”