The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  It was Ambrose. I didn’t know how he’d done it, but I knew it was him. Bribes perhaps, or a rumor that any inn employing a certain red-haired musician would be losing the business of a large number of wealthy noble customers.

  So I began working my way through the rest of the inns this side of the river. I’d already been turned away by the upper-class ones, but there were many respectable places left. Over the next several hours, I tried the Shepherd’s Rest, the Boar’s Head, Dog in the Wall, Staves Inn, and The Tabard. Ambrose had been very thorough; none of them were interested.

  It was early evening by the time I came to Anker’s, and by that time the only thing keeping me going was pure black temper. I was determined to try every single inn on this side of the river before I resorted to paying for a bunk and a meal chit again.

  When I came to the inn, Anker himself was up on a ladder nailing a long piece of cedar siding back into place. He looked down at me as I came to stand near the foot of the ladder.

  “So you’re the one,” he said.

  “Beg your pardon?” I said, puzzled.

  “Fellow stopped by and told me that hiring a young red-haired fellow would make for a great pile of unpleasantness.” He nodded at my lute. “You must be him.”

  “Well then,” I said, adjusting the shoulder strap of my lute case. “I won’t waste your time.”

  “You aren’t wasting it yet,” he said as he climbed down the ladder, wiping his hands on his shirt. “The place could use some music.”

  I gave him a searching look. “Aren’t you worried?”

  He spat. “Damn little gadflies think they can buy the sun out the sky, don’t they?”

  “This particular one could probably afford it,” I said grimly. “And the moon too, if he wanted the matched set to use as bookends.”

  He snorted derisively. “He can’t do a damn thing to me. I don’t cater to his sort of folk, so he can’t scare off my business. And I own this place my own self, so he can’t buy it and fire me off like he did to poor old Caverin… .”

  “Someone bought the Horse and Four?”

  Anker gave me a speculative look. “Ye din’t know?”

  I shook my head slowly, taking a moment to digest this piece of information. Ambrose had bought the Horse and Four just to spite me out of a job. No, he was too clever for that. He had probably loaned the money to a friend and passed it off as a business venture.

  How much had it cost? A thousand talents? Five thousand? I couldn’t even guess how much an inn like the Horse and Four was worth. What was even more disturbing was how quickly he had managed it.

  It put things in sharp perspective for me. I’d known Ambrose was rich, but honestly, everyone was rich compared to me. I’d never bothered thinking about how wealthy he was, or how he could use it against me. I was getting a lesson in the sort of influence a wealthy baron’s firstborn son could bring to bear.

  For the first time I was glad for the University’s strict code of conduct. If Ambrose was willing to go to these lengths, I could only imagine what drastic measures he would take if he didn’t need to maintain a semblance of civility.

  I was jolted out of my reverie by a young woman leaning out the front door of the inn, “Damn you, Anker!” she shouted. “I’m not going to pull and carry while you stand out here scratching your ass! Get in here!”

  Anker muttered something under his breath as he picked up the ladder and he stowed it around the corner in the alleyway. “What’d you do to this fellow anyway? Tup his mum?”

  “Wrote a song about him, actually.”

  As Anker opened the door of the inn, a gentle welter of conversation poured out onto the street. “I’d be curious to hear a song like that.” He grinned. “Why don’t you come give it a play?”

  “If you’re sure,” I said, not quite believing my luck. “There’s bound to be trouble.”

  “Trouble,” he chuckled. “What does a boy like you know about trouble? I was in trouble afore you were born. I been in trouble you don’t even got words for.” He turned to face me, still standing in the doorway. “It’s been a while since we’ve had music in here regular. Can’t say as I like to go without. A proper tavern has music.”

  I smiled. “I have to agree with you there.”

  “Truth is, I’d have you in just to twist that rich tit’s nose,” Anker said. “But if you can play worth half a damn… .” He pushed the door open farther, making it an invitation. I could smell sawdust and honest sweat and baking bread.

  By the end of the night it was all arranged. In exchange for playing four nights a span, I earned a tiny room on the third floor and the assurance that if I was around at mealtimes I would be welcome to a bit of whatever was cooking in the pot. Admittedly, Anker was getting the services of a talented musician for a bargain price, but it was a deal I was happy to make. Anything was better than going back to Mews and the silent scorn of my bunkmates.

  The ceiling of my tiny room slanted downward in two corners, making it seem even smaller than it really was. It would have been cluttered if there had been more than the few sticks of furniture: a small desk with a wooden chair and a single shelf above it. The bed was flat and narrow as any bunk in the Mews.

  I set my slightly battered copy of Rhetoric and Logic on the shelf over the desk. My lute case leaned comfortably in the corner. Through the window I could see the lights of the University unblinking in the cool autumn air. I was home.

  Looking back, I count myself lucky that I ended up in Anker’s. True, the crowds were not as wealthy as those at the Horse and Four, but they appreciated me in a way the nobles never had.

  And while my suite of rooms at the Horse and Four had been luxurious, my tiny room at Anker’s was comfortable. Think in terms of shoes. You don’t want the biggest you can find. You want the pair that fits. In time, that tiny room at Anker’s came to be more of a home to me than anywhere else in the world.

  But at that particular moment, I was furious at what Ambrose had cost me. So when I sat down to write my public letter of apology, it dripped with venomous sincerity. It was a work of art. I beat my breast with remorse. I wailed and gnashed my teeth over the fact that I had maligned a fellow student. I also included a full copy of the lyrics, along with two new verses and full musical notation. I then apologized in excruciating detail about every vulgar, petty innuendo included in the song.

  I then spent four precious jots of my own money on paper and ink and called in the favor Jaxim owed me for trading him my late admissions slot. He had a friend that worked in a print shop, and with his help we printed over a hundred copies of the letter.

  Then, the night before fall term began, Wil, Sim, and I posted them on every flat surface we could find on both sides of the river. We used a lovely alchemical adhesive Simmon had cooked up for the occasion. The stuff went on like paint, then dried clear as glass and hard as steel. If anyone wanted to remove the posts, they’d need a hammer and chisel.

  In hindsight, it was as foolish as taunting an angry bull. And, if I had to guess, I’d say this particular piece of insolence was the main reason Ambrose eventually tried to kill me.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Leaves

  Under pointed advice from several sources, I limited myself to three fields of study in the upcoming term. I continued Advanced Sympathy with Elxa Dal, held a shift in the Medica, and continued my apprenticeship under Manet. My time was pleasantly full, but not overburdened as it had been last term.

  I studied my artificing more doggedly than anything else. Since my search for a patron had come to a dead end, I knew my best chance for self-sufficiency lay in becoming an artificer. Currently I worked for Kilvin and was given relatively menial jobs at relatively low pay. Once I finished my apprenticeship, that would improve. Better still, I would be able to pursue my own projects then sell them on commission for a profit.

  If. If I was able to keep ahead of my debt to Devi. If I could somehow continue to muster enough money for tuition. If I co
uld finish my apprenticeship under Manet without getting myself killed or crippled by the dangerous work that was done in the Fishery every day… .

  Forty or fifty of us gathered in the workshop, waiting to see the new arrival. Some sat on the stone worktables to get a good view, while a dozen or so students gathered on the iron catwalks in the rafters among Kilvin’s hanging lamps.

  I saw Manet up there. He was hard to miss: three times older than any of the other students with his wild hair and grizzled beard. I headed up the stairs and made my way to his side. He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought this was just for the greenwood who haven’t seen this stuff before.”

  “I thought I’d play the dutiful mentor today,” he shrugged. “Besides, this particular display is worth watching, if only for the expressions on everyone’s faces.”

  Sitting atop one of the shop’s heavy worktables was a massive cylindrical container about four feet high and two feet across. The edges were sealed without any bulky welds, and the metal had a dull, burnished look that made me guess it was more than simple steel.

  I let my gaze wander the room and was surprised to see Fela standing in the crowd, waiting for the demonstration to begin along with the rest of the students.

  “I didn’t know Fela worked here,” I said to Manet.

  Manet nodded. “Oh sure. What, two terms now?”

  “I’m surprised I haven’t noticed,” I mused as I watched her talking to one of the other women in the crowd.

  “So am I,” Manet said with a low, knowing chuckle. “But she’s not here very often. She sculpts and works with cut tile and glass. She’s here for the equipment, not the sygaldry.”

  The belling tower struck the hour outside, and Kilvin looked around, marking the faces of everyone there. I didn’t doubt for a moment that he took note of exactly who was missing. “For several span we will have this in the shop,” he said simply, gesturing to the metal container that stood nearby. “Nearly ten gallons of a volatile transporting agent: Regim Ignaul Neratum.”

  “He’s the only one that calls it that,” Manet said softly. “It’s bone-tar.”

  “Bone-tar?”

  He nodded. “It’s caustic. Spill it on your arm and it’ll eat through to the bone in about ten seconds.”

  While everyone watched, Kilvin donned a thick leather glove and decanted about an ounce of dark liquid from the metal canister into a glass vial. “It is important to chill the vial prior to decanting, as the agent boils at room temperature.”

  He quickly sealed off the vial and held it up for everyone to see. “The pressure cap is also essential, as the liquid is extremely volatile. As a gas it exhibits surface tension and viscosity, like mercury. It is heavier than air and does not dissipate. It coheres to itself.”

  With no further preamble Kilvin tossed the vial into a nearby firewell, and there was the sharp, clear sound of breaking glass. From this height, I could see the firewell must have been cleaned out specially for this occasion. It was empty, just a shallow, circular pit of bare stone.

  “It’s a shame he’s not more of a showman,” Manet said softly to me. “Elxa Dal could do this with a little more flair.”

  The room was filled with a sharp crackling and hissing as the dark liquid warmed itself against the stone of the firewell and began to boil. From my high vantage, I could see a thick, oily smoke slowly filling the bottom of the well. It didn’t behave like fog or smoke at all. Its edges didn’t diffuse. It pooled, and hung together like a tiny, dark cloud.

  Manet tapped me on the shoulder, and I looked at him just in time to avoid being blinded by the initial burst of flame as the cloud caught fire. There were dismayed noises from all around and I guessed most of the others had been caught unaware. Manet grinned at me and gave a knowing wink.

  “Thanks,” I said and turned back to watch. Jagged flames danced across the surface of the fog, colored a bright sodium-red. The additional heat made the dark fog boil faster, and it swelled until the flames were licking toward the top of the waist-high lip of the firewell. Even from where I stood on the catwalk I could feel a gentle heat on my face.

  “What the hell do you call that?” I asked him quietly. “Fire-fog?”

  “We could,” he responded. “Kilvin would probably call it an atmospherically activated incendiary action.”

  The fire flickered and died all at once, leaving the room filled with the acrid smell of hot stone.

  “In addition to being highly corrosive,” Kilvin said, “in its gaseous state the reagent is flammable. Once it warms sufficienctly, it will burn on contact with air. The heat that this produces can cause a cascading exothermic reaction.”

  “Cascading huge Goddamn fire,” Manet said.

  “You’re better than a chorus,” I said softly, trying to keep a straight face.

  Kilvin gestured. “This container is designed to keep the agent cold and under pressure. Be mindful while it remains in the workshop. Avoid excessive heat in its immediate vicinity.” With that, Kilvin turned and headed back into his office.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  Manet shrugged. “What else needs to be said? Kilvin doesn’t let anyone work here unless they’re careful, and now everyone knows what to be careful of.”

  “Why is it even here?” I asked. “What’s it good for?”

  “Scares the hell out of the first-termers.” He grinned.

  “Anything more practical than that?”

  “Fear is plenty practical,” he said. “But you can use it to make a different type of emitter for sympathy lamps. You get a bluish light instead of the ordinary red. A little easier on the eyes. Fetch outrageous prices.”

  I looked down into the workshop, but couldn’t see Fela anywhere in the milling bodies. I turned back to Manet. “Want to keep playing dutiful mentor and show me how?”

  He absently ran his hands through his wild hair and shrugged. “Sure.”

  I was playing at Anker’s later that night when I caught the eye of a beautiful girl sitting at one of the crowded tables in back. She looked remarkably like Denna, but I knew that to be nothing more than my own fancy. I hoped to see her enough that I had been catching glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye for days.

  My second glance told me the truth… .

  It was Denna, singing along with half the folk in Anker’s to “Drover’s Daughters.” She saw I was looking in her direction and waved.

  Her appearance caught me so much by surprise that I completely forgot what my fingers were doing and my song fell to pieces. Everyone laughed, and I took a grand bow to hide my embarrassment. They cheered and booed me in equal amounts for a minute or so, enjoying my failure more than they had the song itself. Such is human nature.

  I waited for their attention to drift away from me, then made my way casually to where Denna was sitting.

  She stood to greet me. “I’d heard you were playing on this side of the river,” she said. “But I can’t imagine how you keep the job if you fall apart every time a girl gives you a wink.”

  I felt myself flush a little. “It doesn’t happen that often.”

  “The winking or the falling apart?”

  Unable to think of a response, I felt myself flush redder, and she laughed. “How long will you be playing tonight?” She asked.

  “Not much longer,” I lied. I owed Anker at least another hour.

  She brightened. “Good. Come away with me afterward, I need someone to walk with.”

  Hardly believing my good luck, I made a bow to her. “At your service certainly. Let me go and finish up.” I made my way to the bar where Anker and two of his serving girls were busy pulling drinks.

  Unable to catch his eye, I grabbed hold of his apron as he hurried past me. He jerked to a stop and barely avoided spilling a tray of drinks onto a table of customers. “God’s teeth, boy. What’s the matter w’ye?”

  “Anker, I’ve got to go. I can’t stay till clo
sing tonight.”

  His face soured. “Crowds like this don’t come for the askin’. They ain’t goin’ to stay without a little song or summat to entertain ’em.”

  “I’ll do one more song. A long one. But I’ve got to go after that.” I gave him a desperate look. “I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

  He looked at me more closely. “Are ye in trouble?” I shook my head. “It’s a girl then.” He turned his head at the sound of voices calling for more drinks, then waved me away, briskly. “Fine, go. But mind you, make it a good, long song. And you’ll owe me.”

  I moved to the front of the room and clapped my hands for the room’s attention. Once the room was moderately quiet I began to play. By the time I struck the third chord everyone knew what it was: “Tinker Tanner.” The oldest song in the world. I took my hands from the lute and began to clap. Soon everyone was pounding out the rhythm in unison, feet against the floor, mugs on tabletops.

  The sound was almost overwhelming, but it faded appropriately when I sang the first verse. Then I led the room in the chorus with everyone singing along, some with their own words, some in their own keys. I moved to a nearby table as I finished my second verse and led the room in the chorus again.

  Then I gestured expectantly toward the table to sing a verse of their own. It took a couple of seconds for them to realize what I wanted, but the expectation of the whole room was enough to encourage one of the more tipsy students to shout out a verse of his own. It gained him thunderous applause and cheers. Then, as everyone sang the chorus again, I moved to another table and did the same thing.

  Before too long folk were taking initiative to sing out their own verses when the chorus was over. I made my way to where Denna waited by the outer door, and together we slipped out into the early evening twilight.

  “That was cleverly done,” she said as we began to stroll away from the tavern. “How long to you think they’ll keep it up?”