The Name of the Wind

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “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.

  The tinker sucked his teeth a little. “Well I’m figuring right here and now it’s worth just about one full-blooded Khershaen pack mule….”

  I turned it over in my hand, pulled the pin away and let it snap back again. “Trouble is tinker, I put myself into debt with a dangerous woman in order to buy this horse. If I don’t sell it well, I’m going to be in a desperate way.”

  He nodded. “Piece of sky-iron of that size, if you take less than eighteen talents you’re cutting a hole in your own purse. Jewelers will buy it, or rich folk who want it for the novelty.” He tapped the side of his nose. “But if you head to the University you’ll do better. Artificers have a great love for loden-stone. Alchemists too. If you find one in the right mood you’ll get more.”

  It was a good deal. Manet had taught me loden-stone was quite valuable and difficult to come by. Not only for its galvanic properties, but because pieces of sky-iron like this often had rare metals mingled with the iron. I held out my hand. “I’m willing to make it a deal.”

  We shook hands solemnly, then just as the tinker began to reach for the reins, I asked, “And what will you give me for his tack and saddle?”

  I was a little worried that the tinker might take offense at my wheedling, but instead he smiled a sly smile. “That’s a clever lad,” he chuckled. “I like a fellow who’s not afraid to push for a little extra. What would you like then? I’ve got a lovely woolen blanket here. Or some nice rope?” He pulled a coil of it out of the donkey’s packs. “Always good to have a piece of rope with you. Oh, how about this?” He turned around with a bottle in his hands and winked at me. “I’ve got some lovely Avennish fruit wine. I’ll give you all three for your horse’s gear.”

  “I could use a spare blanket,” I admitted. Then a thought occurred to me. “Do you have any clothes near my size? I seem to be going through a lot of shirts lately.”

  The old man paused, holding the rope and bottle of wine, then shrugged and began to dig around in his packs.

  “Have you heard anything about a wedding around these parts?” I asked. Tinkers always have their ears to the ground.

  “The Mauthen wedding?” He tied off one pack and began to dig through another. “I hate to tell you but you missed it. Happened yesterday.”

  My stomach clenched at his casual tone. If there had been a massacre the tinker would certainly have heard. I suddenly had the horrible thought that I’d put myself in debt and run halfway to the mountains on a goose chase. “Were you there? Did anything odd happen?”

  “Here we are!” The tinker turned around holding up a shirt of plain grey homespun. “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid, but it’s new. Well, newish.” He held it up to my chest to judge the fit.

  “The wedding?” I prompted.

  “What? Oh no. I wasn’t there. Bit of an event though, from what I understand. Mauthen’s only daughter and they were sending her off proper. Been planning it for months.”

  “So you didn’t hear of anything odd happening?” I asked, a sinking feeling in my gut.

  He shrugged helplessly. “Like I said, I wasn’t there. I’ve been up around the ironworks the last couple days,” he nodded to the west. “Trading with panners and folk up in the high rock.” He tapped the side of his head as if he’d just remembered something. “That reminds me, I found a brassie up in the hills.” He rummaged in his packs again and brought out a flat, thick bottle. “If you don’t care for wine, maybe something a little stronger…?”

  I started to shake my head, then realized that some homemade brand would be useful cleaning my side tonight. “I might be….” I said. “Depending on the offer on the table.”

  “Honest young gent like yourself,” he said grandly. “I’ll give you blanket, both bottles, and the coil of rope.”

  “You’re generous, tinker. But I’d rather have the shirt than the rope and the fruit wine. They’d just be dead weight in my bag and I’ve got a lot of walking ahead of me.”

  His expression soured a little, but he shrugged. “Your call, of course. Blanket, shirt, brand, and three jots.”

  We shook hands, and I took time to help him load Keth-Selhan because I had the vague feeling that I’d insulted him by turning down his previous offer. Ten minutes later he was heading east, and I made my way north over the green hills into Trebon.

  I was glad to walk the last half-mile under my own power as it helped me work the stiffness from my legs and back. As I crested the hill, I saw Trebon sprawling out below, tucked into a low bowl made by the hills. It wasn’t a large town by any means, perhaps a hundred buildings sprawling around a dozen winding, packed-dirt streets.

  In the early days with the troupe, I’d learned how to size up a town. It’s a lot like reading your audience when you’re playing in a tavern. The stakes are higher of course, play the wrong song in a tavern and people might hiss you, but misjudge an entire town and things can get uglier than that.

  So I sized up Trebon. It was off the beaten path, halfway between a mining town and a farming town. They weren’t likely to be instantly suspicious of strangers, but it was small enough that everyone knew by looking at you that you weren’t one of the locals.

  I was surprised to see people setting up straw-stuffed shamble-men outside their homes. That meant that despite the proximity to Imre
and the University, Trebon was truly a backwater community. Every town has a harvest festival of some sort, but these days most folk settle for having a bonfire and getting drunk. The fact that they were following old folk traditions meant people in Trebon were more superstitious than I would usually expect.

  Despite that, I liked seeing the shamble-men. I have a fondness for the traditional harvest festivals, superstitions and all. They’re a type of theater, really.

  The Tehlin church was the nicest building in town, three stories tall and made of quarried stone. Nothing odd about that, but bolted above the front doors, high above the ground, was one of the biggest iron wheels I’d ever seen. It was real iron too, not just painted wood. It was ten feet tall and must have weighed a solid ton. Ordinarily such a display would have made me nervous, but since Trebon was a mining town I guessed it showed civic pride more than fanatic piety.

  Most of the other buildings in town were low to the ground, built of rough timber with cedar-shingle roofs. The inn was respectable though, two stories tall, with plaster walls and red clay tiles on the roof. There was bound to be someone in there who would know more about the wedding.

  There was a bare handful of people inside, not surprising as harvest was in full swing and there were still five or six hours of good daylight left. I put on my best anxious expression as I made my way over to the bar where the innkeeper stood.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I hate to trouble you, but I’m looking for someone.”

  The innkeeper was a dark-haired man with a perpetual scowl. “Who’s that then?”

  “My cousin was here for a wedding,” I said, “and I heard there was some trouble.”

  At the word wedding the innkeeper’s scowl turned stony. I could feel the two men farther down the bar not looking at me, pointedly not looking anywhere in my direction. It was true then. Something terrible had happened.

  I saw the innkeeper reach out and press his fingers onto the bar. It took me a second to realize he was touching the iron head of a nail driven into the wood. “Bad business,” he said shortly. “Nothing I care to say about it.”

  “Please,” I said, letting worry bleed into my tone. “I was visiting family in Temfalls when the rumor came down that something had happened. They’re all busy pulling in the last of the wheat, so I promised I’d come up and see what the trouble was.”

  The innkeeper looked me up and down. A gawker he could turn away, but he couldn’t deny me the right to know what had happened to a family member. “There’s the one upstairs who was there,” he said shortly. “Not from around here. Might be your cousin.”

  A witness! I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he shook his head. “I don’t know a thing about it,” he said firmly. “Don’t care to, either.” He turned and made himself suddenly busy with the taps of his beer barrels. “Up at the far end of the hall, on the left.”

  I headed across the room and up the stairs. I could feel everyone not looking at me now. Their silence and the innkeeper’s tone made it clear that whoever was upstairs was not one of the many who had been there, it was the one. One survivor.

  I went to the end of the hallway and knocked on the door. First softly, then again, louder. I opened the door slowly, so as not to startle whoever might be inside.

  It was a narrow room with a narrow bed. A woman lay on it, fully clothed, one arm wrapped in a bandage. Her head was turned toward the window, so I could only see her profile.

  Still I recognized her. Denna.

  I must have made some noise, because she turned to look at me. Her eyes went wide and for once she was the one who was at a loss for words.

  “I heard you were in some trouble,” I said nonchalantly. “So I thought I’d come and help.”

  Her eyes went wide for a moment, then narrowed. “You’re lying,” she said with a wry twist to her lips.

  “I am,” I admitted. “But it’s a pretty lie.” I took a step into the room and closed the door softly. “I would have come, if I’d known.”

  “Anyone can make the trip after they get the news,” she said dismissively. “It takes a special sort of man to show up when he doesn’t know there’s trouble.” She sat up and turned to face me, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

  Now that I looked more closely, I noticed that she had a bruise high on one temple in addition to the bandage on her arm. I took another step toward her, “Are you alright?” I asked.

  “No,” she said bluntly. “But I could be a damn sight worse off.” She came to her feet slowly, as if she was unsure how steady she would be. She took a cautious step or two and seemed more or less satisfied. “Right. I can walk. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Borrorill

  DENNA TURNED LEFT INSTEAD of right as she came out of her room. At first I thought she was disoriented, but when she came to a back stairway I saw she was actually trying to leave without heading through the taproom. She found the alley door, but it was locked fast.

  So we headed out the front. As soon as we entered the taproom I was pointedly aware of everyone’s attention on us. Denna made a beeline for the front door, moving but with the slow determination of a storm cloud.

  We were almost out when the man behind the bar called out. “Hoy! Hey now!”

  Denna’s eyes flickered to the side. Her mouth made a thin line and she continued her walk to the door as if she hadn’t heard.

  “I’ll deal with him,” I said softly. “Wait for me. I’ll be out in just a second.”

  I walked over to where the barman stood scowling. “That your cousin then?” he asked. “Has the constable said she can go?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know anything about it,” I said.

  “I surely don’t. But she’s had use of the room, and meals, and I had the doctor out to patch her up.”

  I gave him a hard look. “If there’s a doctor in this town worth more than ha’penny, then I’m the King of Vint.”

  “I’m out half a talent in all,” he insisted. “Bandages ain’t free, and I had a woman by to sit with her, waiting for her to wake up.”

  I doubted very much that he was out half that, but I certainly didn’t want trouble with the constable. In truth, I didn’t want any sort of delay. Given Denna’s tendencies, I was worried that if I lost sight of her for more than a minute she would disappear like morning fog.

  I took five jots from my purse and scattered them onto the bar. “Knackers profit from a plague,” I said scathingly, and left.

  I felt a ridiculous amount of relief when I saw Denna waiting outside, leaning against the horse post. Her eyes were closed and she had her face tilted toward the sun. She sighed contentedly and turned toward the sound of my approaching footsteps.

  “Was it that bad?” I asked.

  “They were kind enough at first,” Denna admitted, gesturing with her bandaged arm. “But this old woman kept checking in on me.” She frowned and brushed her long black hair back, giving me a clear view of the purpling bruise that spread from her temple all the way back to her hairline. “You know the type, some tight-laced spinster with a mouth like a cat’s ass.”

  I burst out laughing, and Denna’s sudden smile was like the sun peering from behind a cloud. Then her face grew dark again as she continued. “She kept giving me this look. Like I should’ve had the decency to die with all the other folk. Like all this was my fault.”

  Denna shook her head. “But she was better than the old men. The constable put his hand on my leg!” She shuddered. “Even the mayor came, clucking over me like he cared, but he was only there to badger me with questions. ‘What were you doing there? What happened? What did you see…?’”

  The scorn in Denna’s voice made me bite back my own questions so quickly that I almost caught my tongue between my teeth. It’s my nature to ask questions, not to mention that the whole purpose of this mad dash into the foothills was to investigate what had happened.

  Still, the tone of Denna’s voice
made it clear she was in no mood to give answers right now. I shrugged my travelsack higher up onto my shoulder and something occurred to me. “Wait. Your things. You left them all back in your room.”

  Denna hesitated for a heartbeat. “I don’t think anything of mine was there,” she said as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to her before.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go back and check?”

  She shook her head firmly. “I leave where I’m not welcome,” she said matter-of-factly. “Everything else I can make up along the way.”

  Denna started to walk down the street and I fell in beside her. She turned onto a narrow side street heading west. We passed an old woman hanging a shamble-man made of oat sheaves. It wore a crude straw hat and a pair of sackcloth pants. “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “I need to see if my things are out at the Mauthen farm,” she said. “After that I’m open to suggestions. Where were you planning to go before you found me?”

  “Honestly, I was heading out to the Mauthen farm myself.”

  Denna gave me a sideways look. “Fair enough. It’s only about a mile out to the farm. We can be there and still have plenty of light.”

  The land around Trebon was rough, mostly thick forest broken by stretches of rocky ground. Then the road would round a corner and there would be a small, perfect field of golden wheat tucked among the trees, or nestled into a valley surrounded by dark stone bluffs. Farmers and hands dotted the fields, covered in chaff and moving with the slow weariness that comes from knowing half the day’s harvest was still to come.

  We’d only been walking a minute when I heard a familiar thump of hooves behind us. I turned to see a small open-topped cart bumping slowly up the road. Denna and I stepped off into the scrub, as the road was barely wide enough for the cart. A bone weary farmer eyed us suspiciously from where he sat, hunched over the reins.

  “We’re heading to the Mauthen farm,” Denna called out as he came closer. “Would you mind if we caught a ride?”