The Name of the Wind (73 page)

“H
E'S QUITE, quite mad,” I said to Simmon and Wilem later that afternoon at Anker's.

“He's a master,” Sim responded tactfully. “And your sponsor. And from what you've told us he's the reason you weren't expelled.”

“I'm not saying that he isn't intelligent, and I've seen him do things that I can't begin to explain. But the fact remains that he is completely off his nut. He talks in circles about names and words and power. It sounds good while he's saying it. But it doesn't really mean anything.”

“Quit complaining,” Simmon said. “You beat both of us to Re'lar, even if your sponsor is cracked. And you got paid two span of silver for breaking Ambrose's arm. You got away free as a bird. I wish I had half your luck.”

“Not quite free as a bird,” I said. “I'm still going to be whipped.”

“What?” Sim said. “I thought you said that they suspended it?”

“They suspended my expulsion,” I said. “Not the whipping.”

Simmon gaped. “My God, why not?”

“Malfeasance,” Wilem said in a low voice. “They can't let a student get off bird-free after they've voted him guilty of malfeasance.”

“That's what Elodin said.” I took a drink. Took another.

“I don't care,” Simmon said hotly. “It's barbaric.” He hammered out his last word on the table with his fist, upsetting his glass and spilling a dark pool of scutten across the table. “Shit.” He scrambled to his feet and tried to keep it from spilling on the floor with his hands.

I laughed helplessly until there was water in my eyes and my stomach ached. I felt a weight lift off my chest as I finally regained my breath. “I love you, Sim,” I said earnestly. “Sometimes I think you're the only honest person I know.”

He looked me over. “You're drunk.”

“No, it's the truth. You're a good person. Better than I'll ever be.” He gave me a look that said he couldn't tell if he was being made fun of or not. A serving girl came over with wet rags, wiped the table clean, and made a few barbed comments. Sim had the decency to look embarrassed enough for all of us.

 

By the time I made it back to the University, it was fully dark. I stopped briefly at Anker's to pick up a few things, then made my way onto the roof of Mains.

I was surprised to find Auri waiting for me on the roof despite the clear sky. She sat on a short brick chimney, swinging her bare feet idly. Her hair made a gauzy cloud around her tiny form.

She hopped down when I came closer and gave a little half step sideways that was almost like a curtsey. “Good evening, Kvothe.”

“Good evening, Auri,” I said. “How are you?”

“I am lovely,” she said firmly, “and it is a lovely night.” She held both her hands behind her back and shifted from foot to foot.

“What have you brought me tonight?” I asked.

She gave her sunny smile. “What have you brought
me?
”

I pulled a narrow bottle from underneath my cloak. “I brought you some honey wine.”

She took hold of it with both hands. “Why, this is a princely gift.” She peered down at it wonderingly. “Think of all the tipsy bees.” She pulled the cork and sniffed it. “What's in it?”

“Sunlight,” I said. “And a smile, and a question.”

She held the mouth of the bottle up to her ear and grinned at me.

“The question's at the bottom,” I said.

“A heavy question,” she said, then held her hand out to me. “I brought you a ring.”

It was made of warm, smooth wood. “What does it do?” I asked.

“It keeps secrets,” she said.

I held it to my ear.

Auri shook her head seriously, her hair swirling around her. “It doesn't tell them, it keeps them.” She stepped close to me and took the ring, sliding it onto my finger. “It's quite enough to have a secret,” she chided me gently. “Anything more would be greedy.”

“It fits,” I said, somewhat surprised.

“They're your secrets,” she said, as if explaining something to a child. “Who else would it fit?”

Auri brushed her hair away behind her and made her curious half step to the side again. Almost like a curtsey, almost like a tiny dance. “I was wondering if you would join me for dinner tonight, Kvothe,” she said, her face serious. “I have brought apples and eggs. I can also offer a lovely honey wine.”

“I'd love to share dinner with you, Auri,” I said formally. “I have brought bread and cheese.”

Auri scampered down into the courtyard and in a few minutes returned with a delicate porcelain teacup for me. She poured the honey wine for both of us, drinking hers in a series of dainty sips from a silver beggar's cup hardly bigger than a thimble.

I sat down on the roof and we shared our meal. I had a large loaf of brown barley bread and a wedge of hard white Dalonir cheese. Auri had ripe apples and a half dozen brown-spotted eggs that she had somehow managed to hard-boil. We ate them with salt I brought out from a pocket in my cloak.

We shared most of the meal in silence, simply enjoying each other's company. Auri sat cross-legged with her back straight and her hair fanning out to all sides. As always, her careful delicacy somehow made this makeshift meal on a rooftop seem like a formal dinner in some nobleman's hall.

“The wind has been bringing leaves into the Underthing lately,” Auri said conversationally toward the end of the meal. “Through the grates and tunnels. They settle in the Downings, so things are all a-rustle there.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded. “And a mother owl has moved in. Made her nest right in the middle of the Grey Twelve, bold as brass.”

“She's something of a rarity then?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. Owls are wise. They are careful and patient. Wisdom precludes boldness.” She sipped from her cup, holding the handle daintily between her thumb and forefinger. “That is why owls make poor heroes.”

Wisdom precludes boldness. After my recent adventures in Trebon I couldn't help but agree. “But this one is adventurous? An explorer?”

“Oh yes,” Auri said, her eyes wide. “She is fearless. She has a face like a wicked moon.”

She refilled her tiny silver cup with honey wine and emptied the last of it into my teacup. After tipping the bottle all the way upside-down, she pursed her lips and blew across the top of it in two sharp bursts so that it made a hooting noise. “Where's my question?” she demanded.

I hesitated, unsure as to how she would respond to my request. “I was wondering, Auri. Would you mind showing me the Underthing?”

Auri looked away, suddenly shy. “Kvothe, I thought you were a gentleman,” she said, tugging self-consciously at her ragged shirt. “Imagine, asking to see a girl's underthing.” She looked down, her hair hiding her face.

I held my breath for a moment, choosing my next words carefully lest I startle her back underground. While I was thinking, Auri peeked at me through the curtain of her hair.

“Auri,” I asked slowly, “are you joking with me?”

She looked up and grinned. “Yes I am,” she said proudly. “Isn't it wonderful?”

 

Auri took me through the heavy metal grate in the abandoned courtyard, down into the Underthing. I brought out my hand lamp to light the way. Auri had a light of her own, something she held in her cupped hands that gave off a soft, blue-green glow. I was curious about what she held but didn't want to press her for too many secrets at once.

At first the Underthing was exactly what I had expected. Tunnels and pipes. Pipes for sewage, water, steam, and coal gas. Great black pig-iron pipes a man could crawl through, small, bright brass pipes no bigger around than your thumb. There was a vast network of stone tunnels, branching and connecting at odd angles. If there were any rhyme or reason to the place, it was lost on me.

Auri gave me a whirlwind tour, proud as a new mother, excited as a little girl. Her enthusiasm was infectious and I soon lost myself in the excitement of the moment, ignoring my original reasons for wanting to explore the tunnels. There is nothing quite so delightfully mysterious as a secret in your own backyard.

We made our way down three spiral staircases made of black wrought iron to reach the Grey Twelve. It was like standing in the bottom of a canyon. Looking up I could see faint moonlight filtering in through drain grates far overhead. The mother owl was gone, but Auri showed me the nest.

The deeper we went, the stranger things became. The round tunnels for drainage and pipes disappeared and were replaced with squared-off hallways and stairways strewn with rubble. Rotting wooden doors hung off rusted hinges, and there were half-collapsed rooms filled with moldering tables and chairs. One room had a pair of bricked-up windows despite the fact that we were, at my best guess, at least fifty feet below ground.

Deeper still, we came to Throughbottom, a room like a cathedral, so big that neither Auri's blue light nor my red one reached the highest peaks of the ceiling. All around us were huge, ancient machines. Some lay in pieces: broken gears taller than a man, leather straps gone brittle with age, great wooden beams that were now explosions of white fungus, huge as hedgerows.

Other machines were intact but worn by centuries of neglect. I approached an iron block as big as a farmer's cottage and broke off a single flake of rust large as a dinner plate. Underneath was nothing but more rust. Nearby there were three great pillars covered in green verdigris so thick it looked like moss. Many of the huge machines were beyond identifying, looking more melted than rusted. But I saw something that might have been a waterwheel, three stories tall, lying in a dry canal that ran like a chasm through the middle of the room.

I had only the vaguest of ideas as to what any of the machines might have done. I had no guess at all as to why they had lain here for uncounted centuries, deep underground. There didn't seem—

T
HE SOUND OF HEAVY boots on the wooden landing startled the men sitting in the Waystone Inn. Kvothe bolted to his feet midsentence and was halfway to the bar before the front door opened and the first of the Felling night crowd made their way inside.

“You've got hungry men here, Kote!” Cob called out as he opened the door. Shep, Jake, and Graham followed him inside.

“We might have a little something in the back,” Kote said. “I could run and fetch it straightaway, unless you'd like drinks first.” There was a chorus of friendly assent as the men settled onto their stools at the bar. The exchange had a well-worn feel, comfortable as old shoes.

Chronicler stared at the red-haired man behind the bar. There was nothing left of Kvothe in him. It was just an innkeeper: friendly, servile, and so unassuming as to almost be invisible.

Jake took a long drink before noticing Chronicler sitting at the far end of the room. “Well look at you, Kote! A new customer. Hell, we're lucky to have got any seats at all.”

Shep chuckled. Cob swiveled his stool around and peered at where Chronicler sat next to Bast, pen still poised over his paper. “Is he a scribe or sommat?”

“He is,” Kote said quickly. “Came into town late last night.”

Cob squinted toward them. “What's he writing?”

Kote lowered his voice a bit, drawing the attention of the customers away from the guest and back to his side of the bar. “Remember that trip Bast made to Baedn?” They nodded attentively. “Well, turns out he had a scare with the pox, and he's been feeling his years a bit since then. He thought he'd best get his will writ down while he had the chance.”

“Sense enough in that, these days,” Shep said darkly. He drank off the last of his beer and knocked the empty mug down. “I'll do another of those.”

“Whatsoever monies I have saved at the time of my death shall go to the Widow Sage,” Bast said loudly across the room. “To help in raising and dowering her three daughters, as they are soon to be of marriaging age.” He gave Chronicler a troubled look. “Is ‘marriaging' a word?”

“Little Katie certainly has grown up a bit this last year, hasn't she?” Graham mused. The others nodded in agreement.

“To my employer, I leave my best pair of boots,” Bast continued magnanimously. “And whatsoever of my pants he finds fit him.”

“Boy does have a fine pair of boots,” Cob said to Kote. “Always thought so.”

“I leave it to Pater Leoden to distribute the remainder of my worldly goods among the parish, as, being an immoral soul, I will have no further need of them.”

“You mean,
immortal,
don't you?” Chronicler asked uncertainly.

Bast shrugged. “That's all I can think of for now.” Chronicler nodded and quickly shuffled the paper, pens, and ink into his flat leather satchel.

“Come on over then,” Cob called to him. “Don't be a stranger.” Chronicler froze, then made his way slowly toward the bar. “What's your name, boy?”

“Devan,” he said, then looked stricken and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Carverson. Devan Carverson.”

Cob made introductions all around, then turned back to the newcomer. “Which way you from, Devan?” Cob asked.

“Off past Abbott's Ford.”

“Any news from that way?”

Chronicler shifted uncomfortably in his seat while Kote eyed him darkly from the other side of the bar. “Well…the roads are rather bad….”

This sparked a chorus of familiar complaints, and Chronicler relaxed. While they were still grousing, the door opened and the smith's prentice came in, boyish and broad-shouldered with the smell of coalsmoke in his hair. A long rod of iron rested on his shoulder as he held the door open for Carter.

“You look a fool, boy,” Carter groused as he made his way slowly through the door, walking with the stiff care of the recently injured. “You keep hauling that around, and folk'll start talking about you like they do Crazy Martin. You'll be that crazy boy from Rannish. You want to listen to that for the next fifty years?”

The smith's prentice shifted his grip on the iron bar self-consciously. “Let 'em talk,” he mumbled with a hint of defiance. “Since I went out and took care of Nelly I've been having dreams about that spider thing.” He shook his head. “Hell, I'd think you'd be carrying one in each hand. That thing could've killed you.”

Carter ignored him, his expression stiff as he walked gingerly toward the bar.

“Good to see you up and about, Carter,” Shep called out, raising his mug. “I thought we might not see you out of bed for another day or two.”

“Take more than a few stitches to keep me down,” Carter said.

Bast made a show of offering up his stool to the injured man, then quietly took a seat as far from the smith's prentice as possible. There was a warm murmur of welcome from everyone.

The innkeeper ducked into the back room and emerged a few minutes later carrying a tray loaded with hot bread and steaming bowls of stew.

Everyone was listening to Chronicler. “…if I remember right, Kvothe was off in Severen when it happened. He was walking home—”

“It weren't Severen,” Old Cob said. “It was off by the University.”

“Could have been,” Chronicler conceded. “Anyway, he was walking home late at night and some bandits jumped him in an alleyway.”

“It was broad daylight,” Cob said testily. “In the middle of town. All manner of folk were around to see it.”

Chronicler shook his head stubbornly. “I remember an alley. Anyway, the bandits surprised Kvothe. They wanted his horse,” he paused and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Wait, that's not right. He wouldn't have his horse in an alley. Maybe he was on the road to Severen.”

“I told you, it weren't Severen!” Cob demanded, slapping his hand down on the bar, plainly irritated. “Tehlu anyway, just stop. You've got it all mixed up.”

Chronicler flushed in embarrassment. “I only heard it once, years ago.”

Shooting Chronicler a dark look, Kote clattered the tray down loudly onto the bar and the story was momentarily forgotten. Old Cob ate so quickly he almost choked himself, and washed it down with a long swallow of beer.

“Seeing as how you're still working on your dinner there,” he said none too casually to Chronicler as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Would you mind terrible if I picked up the story? Just so's the boy can hear it?”

“If you're sure you know it….” Chronicler said hesitantly.

“Of course I know it,” Cob said as he spun his stool around to face more of his audience. “Alright. Way back when Kvothe was just a pup, he went to the University. But he didn't live in the University proper, you see, on account of the fact that he was just ordinary folk. He couldn't afford all the fancy living that went on there.”

“How come?” the smith's prentice asked. “You said before that Kvothe was so smart they paid him to stay even though he was just ten years old. They gave him a purse full of gold, and a diamond big as his thumb knuckle, and a brand new horse with a new saddle and tack and new shoes and a full bag of oats and everything.”

Cob gave a conciliatory nod. “True, that's true. But this was a year or two after Kvothe had got all that. And you see, he'd gave a lot of that gold to some poor folk whose houses had all burned down.”

“Burned down during their wedding,” Graham interjected.

Cob nodded. “And Kvothe had to eat, and rent a room, and buy more oats for his horse. So his gold was all used up by then. So he—”

“What about the diamond?” the boy insisted.

Old Cob gave the barest of frowns. “If you've got to know, he gave that diamond to a special friend of his. A special lady friend. But that's a whole different story than the one I'm telling now.” He glared at the boy, who dropped his eyes contritely and spooned up a mouthful of stew.

Cob continued, “Since Kvothe couldn't afford all that rich living in the University, he stayed in the town nextby instead, place called
Amary.
” He shot Chronicler a pointed look. “Kvothe had a room in a inn where he got to stay there for free because the widow who owned the place took a shine to him, and he did chores to help earn his keep.”

“He played music there too,” Jake added. “He was all sorts of clever with his lute.”

“Get your dinner into your gob and let me finish my say, Jacob,” Old Cob snapped. “Everyone knows Kvothe was clever with a lute. That's why the widow had taken such a shine to him in the first place, and playing music every night was
part
of his chores.”

Cob took a quick drink and continued. “So one day Kvothe was out running errands for the widow, when a fellow pulls out a knife and tells Kvothe if he doesn't hand over the widow's money, he'll spill Kvothe's guts all over the street.” Cob pointed an imaginary knife at the boy and gave him a menacing look. “Now you've got to remember, this is back when Kvothe was just a pup. He ain't got no sword, and even if he did, he ain't learned to fight proper from the Adem yet.”

“So what did Kvothe do?” the smith's prentice asked.

“Well,” Cob leaned back. “It was the middle of the day, and they were smack in the middle of Amary's town square. Kvothe was about to call for the constable, but he always had his eyes wide open, you see. And so he noticed that this fellow had white, white teeth….”

The boy's eyes grew wide. “He was a sweet-eater?”

Cob nodded. “And even worse, the fellow was starting to sweat like a hard-run horse, his eyes were wild, and his hands…” Cob widened his own eyes and held out his hands, making them tremble. “So Kvothe knew the fellow had the hunger something fierce, and that meant he'd stab his own mum for a bent penny.” Cob took another long drink, drawing out the tension.

“Whatever did he do?” Bast burst out anxiously from the far end of the bar, wringing his hands dramatically. The innkeeper glared at his student.

Cob continued, “Well, first he hesitates, and the man comes closer with the knife and Kvothe can see the fellow ain't going to ask again. So Kvothe uses a dark magic that he found locked away in a secret book in the University. He speaks three terrible, secret words and calls up a demon—”

“A demon?” the prentice's voice was almost a yelp. “Was it like the one…”

Cob shook his head, slowly. “Oh no, this one weren't spiderly at all. It was worse. This one was made all of shadows, and when it landed on the fellow it bit him on the chest, right over his heart, and it drank all the blood out of him like you'd suck the juice out of a plum.”

“Blackened hands, Cob,” Carter said, his voice thick with reproach. “You're going to give the boy nightmares. He'll be carrying around that damn iron stick for a year with all your nonsense stuffed in his head.”

“That's not how I heard it,” Graham said slowly. “I heard there was a woman trapped in a burning house, and Kvothe called up a demon to protect him from the fire. Then he ran inside and pulled the lady out of the fire and she wasn't burned at all.”

“Listen to yourselves,” Jake said, disgusted. “You're like kids at Midwinter. ‘Demons stole my doll.' ‘Demons spilled the milk.' Kvothe didn't meddle with demons. He was at the University learning all manner of names, right? The fellow came at him with a knife and he called out fire and lightning, just like Taborlin the Great.”

“It was a demon, Jake,” Cob said angrily. “Otherwise the story don't make a lick of sense. It was a demon he called up, and it drank up the fellow's blood, and everyone who saw was powerful shook up by it. Someone told a priest, then the priests went to the constable, and the constable went and pulled him out of the widow's inn that night. Then they slapped him into jail for consorting with dark forces and such.”

“Folk probably just saw the fire and thought it was a demon,” Jake persisted. “You know how folk are.”

“No I don't, Jacob,” Cob snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning back against the bar. “Why don't you tell me how folk are? Why don't you just go ahead and tell this whole damn story while…”

Cob stopped at the sound of heavy boots clumping on the wooden landing outside. After a pause, someone fumbled with the latch.

Everyone turned around to look at the door, curious, as all the regular customers were already there. “Two new faces in one day,” Graham said gently, knowing he was touching on a delicate subject. “Looks like your dry spell might be over, Kote.”

“Roads must be getting better,” Shep said into his drink, a hint of relief in his voice. “About time we got a touch of luck.”

The latch clicked and the door swung slowly open, moving in a slow arc until it struck the wall. A man stood outside in the dark, as if deciding whether or not to come in.

“Welcome to the Waystone,” the innkeeper called out from behind the bar. “What can we do for you?”

The man stepped into the light and the farmers' excitement was smothered by the sight of the piecemeal leather armor and heavy sword that marked a mercenary. A lone mercenary was never reassuring, even in the best of times. Everyone knew that the difference between an unemployed mercenary and a highwayman was mostly one of timing.

What's more, it was obvious this mercenary had fallen on hard times. Brownburr clung thick to the bottoms of his pants and the rough leather of his boot's laces. His shirt was fine linen dyed a deep, royal blue, but mud-spattered and bramble-torn. His hair was a greasy snarl. His eyes were dark and sunken, as if he hadn't slept in days. He moved a few steps farther into the inn, leaving the door open behind him.

“Looks like you've been on the road a while,” Kvothe said cheerily. “Would you like a drink or some dinner?” When the mercenary made no reply, he added, “None of us would blame you if you wanted to catch a bit of sleep first, either. It looks like you've had a rough couple days.” Kvothe glanced at Bast, who slid off his stool and went to close the inn's front door.