The Name of the Wind: Chapters 1–17

Cob shot Jake a profoundly disdainful look.

“Bastard tried to charge me ten pennies for a half-pound of salt,” Cob said reflexively, repeating the complaint for perhaps the hundredth time.

Their smiles went sour as the room filled with the sweet, acrid smell of rotting flowers and burning hair.

Finally, he pulled a stool behind the bar and began to polish the vast array of bottles nestled between the two huge barrels.

His room was austere, almost monkish.

He was dark and charming, with a quick smile and cunning eyes.

Behind the weary lines and the placid innkeeper’s expression he looked no older than his darkhaired companion.

“By earth and stone, I abjure you!”

Tonight the wood filled the room with the almost imperceptible aroma of citrus and quenching iron.

Tall poplars
had gave a buttery yellow while the shrubby sumac encroaching on the road was tinged a violent red.

No energy was wasted on bravado or idle threats.

Then, much to the scribe’s dismay, he picked up the shirt Chronicler had bought back in Linwood.

He took out two pennies and brandished them before putting them back into Chronicler’s purse.

“Thank God you’re as gullible as they are,” Kote said sharply as soon as they were out of sight.

The guards exchanged smiles and rolled their eyes while the tinker gave an impromptu sermon on the subject of temperance.

He left the road, blundering through the trees toward the light.

“Stream and stone, it’s frightening how primitive you people are.”

Kote shrugged nonchalantly, his smile fading an imperceptible amount.

“I never spoil pages,” Chronicler said haughtily.

After a moment, Kvothe took the pen and completed the list himself, asking the dumbfounded Chronicler to correct him if he made a mistake.

The upshot was this: it was true that the Squire Semelan controlled this little town and all the land around it, but Semelan owed fealty directly to Greyfallow.

“They won’t know the difference. Besides, it’s chock full of Tehlu, so no one will complain about it being vulgar.”

If this is to be a full and honest account of my life and deeds, I feel I should mention that my reasons for inviting Ben into our troupe were not entirely altruistic.

He was portly, with twinkling eyes that moved quickly from one thing to another.

You feel exhausted, languorous, and almost godlike.

Being able to think about two disparate things at once, aside from being wonderfully efficient, was roughly akin to being able to sing harmony with yourself.

“Historically,” he grinned, “Astound me with your grasp of historical minutiae, E’lir.”

He looked even more lupine than before, old and grizzled with no eyebrows.

“I think I’ve dug up their reason, after all this while. I’ve teased it together from bits and pieces of story. That’s what’s so galling about this, to have the harder part of this done and have all these small specifics giving me such trouble.”

“I need her for my work, unfortunately. But if you’re interested in a short-term rental, I’m sure we could arrange a reas—” There was a fleshy thump followed by a slightly pained chortle in my father’s baritone.

Kvothe motioned Chronicler forward imperiously, then turned to grab two thick glasses and a bottle seemingly at random.

However,” Kvothe continued, “in spite of these accolades he seems to be a bit innocent of the ways of the world, as demonstrated by his plentiful lack of wit in making a near-suicidal attack on what I guess is the first of the folk he has ever had the luck to see.”

Who, over the course of a hundred and fifty years of life, not to mention nearly two years of my personal tutelage, has managed to avoid learning a few important facts.

They took it as calmly as ever, in spite of the fact that he accused them of things I’m sure no donkey has ever willingly done, especially not Beta, who possessed impeccable moral character.

The wagons gathering around it seemed rather insubstantial compared to the stone’s solid presence.

My father puffed up into an indignant pose but my mother ignored him and said to me, “Besides, the only tradition that keeps troupes by the greystone is laziness."

He halted my fledgling study of alchemy, limiting me to chemistry instead.

I chafed at the delays, but held my peace, trusting that if I showed myself to be responsible and meticulously careful, he would eventually relax and things would return to normal.

Even the most dedicated troupes have an occasional lackluster performance, especially when they know they can get away with it.

The one called Cinder sheathed his sword with the sound of a tree cracking under the weight of winter ice.