The Name of the Wind

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—

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT Interlude—Looking

The 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.