The Name of the Wind

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.

After slowly looking over everyone sitting at the bar, the mercenary moved to the empty space between Chronicler and Old Cob. Kvothe gave his best innkeeper’s smile as the mercenary leaned heavily against the bar and mumbled something.

Across the room, Bast froze with his hand on the door handle.

“Beg your pardon?” Kvothe asked, leaning forward.

The mercenary looked up, his eyes meeting Kvothe’s then sweeping back and forth behind the bar. His eyes moved sluggishly, as if he had been addled by a blow to the head. “Aethin tseh cthystoi scthaiven vei.”

Kvothe leaned forward, “I’m sorry, what was that again?” When nothing was forthcoming from the mercenary, he looked around at the other men at the bar. “Did anyone catch that?”

Chronicler was looking the mercenary over, eyeing the man’s armor, the empty quiver of arrows, his fine blue linen shirt. The scribe’s stare was intense, but the mercenary didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s Siaru,” Cob said knowingly. “Funny. He don’t look like a shim.”

Shep laughed, shaking his head. “Naw. He’s drunk. My uncle used to talk like that.” He nudged Graham with an elbow. “You remember my Uncle Tam? God, I’ve never known a man who drank like that.”

Bast made a frantic, covert gesture from where he stood near the door, but Kvothe was busy trying to catch the mercenary’s eye. “Speak Aturan?” Kvothe asked slowly. “What do you want?”

The mercenary’s eyes rested momentarily on the innkeeper. “Avoi—” he began, then closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if listening. He opened his eyes again. “I ... want...” he began, his voice slow and thick. “I... look ...” He trailed off, his gaze wandering aimlessly around the room, his eyes unfocused.

“I know him,” Chronicler said.

Everyone turned to look at the scribe. “What?” Shep asked.

Chronicler’s expression was angry. “This fellow and four of his friends robbed me about five days ago. I didn’t recognize him at first. He was cleanshaven then, but it’s him.”

Behind the man’s back, Bast made a more urgent gesture, trying to catch his masters attention, but Kvothe was intent on the befuddled man. “Are you sure?”

Chronicler gave a hard, humorless laugh. “He’s wearing my shirt. Ruined it too. Cost me a whole talent. I never even got a chance to wear it.”

“Was he like this before?”

Chronicler shook his head. “Not at all. He was almost genteel as highwaymen go. I had him pegged as a low-ranking officer before he deserted.”

Bast gave up signaling. “Reshi!” He called out, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Just a moment, Bast,” Kvothe said as he tried to catch the stupefied mercenary’s attention. He waved a hand in front of the man’s face, snapped his fingers. “Hello?”

The man’s eyes followed Kvothe’s moving hand, but seemed oblivious to everything being said around him. “I... am ... look ...” he said slowly. “I look

“What?” Cob demanded testily. “What are you looking for?”

“Looking ...” the mercenary echoed vaguely.

“I imagine he’s looking to give me my horse back,” Chronicler said calmly as he took a half step closer to the man and grabbed the hilt of his sword. With a sudden motion he yanked it free, or rather, he tried to. Instead of sliding easily free it of its scabbard, it came halfway out and stuck.

“No!” Bast cried from across the room.

The mercenary stared vaguely at Chronicler, but made no attempt to stop him. Standing awkwardly, still gripping the hilt of the man’s sword, the scribe tugged harder and the sword pulled slowly free. The broad blade was mottled with dried blood and rust.

Taking a step back, Chronicler regained his composure and leveled the sword at the mercenary. “And my horse is just for starters. Afterward I think he’s looking to give me my money back and have a nice chat with the constable.”