The Name of the Wind

“We need to talk.” Kneeling beside the bed, Bast looked down at the dark shape Chronicler made, twisted in his blankets. “I’m going to light the lamp and you’re not going to make any loud noises. Alright?”

Chronicler nodded against Bast’s hand. A moment later a match flared, filling the room with jagged red light and the acrid smell of sulfur. Then gentler lamplight welled up. Bast licked his fingers and pinched the match between them.

Trembling slightly, Chronicler sat up in the bed and put his back against the wall. Bare-chested, he gathered the blankets self-consciously around his waist and glanced toward the door. The heavy dresser was still in place.

Bast followed his gaze. “That shows a certain lack of trust,” he said dryly “You better not have scratched up his floors. He gets mad as hell about that sort of thing.”

“How did you get in here?” Chronicler demanded.

Bast flailed his hands franticly at Chronicler’s head. “Quiet!” he hissed. “We have to be quiet. He has ears like a hawk.”

“How ...” Chronicler began more softly, then stopped. “Hawks don’t have ears.”

Bast gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“You said he has ears like a hawk. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bast frowned and made a dismissive gesture. “You know what I mean. He can’t know that I’m here.” Bast sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed down his pants self-consciously.

Chronicler gripped the blankets bunched around his waist. “Why are you here?”

“Like I said, we need to talk.” Bast looked at Chronicler seriously “We need to talk about why you’re here.”

“This is what I do,” Chronicler said, irritated. “I collect stories. And when I get the chance I investigate odd rumors and see if there’s any truth behind them.”

“Out of curiosity, which rumor was it?” Bast asked.

“Apparently you got soppy drunk and let something slip to a wagoneer,” Chronicler said. “Rather careless, all things considered.”

Bast gave Chronicler a profoundly pitying look. “Look at me,” Bast said, as if talking to a child. “Think. Could some wagon herder get me drunk? Me?”

Chronicler opened his mouth. Closed it. “Then ...”

“He was my message in a bottle. One of many. You just happened to be the first person to find one and come looking.”

Chronicler took a long moment to digest this piece of information. “I thought you two were hiding?”

“Oh we’re hiding alright,” Bast said bitterly. “We’re tucked away so safe and sound that he’s practically fading into the woodwork.”

“I can understand you feeling a little stifled around here,” Chronicler said. “But honestly, I don’t see what your master’s bad mood has do to with the price of butter.”

Bast’s eyes flashed angrily. “It has everything to do with the price of butter!” he said through his teeth. “And it’s a damn sight more than a bad mood, you ignorant, wretched anhaut-fehn. This place is killing him.”

Chronicler went pale at Bast’s outburst. “I ... I’m not ...”

Bast closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself. “You just don’t understand what’s going on,” he said, speaking to himself as much as Chronicler. “That’s why I came, to explain. I’ve been waiting for months for someone to come. Anyone. Even old enemies come to settle scores would be better than him wasting away like this. But you’re better than I’d hoped for. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect for what?” Chronicler asked. “I don’t even know what the problem is.”

“It’s like ... have you ever heard the story of Martin Maskmaker?” Chronicler shook his head and Bast gave a frustrated sigh. “How about plays? Have you seen The Ghost and the Goosegirl or The Ha’penny King?”

Chronicler frowned. “Is that the one where the king sells his crown to an orphan boy?”

Bast nodded. “And the boy becomes a better king than the original. The goosegirl dresses like a countess and everyone is stunned by her grace and charm.” He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted. “You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being. Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.”

Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. “That’s basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.”

“That’s only the smallest piece of it,” Bast said. “The truth is deeper than that. It’s ...” Bast floundered for a moment. “It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”

Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. “No, listen. I’ve got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding.” Bast gave a grudging shrug. “And sometimes that’s enough.”