Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

But the innkeeper at Hollybush refused to speak with me. The White Hart and Queen’s Crown were content with their current musicians. At the Golden Pony I waited for over an hour before I realized I was being politely ignored. By the time I was turned away by the Royal Oak I was fuming.

It was Ambrose. I didn’t know how he’d done it, but I knew it was him. Bribes perhaps, or a rumor that any inn employing a certain red-haired musician would be losing the business of a large number of wealthy noble customers.

So I began working my way through the rest of the inns this side of the river. I’d already been turned away by the upper-class ones, but there were many respectable places left. Over the next several hours, I tried the Shepherd’s Rest, the Boar’s Head, Dog in the Wall, Staves Inn, and The Tabard. Ambrose had been very thorough; none of them were interested.

It was early evening by the time I came to Anker’s, and by that time the only thing keeping me going was pure black temper. I was determined to try every single inn on this side of the river before I resorted to paying for a bunk and a meal chit again.

When I came to the inn, Anker himself was up on a ladder nailing a long piece of cedar siding back into place. He looked down at me as I came to stand near the foot of the ladder.

“So you’re the one,” he said.

“Beg your pardon?” I said, puzzled.

“Fellow stopped by and told me that hiring a young red-haired fellow would make for a great pile of unpleasantness.” He nodded at my lute. “You must be him.”

“Well then,” I said, adjusting the shoulder strap of my lute case. “I won’t waste your time.”

“You aren’t wasting it yet,” he said as he climbed down the ladder, wiping his hands on his shirt. “The place could use some music.”

I gave him a searching look. “Aren’t you worried?”

He spat. “Damn little gadflies think they can buy the sun out the sky, don’t they?”

“This particular one could probably afford it,” I said grimly. “And the moon too, if he wanted the matched set to use as bookends.”

He snorted derisively. “He can’t do a damn thing to me. I don’t cater to his sort of folk, so he can’t scare off my business. And I own this place my own self, so he can’t buy it and fire me off like he did to poor old Caverin. . . .”

“Someone bought the Horse and Four?”

Anker gave me a speculative look. “Ye din’t know?”

I shook my head slowly, taking a moment to digest this piece of information. Ambrose had bought the Horse and Four just to spite me out of a job. No, he was too clever for that. He had probably loaned the money to a friend and passed it off as a business venture.

How much had it cost? A thousand talents? Five thousand? I couldn’t even guess how much an inn like the Horse and Four was worth. What was even more disturbing was how quickly he had managed it.

It put things in sharp perspective for me. I’d known Ambrose was rich, but honestly, everyone was rich compared to me. I’d never bothered thinking about how wealthy he was, or how he could use it against me. I was getting a lesson in the sort of influence a wealthy baron’s firstborn son could bring to bear.

For the first time I was glad for the University’s strict code of conduct. If Ambrose was willing to go to these lengths, I could only imagine what drastic measures he would take if he didn’t need to maintain a semblance of civility.

I was jolted out of my reverie by a young woman leaning out the front door of the inn, “Damn you, Anker!” she shouted. “I’m not going to pull and carry while you stand out here scratching your ass! Get in here!”

Anker muttered something under his breath as he picked up the ladder and he stowed it around the corner in the alleyway. “What’d you do to this fellow anyway? Tup his mum?”

“Wrote a song about him, actually.”

As Anker opened the door of the inn, a gentle welter of conversation poured out onto the street. “I’d be curious to hear a song like that.” He grinned. “Why don’t you come give it a play?”

“If you’re sure,” I said, not quite believing my luck. “There’s bound to be trouble.”

“Trouble,” he chuckled. “What does a boy like you know about trouble? I was in trouble afore you were born. I been in trouble you don’t even got words for.” He turned to face me, still standing in the doorway. “It’s been a while since we’ve had music in here regular. Can’t say as I like to go without. A proper tavern has music.”

I smiled. “I have to agree with you there.”

“Truth is, I’d have you in just to twist that rich tit’s nose,” Anker said. “But if you can play worth half a damn. . . .” He pushed the door open farther, making it an invitation. I could smell sawdust and honest sweat and baking bread.

By the end of the night it was all arranged. In exchange for playing four nights a span, I earned a tiny room on the third floor and the assurance that if I was around at mealtimes I would be welcome to a bit of whatever was cooking in the pot. Admittedly, Anker was getting the services of a talented musician for a bargain price, but it was a deal I was happy to make. Anything was better than going back to Mews and the silent scorn of my bunkmates.

The ceiling of my tiny room slanted downward in two corners, making it seem even smaller than it really was. It would have been cluttered if there had been more than the few sticks of furniture: a small desk with a wooden chair and a single shelf above it. The bed was flat and narrow as any bunk in the Mews.

I set my slightly battered copy of Rhetoric and Logic on the shelf over the desk. My lute case leaned comfortably in the corner. Through the window I could see the lights of the University unblinking in the cool autumn air. I was home.

Looking back, I count myself lucky that I ended up in Anker’s. True, the crowds were not as wealthy as those at the Horse and Four, but they appreciated me in a way the nobles never had.

And while my suite of rooms at the Horse and Four had been luxurious, my tiny room at Anker’s was comfortable . Think in terms of shoes. You don’t want the biggest you can find. You want the pair that fits. In time, that tiny room at Anker’s came to be more of a home to me than anywhere else in the world.

But at that particular moment, I was furious at what Ambrose had cost me. So when I sat down to write my public letter of apology, it dripped with venomous sincerity. It was a work of art. I beat my breast with remorse. I wailed and gnashed my teeth over the fact that I had maligned a fellow student. I also included a full copy of the lyrics, along with two new verses and full musical notation. I then apologized in excruciating detail about every vulgar, petty innuendo included in the song.

I then spent four precious jots of my own money on paper and ink and called in the favor Jaxim owed me for trading him my late admissions slot. He had a friend that worked in a print shop, and with his help we printed over a hundred copies of the letter.

Then, the night before fall term began, Wil, Sim, and I posted them on every flat surface we could find on both sides of the river. We used a lovely alchemical adhesive Simmon had cooked up for the occasion. The stuff went on like paint, then dried clear as glass and hard as steel. If anyone wanted to remove the posts, they’d need a hammer and chisel.

In hindsight, it was as foolish as taunting an angry bull. And, if I had to guess, I’d say this particular piece of insolence was the main reason Ambrose eventually tried to kill me.

Under pointed advice from several sources, I limited myself to three fields of study in the upcoming term. I continued Advanced Sympathy with Elxa Dal, held a shift in the Medica, and continued my apprenticeship under Manet. My time was pleasantly full, but not overburdened as it had been last term.