Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“Not that I could see,” Kote said.

“How many were there?”

“Five.”

“Five?” Bast said, aghast. “How many did the other fellow kill?”

“He distracted one of them for a while,” Kote said generously.

“ Anpauen , Reshi,” Bast said, shaking his head as he threaded a bone needle with something thinner and finer than gut. “You should be dead. You should be dead twice .”

Kote shrugged. “It’s not the first time I should be dead, Bast. I’m a fair hand at avoiding it.”

Bast bent to his work. “This will sting a bit,” he said, his hands strangely gentle. “Honestly, Reshi, I can’t see how you’ve managed to stay alive this long.”

Kote shrugged again and closed his eyes. “Neither do I, Bast,” he said. His voice was tired and grey.

Hours later, the door to Kote’s room cracked open and Bast peered inside. Hearing nothing but slow, measured breathing, the young man walked softly to stand beside the bed and bent over the sleeping man. Bast eyed the color of his cheeks, smelled his breath, and lightly touched his forehead, his wrist, and the hollow of his throat above his heart.

Then Bast drew a chair alongside the bed and sat, watching his master, listening to him breathe. After a moment he reached out and brushed the unruly red hair back from his face, like a mother would with a sleeping child. Then he began to sing softly, the tune lilting and strange, almost a lullaby:

Bast’s voice faded until at last he sat motionless, watching the rise and fall of his master’s silent breathing through the long hours of morning’s early dark.

It was early evening of the next day before Chronicler came down the stairs to the common room of the Waystone Inn. Pale and unsteady, he carried his flat leather satchel under one arm.

Kote sat behind the bar, paging through a book. “Ah, our unintentional guest. How’s the head?”

Chronicler raised a hand to touch the back of his head. “Throbs a bit when I move around too quickly. But it’s still working.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kote said.

“Is this . . .” Chronicler hesitated, looking around. “Are we in Newarre?”

Kote nodded. “You are, in fact, in the middle of Newarre.” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with one hand. “Thriving metropolis. Home to dozens.”

Chronicler stared at the red-haired man behind the bar. He leaned against one of the tables for support. “God’s charred body,” he said breathlessly. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

The innkeeper looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I know you’re going to deny it,” Chronicler said. “But what I saw last night . . .”

The innkeeper held up a hand, quieting him. “Before we discuss the possibility that you’ve addled your wits with that crack to the head, tell me, how is the road to Tinuë?”

“What?” Chronicler asked, irritated. “I wasn’t heading to Tinuë. I was . . . oh. Well, even aside from last night, the road’s been pretty rough. I was robbed off by Abbot’s Ford, and I’ve been on foot ever since. But it was all worth it since you’re actually here.” The scribe glanced at the sword hanging over the bar and drew a deep breath, his expression becoming vaguely anxious. “I’m not here to cause trouble, mind you. I’m not here because of the price on your head.” He gave a weak smile. “Not that I could hope to trouble you—”

“Fine,” the innkeeper interupted as he pulled out a white linen cloth and began to polish the bar. “Who are you then?”

“You can call me Chronicler.”

“I didn’t ask what I could call you,” Kote said. “What is your name?”

“Devan. Devan Lochees.”

Kote stopped polishing the bar and looked up. “ Lochees ? Are you related to Duke . . .” Kote trailed off, nodding to himself. “Yes, of course you are. Not a chronicler, the Chronicler.” He stared hard at the balding man, looking him up and down. “How about that? The great debunker himself.”

Chronicler relaxed slightly, obviously pleased to have his reputation precede him. “I wasn’t trying to be difficult before. I haven’t thought of myself as Devan in years. I left that name behind me long ago.” He gave the innkeeper a significant look. “I expect you know something of that yourself. . . .”

Kote ignored the unspoken question. “I read your book years ago. The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus . Quite the eye-opener for a young man with his head full of stories.” Looking down he began moving the white cloth along the grain of the bar again. “I’ll admit, I was disappointed to learn that dragons didn’t exist. That’s a hard lesson for a boy to learn.”

Chronicler smiled. “Honestly, I was a little disappointed myself. I went looking for a legend and found a lizard. A fascinating lizard, but a lizard just the same.”

“And now you’re here,” Kote said. “Have you come to prove that I don’t exist?”

Chronicler laughed nervously. “No. You see, we heard a rumor—”

“ ‘ We ?’ ” Kote interrupted.

“I’ve been traveling with an old friend of yours. Skarpi.”

“Taken you under his wing, has he?” Kote said to himself. “How about that? Skarpi’s apprentice.”

“More of a colleague, really.”

Kote nodded, still expressionless. “I might have guessed he would be the first to find me. Rumormongers, both of you.”

Chronicler’s smile grew sour, and he swallowed the first words that came to his lips. He struggled for a moment to recapture his calm demeanor.

“So what can I do for you?” Kote set aside the clean linen cloth and gave his best innkeeper’s smile. “Something to eat or drink? A room for the night?”

Chronicler hesitated.

“I have it all right here.” Kote gestured expansively behind the bar. “Old wine, smooth and pale? Honey mead? Dark ale? Sweet fruit liquor! Plum? Cherry? Green apple? Blackberry?” Kote pointed out the bottles in turn. “Come now, surely you must want something?” As he spoke, his smile widened, showing too many teeth for a friendly innkeeper’s grin. At the same time his eyes grew cold, and hard, and angry.

Chronicler dropped his gaze. “I’d thought that—”

“You thought ,” Kote said derisively, dropping all pretense of a smile. “I very much doubt it. Otherwise, you might have thought ,” he bit off the word, “of how much danger you were putting me in by coming here.”

Chronicler’s face grew red. “I’d heard that Kvothe was fearless,” he said hotly.

The innkeeper shrugged. “Only priests and fools are fearless, and I’ve never been on the best of terms with God.”

Chronicler frowned, aware that he was being baited. “Listen,” he continued calmly, “I was extraordinarily careful. No one except Skarpi knew I was coming. I didn’t mention you to anyone. I didn’t expect to actually find you.”

“Imagine my relief,” Kote said sarcastically.

Obviously disheartened, Chronicler spoke, “I’ll be the first to admit that my coming here may have been a mistake.” He paused, giving Kote the opportunity to contradict him. Kote didn’t. Chronicler gave a small, tight sigh and continued, “But what’s done is done. Won’t you even consider . . .”

Kote shook his head. “It was a long time ago—”

“Not even two years,” Chronicler protested.