Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

I was lacing up my boot when I heard a faint noise off in the forest, out of sight behind a stand of thick pine trees.

Quietly, I reached out to Denna, touched her shoulder lightly to get her attention, and held my finger to my lips.

What? She mouthed silently.

I moved closer, stepping carefully to make as little sound as possible. “I think I hear something,” I said, my head close to hers. “I’m going to go have a look.”

“Like hell you are,” she whispered, her face pale in the shadow of the pines. “That’s exactly what Ash said before he left last night. I’ll be damned if you’re going to disappear on me too.”

Before I could reply, I heard more movement through the trees. Brush rustling, the sharp snap of a dry pine branch. As the noises got louder, I could pick out the sound of something big breathing heavily. Then a low, animal grunt.

Not human. Not the Chandrian. My relief was short-lived as I heard another grunt and some snuffling. A wild boar, probably heading for the river.

“Get behind me,” I said to Denna. Most people don’t realize how dangerous wild boars are, especially in the fall, when the males are fighting for dominance. Sympathy wouldn’t be any good. I had no source, no link. I didn’t have so much as a stout stick. Would it be distracted by the few apples I had left?

The boar shouldered aside the low hanging boughs of the nearby pine, snuffling and huffing. It probably weighed twice as much as me. It gave a great guttural grunt as it looked up and saw us. It lifted its head, nose wriggling, trying to catch our scent.

“Don’t run or it’ll chase you,” I said softly, stepping slowly in front of Denna. At a loss for anything better, I brought out my folding knife and worked it open with my thumb. “Just back up and get into the river. They aren’t good swimmers.”

“I don’t think she’s dangerous,” Denna said in a normal tone behind me. “She looks more curious than angry.” She paused. “Not that I don’t appreciate your noble urges and all.”

At second glance I saw Denna was right. It was a sow, not a boar, and under a patina of mud it was the pink of a domestic pig, not the brown bristle of a wild one. Bored, it lowered its head and began to root around among the shrubbery below the pines.

Only then did I realize I was poised in a sort of half-crouch, one hand out like a wrestler. In the other hand I held my pitiful folding knife, so small it needed several runs at halving a good-sized apple. Worst of all I was only wearing one boot. I looked ridiculous: crazy as Elodin on his worst day.

My face flushed hot and I knew I must be red as a beet. “Merciful Tehlu, I feel like an idiot.”

“It’s rather flattering, actually,” Denna said. “With the exception of some rather irritating posturing in bars, I don’t know if I’ve ever had anyone actually leap to my defense before.”

“Yes of course.” I kept my eyes down as I tugged on my other sock and boot, too embarrassed to look her in the eye. “It’s every girl’s dream to be rescued from someone’s pet pig.”

“I’m serious.” I looked up and saw some gentle amusement in her face, but no mocking. “You looked . . . fierce. Like a wolf with all its hackles up,” she stopped, looking up at my head. “Or a fox, I suppose. You’re too red for a wolf.”

I relaxed a bit. A bristling fox is better than a deranged, half-shod idiot.

“You’re holding your knife wrong though,” she said matter-of-factly, nodding toward my hand. “If you actually stabbed anyone, your grip would slip and you’d cut your own thumb.” Reaching out, she took hold of my fingers and moved them slightly. “If you hold it like this, your thumb is safe. The down side is that you lose a lot of the mobility in your wrist.”

“Been in a lot of knife fights, have you?” I asked, bemused.

“Not as many as you might think,” she said with a sly smile. “It’s another page out of that worn book you men are so fond of using to court us.” She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “I can’t count the men who have tried to seduce me away from my virtue by teaching me how to defend it.”

“I’ve never seen you wearing a knife,” I pointed out. “Why is that?”

“Why would I wear a knife?” Denna asked. “I am a delicate blossom and all that. A woman who goes around wearing a knife is obviously looking for trouble.” She reached deep into her pocket and brought out a long, slender piece of metal, glittering all along one edge. “However a woman who carries a knife is ready for trouble. Generally speaking, it’s easier to appear harmless. It’s less trouble all around.”

Only the fact that she was so matter-of-fact kept me from being startled. Her knife wasn’t much larger than mine, but hers wasn’t a folding knife. It was a straight piece of metal, with thin leather wrapping the grip. It clearly wasn’t designed for eating or performing odd jobs around the campfire. It looked more like one of the razor-sharp surgical knives from the Medica. “How do you keep that in your pocket without cutting yourself to shreds?” I asked.

Denna turned sideways so show me. “My pocket is slit all along the inside. It straps to my leg. That’s why it’s so flat. So you can’t see I’m wearing it.” She gripped the leather handle and held her knife in front of her for me to see. “Like this. You want to keep your thumb along the flat.”

“Are you trying to seduce me away from my virtue by teaching me how to defend it?” I asked.

“Like you have any virtue,” she laughed. “I’m trying to keep you from cutting up your pretty hands the next time you have to save a girl from a pig.” She cocked her head to the side. “Speaking of. Did you know that when you’re angry your eyes—”

“Loo pegs!” A voice came through the trees accompanied by the dull clank of a bell. “Peg peg peg . . .”

The great sow perked up and trotted back through the brush toward the sound of the voice. Denna took a moment to replace her knife while I picked up my travelsack. Following the pig through the trees, we spotted a man downstream with a half dozen large sows milling around him. There was an old bristling boar too, and a score of assorted piglets scampering underfoot.

The swineherd eyed us suspiciously. “Hulloo!” he shouted. “Dain’t be afeerd. Tae wain’t baet.”

He was lean and leathery from the sun, with a scraggling beard. His long stick had a crude bronze bell hanging from it, and he wore a tattered bag over one shoulder. He smelled better than you’d probably expect, as ranging pigs keep themselves cleaner than those kept penned. Even if he had smelled like a penned pig, I couldn’t really hold it against him, as I had no doubt smelled worse at various points in my life.

“Oi taut Oi heard sommat daen tae water aways,” he said, his accent so thick and oily you could almost taste it. My mother referred to it as a deep valley accent since you only found them in towns that didn’t have much contact with the outside world. Even in small rural towns like Trebon, folk didn’t have much of an accent these days. Living in Tarbean and Imre for so long, I hadn’t heard a dialect this thick in years. The fellow must have grown up in a truly remote location, probably tucked far back into the mountains.

He came up to where we stood, his weathered face grim as he squinted at us. “Wat are the tae o’ yeh daen oot here?” he said suspiciously. “Oi taut Oi heard sengen.”

“At twere meh coosin,” I said, making a nod toward Denna. “Shae dae have a loovlie voice far scirlin, dain’t shae?” I held out my hand. “Oi’m greet glad tae meet ye, sar. Y’clep me Kowthe.”

He looked taken aback when he heard me speak, and a good portion of the grim suspicion faded from his expression. “Pleased Oi’m certain, Marster Kowthe,” he said, shaking my hand. “Et’s a rare troit tae meet a fella who speks propper. Grummers round these ports sound loik tae’ve got a mouth fulla wool.”